Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Vol. 22, November, 1878

What they did in those ten minutes neither could tell afterward. The same idea was in both their minds—that unless the attention of the Indians could be held until the train arrived, its approach would only precipitate their own fate by impelling the savages to carry out whatever designs of murder, insult or capture they might have. Under the influence of the intense excitement of this critical interval it is to be feared that the performance degenerated from a high-toned concert and variety show into something very like a Howling-Dervish exhibition. But, at any rate, it answered its purpose until, after a period that seemed like a dozen eternities, the West-bound overland express with a tremendous roar and rattle drew up beside them, in response to the waving of Miss Dwyer's handkerchief and to Lombard's shouts.

Even had the Indians contemplated hostile intentions—which they were doubtless in a condition of too great general stupefaction to do—the alacrity with which the two performers clambered aboard the cars would probably have foiled their designs. But as the train gathered headway once more Lombard could not resist the temptation of venting his feelings by shaking his fist ferociously at the audience which he had been so conscientiously trying to please up to that moment. It was a gratification which had like to have cost him dear. There was a quick motion on the part of one of the Indians, and the conductor dragged Lombard within the car just as an arrow struck the door.

Mrs. Eustis had slept sweetly all night, and was awakened the next morning an hour before the train reached Ogden by the sleeping-car porter, who gave her a telegram which had overtaken the train at the last station. It read:

"Am safe and sound. Was left behind by your train last night, and picked up by West-bound express. Will join you at Ogden to-morrow morning."

    "Jennie Dwyer."

Mrs. Eustis read the telegram through twice without getting the least idea from it. Then she leaned over and looked down into Jennie's berth. It had not been slept in. Then she began to understand. Heroically resisting a tendency to scream, she thus secured space for second thought, and, being a shrewd woman of the world, ended by making up her mind to tell no one about the matter. Evidently, Jennie had been having some decidedly unconventional experience, and the less publicity given to all such passages in young ladies' lives the better for their prospects. It so happened that in the bustle attending the approach to the terminus and the prospective change of cars everybody was too busy to notice that any passengers were missing. At Ogden, Mrs. Eustis left the train and went to a hotel. The following morning, a few minutes after the arrival of the Central Pacific train, Jennie Dwyer walked into her room, Lombard having stopped at the office to secure berths for the three to Omaha by the Union Pacific. After Jennie had given an outline account of her experiences, and Mrs. Eustis's equilibrium had been measurably restored by proper use of the smelling-salts, the latter lady remarked, "And so Mr. Lombard was alone with you there all night? It's very unfortunate that it should have happened so."

"Why, I was thinking it very fortunate," replied Jennie with her most child-like expression. "If Mr. Lombard had not been there, I should either have frozen to death or by this time been celebrating my honeymoon as bride of a Piute chief."

"Nonsense, child! You know what I mean. People will talk: such unpleasant things will be said! I wouldn't have had it happen for anything. And when you were under my charge too! Do hand me my salts."

"If people are going to say unpleasant things because I pass a night alone with Mr. Lombard," remarked Jennie with a mischievous smile, "you must prepare yourself to hear a good deal said, my dear, for I presume this won't be the last time it will happen. We're engaged to be married."

    Edward Bellamy.

RAMBLING TALK ABOUT THE NEGRO

WHAT guides the bee when, turning from the "suck," he wheels in air and strikes his wonderful line for the "gum"? Heaven knows. And by what process does the negro calculate the shortest distance between the point he occupies and the place he would be? That also is a mystery, yet the least observant person familiar with the negro cannot have failed to note his wonderful—we had almost said his preternatural—power to discover, without guide or compass, the shortest possible distance between two given places—to make, as he calls it, a "near cut."

To the right of us lay a berry and wild-fruit tract, on our left was a large village, and our farm was in a certain portion skirted by an old field, through which the negroes had discovered the most direct path to market. At dawn they could be seen winding around the brow of the hill, men, women and children, with baskets on their heads and buckets on their arms, singly and in couples, sometimes three, four or a half dozen together. And how they stole from us! It seemed impossible to prevent, or even limit, their depredations.

One evening Mr. Smith said to me, "The man Tony is sentenced to be hung."

Tony was a village negro accused of murder, and as he had been confined in the village jail and tried at the village court-house, the case naturally created some excitement in our quiet neighborhood.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, poor devil!" said Mr. Smith. "But it was a clear case. He belonged to Mr. Lamkin before the surrender, and the old man made every effort to get him off—employed the very best counsel. I am sorry for him, but the wind which is so ill for him will blow us good. He is to be hung in the old field that edges our farm, and after the execution takes place we shall have no more negro trespassers in that quarter. I very much doubt whether I shall be able to obtain hands to work that portion of the land."

It would require a psychological study of the negro character to enable one to explain the spirit in which they flocked to the execution of their comrade, their friend, in some instances their kinsman. They came in holiday attire and with hurrying steps, and long before the hour appointed the adjoining fence was crowded with eager spectators, and, like flocks of blackbirds, they had filled every tree within five hundred yards, chatting and bustling and moving around with no apparent emotion except the desire to see.

At length the cart appeared on the brow of the hill, and every neck was craned for a glimpse of the poor creature who sat on the coffin—a pitiful-looking, half-dwarf mulatto, who gave you the idea of deformity and distress without your being able to tell why. He walked bravely to his place on the scaffold, singing and praying, protesting his innocence and bequeathing forgiveness to his enemies, apparently full of faith, like many others who by reason of weariness and despair have attained resignation; but the fictitious piety born of nervous excitement, and the abnormal elevation of feeling induced by continued spiritual exhortation during weeks of unrest and suspense, both gave way when his old mother, unsightly and pitiful as himself, asked leave to bid him good-bye, and came tottering to his side, saying as well as she could for the tears that choked her, "Oh, Tony! mammy ain't gwine back on you! Mammy don't b'lieve you done it, she don't keer who 'kuses you. Good-bye, my baby! good-bye! 'Twon't be long 'fo' mammy jines you an' daddy whar dar ain't no onjestice an' no mizry. Mammy ain't gwine to stay here long arter you goes."

He threw up his arms with a wild, sobbing cry: "Oh, mammy! mammy! can't you do nothin' fer me? Ain't you got no way to he'p me? Oh, de sun do shine so pretty, an' de leaves shakes 'bout on de trees so natchul! An' I nuvver knowed de birds to sing like dey does to-day. It ain't fa'r—no, it's not fa'r to shet me up in de groun' for what I ain't done. So many 'ginst one, an' me so little an' so po'! I ain't got a fren' on top o' de yuth. Nary one outen all dese folks, what I use ter go to shuckin's wid 'em, an' play de banjer, an' hunt possums—nary one uv 'em didn't stand up for me an' try to git me off! Not eben you, mammy, didn't try to git in jail an' gimme somethin' to wu'k my way out, an' I a-lis'nin' night an' day! Night an' day, an' you nuvver come!"

"Lord! Lord! my baby!" sobbed the poor old thing, her trembling limbs hardly able to sustain the feeble frame. "What could yo' ole mammy do 'ginst all dem folks? Ef Mars' Henry couldn't make 'em let you 'lone, what could a po' ole nigger do what ain't got no money, an' no sense, an' no fren's? Lord! Lord! my blessed chile!" she sobbed, the tears raining down her withered black cheeks, "ef mammy had a hundred nakes she would put dat rope 'roun' 'em all to keep it off o' your'n."

That was true, poor soul! but could avail nothing, and the appointed sentence was carried into execution. The soul of the boy returned to its Creator and its Judge, and the old mother was taken to her cabin almost as lifeless as the body that swung in the air half a mile away.

If the fact that they flocked to the place of execution cannot be ascribed to any idiosyncrasy of the negro race, it was curious to see how they were afterward overwhelmed with superstitious fear. We had no more trouble about the melons and grapes. The negroes found another route to the village market, and the little well-worn path became overgrown with grass and ox-eyed daisies, like the rest of the old field. Even after the body had been buried far off and the scaffold removed, in broad daylight they shunned the place, but at dusk or after dark neither bribery nor persuasion could have induced one of them to go near it. Mr. Smith tried some of them.

"But what the d–l are you afraid of?" he asked impatiently.

"I dunno, sir," returned one of the men doggedly. "All I does know is, I ain't gwine (no disrespek, sir). But when a man is took off dat onnateral kind o' way, de sperrit is always hangin' 'roun', tryin' to git back whar it come from."

"But Tony is buried a mile away."

"I can't help dat, sir. De sperrit were let out in de ole field, an' maybe it don't know whar to find the pusson it 'longs to. Anyhow, ef it come back dar lookin' for Tony, I gwine take good keer it don't find me!"

An amusing eccentricity of feeling, certainly a very nice distinction, was shown during slave times by a woman belonging to a friend of ours. Some disturbance had taken place on the premises of a neighbor, Mr. H–, who, being a severe old man, forthwith forbade that any negro should again visit his place. This result was very dispiriting to Judy, the slave above referred to, for she had a cousin belonging to Mr. H– to whom she was in the habit of paying frequent visits, and for whom she felt undoubtedly very great affection; and as time passed and Mr. H– continued implacable, her indignation grew and her wrath waxed exceeding strong. It came to pass that the cousin one night fared over-sumptuously on cold cabbage and beans, and when the mists of dawn had fled she too had left to join her friends over Jordan.

Presently a messenger came from Mr. H–: "Would Mrs. S– be so kind as to allow Judy to come over and prepare the body for burial?"—that being one of Judy's specialties.

The family was at table when the message was delivered, and Judy was serving cakes and muffins, with short parentheses sacred to the memory of her cousin. Mrs. S– had respected her affliction and given her permission to retire, but Judy continued to return with more cakes and more muffins, and, as soon as they were handed, to retire to a corner with her apron at her eyes, even after Mr. H–'s message had been delivered and she had been told to go. During one of her temporary absences Mr. S– asked his wife, "Why don't you tell her to go, if she is going? It seems nobody can be 'laid out' without Judy, but any of the rest can wait at table."

"But this is her cousin, and she may not wish to perform so trying a service; so I will leave it to her.—Judy, if you prefer not going to Mr. H–'s just at present, I will send word that I cannot spare you."

Judy threw her apron over her head with a vari-toned cry issued in the keys of grief, anger and scorn. Then she stiffened her neck and rolled her eyes from side to side till the whites glistened again. "Go dar, indeed!" she indignantly exclaimed. "Ef I couldn't go on de lot to see my own dear cousin, I know I ain't gwine to dress up his dead nigger!"

The leading trait of the negro is his instability, his superficiality. It is superlative. His emotions are as easily aroused and as evanescent as those of children, flowing in a noisy and tumultuous current, but utterly without depth and volatile as ether. To this may in a measure be attributed his lack of progress, but I doubt whether he be capable of any high order of development without an infusion of Caucasian blood which will dissipate his simian type, improving the shape of his retreating forehead, changing the contour of his heavy jaw, giving weight and measurement to his now inferior and inactive brain. Since the surrender and the institution of public schools, and the opportunities for improvement afforded him, we seem to have all around us evidence of this utter instability of character. Never since the world began has he had, and never will he have again, the incentives and aids to improvement which at that time fell into his hands. There was, as one spur to ambition, the spirit of resentment which he was supposed naturally to entertain at having been kept in servitude by even the kindest of masters; but the negro is amiable and forgiving, and not only during but after the war conducted himself with admirable good feeling and moderation. Granting, then, that he indulged no feeling of resentment, there must have been, should have been, there was, a sentiment of rivalry with the whites which was pardonable and proper to the most amiable and forgiving nature; and at first the young negroes applied themselves with assiduity, and learned with an avidity which delighted some classes, and was no doubt a discomfiting surprise to others. It was astonishing to see the rapidity with which they mastered the alphabet of progress, and white mothers said to their indolent or refractory children, "Are you not ashamed to see little negroes more studious than yourself, making even greater progress according to their advantages, and in matters with which you should be already familiar?"

As time went on even the indolent or refractory white boy to some extent improved, and seemed conditionally sure of further improvement; but the negro, having arrived at a certain point—and that usually no high one—seemed incapable of further progress, as a man, though not afflicted with dimness of vision, is prevented by natural causes from seeing beyond the horizon. Doubtless the spirit of rivalry already mentioned, born of defiance and resentment in a mild form, was to some extent the incentive to application, and its brief duration serves to illustrate the instability of which we speak. Doubtless, also, many others, by reason of poverty, which necessitated manual labor, were unable to continue the pursuit of an education to any great advantage; but what numbers of white children, by the losses of war placed on the same footing—placed identically on the same footing, because they also and their parents were compelled to earn by labor their daily bread—have yet continued to improve! The negro had the same privilege of night study and (immediately after the war) as many teachers at his service as any white child. He had also one advantage over the white: he had never learned the difference between meum and tuum, and the silver lining to this cloud of ignorance lay in the fact that he was thereby enabled more speedily to increase his store of worldly goods, thus leaving time for greater devotion to the particular of mental development.

But take the minority of instances, where every advantage has been given him; where, freed from the relations of master and slave, he has been thrown with whites and the spirit of emulation naturally excited; where his parents have made every sacrifice necessary to procure him tutors (numbers of them had private teachers, and very competent ones too, just after the war) and books and all the paraphernalia of learning, and even the best social position possible to him in the section where he happened to be, themselves retreating into the background with the pathetic humility and self-abnegation of parents who believe and desire their offspring to be of a higher order than themselves,—does the highest culture of which he seems capable make him more than the peer of the mediocre white? I and hundreds of others have read with pleasure the speech of Rev. William D. Johnson, A.M., colored delegate to the Methodist Episcopal Conference which some months ago met in Georgia. It was a good speech for a colored man—a capitally, wonderfully good speech—and I applaud it with cordial pleasure and reciprocation of the good feeling which pervades it; but is it more than the address of the average white? As the address of any one of the white members would it have been reported, or have attracted attention, save for its animus?

There are exceptional cases among the negroes as among the whites; but because we have a Cuvier, a Webster, a Dupuytren, are we prepared to assert as a general fact that the brain of the white man weighs sixty-four ounces? And I speak of the negroes as a class. I refer to the negro of the South, not to the barbarian of Africa, who really exists, nor to the negro of the Northern mind, who is only "founded on fact." I refer to the negro as he is in our day and generation, not as he will or may be after centuries of revolution in his circumstances which will produce Heaven knows what changes in his mental, moral and physical nature. Many believe that these negroes, whom and whose children we have civilized, having with their freedom received ideas of social equality and personal ambition which except in isolated cases can never be realized on this continent, will gradually return, as in South Carolina they are now doing, to their original land, and thus eventually civilize their own race. Were they to return in a body, they would all probably relapse into barbarism, but if a clear stream be kept running, though the pool through which it flow be stagnant, it will in time become pure. And there is material in this country for a pretty continuous flow.

I do not say that the negro is incapable of progress, but his mental horizon is very limited, and seems bounded by natural causes as immovable (except by aid of foreign blood, which having he ceases to be a genuine negro) as the chains of mountains which in some localities limit the horizon in material Nature; and that as a people they will become the peer of the white race is simply impossible, for if progress be a law of Nature, it will be obeyed by the white man also, and he is already centuries ahead of the black, with advantages of every possible nature. Also, that they should now be competent to fill the offices many of them occupy is a pure absurdity, as demonstrated all around us—at the polls, in the jury-box, in the chair of the magistrate. A very cruel absurdity it has sometimes proved.

But speaking of their mercurial nature: I was once spending the summer at a village in the mountains, and not far from my chamber-window were three or four cabins occupied by very cleanly, orderly negroes, who had hitherto been a source of no annoyance, for I am very fond of negroes and like to have them about me. These cabins were situated near the mouth of a deep ravine heavily wooded and producing echoes of beautiful distinctness. One evening negroes began to assemble in and around the largest cabin, and there was evidently to be a meeting of some very mournful—or at any rate solemn—character, for they came quietly, shook hands silently, and crept into their places with a stealthy gliding motion. It was a weird, uncanny scene. The moon rose slowly behind the great black mountains, and cast its rays upon the tree-tops and shimmered its light on the whitewashed cabins, and only half revealed the dark figures that glided like spectres in and out; but nothing could pierce the depths of that black ravine, and it was easy to believe it the abode of spirits blest or otherwise—especially otherwise. There was a long, oppressive silence: then they began to sing. What remarkable voices they have, especially the men—so full, so rich, so deep and sonorous! If the mental development of the negro is to involve change in his physical conformation, it is to be hoped it will not interfere with his chest and lungs, nor with that wonderful cavern in the back of his mouth and at the base of the nose. Some should be kept barbarians that they may continue to be vocal instruments. No one who has heard him only as a "minstrel" can have any conception of the exquisite mournfulness, the agonizing pathos, which the negro voice is capable of expressing; nor, we may fairly add, of the wild, devil-may-care jollity; but this last is more truly represented on the stage, the invariable adjuncts of caricature not only contributing to stimulate the comedian, but broadening the effect of his voice on the hearer. Why is it that we always have caricature in negro delineations—that we never have any simple representations of the reality or any touches of unalloyed pathos? In all Nature there is nothing more pathetic than a pitiful negro. You may paint the negro's lips and roach his hair, and even exaggerate the peculiarities of his feet, but I can pick you up one, out on the suburbs or down in the alleys, who has become old and feeble and cannot work any more, whose old master is dead and whose children have kicked him out, who steals and struggles and starves in ignorant terror of the poorhouse; and for yours people will raise their opera-glasses to their eyes—for mine, their handkerchiefs.

But to return. Oh how inexpressibly mournful were their chants that night! I remember one especially. It began with a wailing recitative—a prolonged, mournful recitative in the minor key by female voices only, and at its close the men joined them in a full, deep chorus, slow and solemn, the last words of which were "Dead and gone!" The black ravine took up the sound, and from its deep, mysterious heart came back the solemn echo, "Dead and gone!" It was simply horrible. I never felt so homesick in my life; and as the mournful chant rolled toward the mountain, and then came floating back again like a corpse upon the ebbing tide, I leaned my head upon the window-sill and cried heartily. One by one my friends died and were buried, my children became orphans, and, by a curious freak of circumstances, their father and I were left to a childless old age. All possible accidents were put in requisition, all manner of possible misfortunes called upon to contribute their quota of woe. Then I fell to wondering how people could like to sing mournful things and make themselves and other people miserable; and that made me think of what negroes liked, and that naturally led to watermelons; so I dried my eyes and summoned my maid: "Betty, what is it they are singing about? Is anybody dead?"

"It's de las' en' of a funerul, I b'lieve, m'm—somebody whar dey didn't git done preachin' over him, 'count of a storm."

"Betty, the singing does make me feel so badly. Just step over and say I will send them a barrel of watermelons and cantaloupes, and those Mrs. Brown sent me too, if they will get up a dance or make any kind of cheerful noise. There is a tambourine among the children's toys: you can beat it as you go."

Betty laughed, and went over. There was a pause in the singing: then I heard a man's voice: "Go 'way wid dat fool talk! Whar she gwine git watermillions an' mushmillions by de bar'l, an' dey ain't more'n fa'rly ripe?"

"Mr. Smith sent 'em from de city," simpered Betty, who liked to put on airs with the country-folk; "an' Mrs. Brown, of your nabority, reposed her some to-day."

"Dat's so 'bout dem from town, 'cos I helped to tote 'em up to de house," said another.

"Huk kum she ain't et 'em?"

"The baby conwulshed, an' Mrs. Smith's mind disbegaged of de melons," replied Betty.

"Huk kum he sen' so many?" asked the first speaker, who appeared to be business-manager, and duly afraid of being swindled—fervid in fair speech, and correspondingly suspicious. "His wife mus' be a mons'ous hearty 'ooman!"

"He knowed she were goin' to resperse 'em to her village fren's too, of course. Which we all know dere ain't no place where you carn't" (Betty was from Cumberland county, and pronounced the a broad, to the envious disgust of the Rockbridge darkies) "git fruit like you carn't git it in the country. It is always five miles off, an' de han's is busy, or de creek is riz an' you carn't cross it."

"Come now, town-nigger, we don't want none o' yo' slack-jaw; an' ain't gwine take it, nudder!"

"Mos' incertny not," sang out a high-pitched female voice from some unseen point.