The Continental Monthly, Vol 3 No 3, March 1863

For him the golden jasmine trails
O'er bright azaleas all aflame;
Still upon Yorktown's trampled fields,
O'er grassy plain and wooded swell,
Her sunny wealth the summer yields,
And still the word comes, 'All is well.'

A MERCHANT'S STORY

'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'

CHAPTER XII

In the afternoon the exercises at the meeting house were conducted by Preston, who publicly catechized the negroes very much in the manner that is practised in Northern Sunday schools. When the services were over, and the family had gathered around the supper table, I said to him:

'I've an idea of passing the evening with Joe; he has invited me. Would it be proper for you and Mrs. Preston to go?'

'Oh, yes; and we will. I would like to have you see his mother. She is a wonderful woman, and, if in the mood, will astonish you.'

'I think you told me she is a native African?'

'Yes, she is. She was brought from Africa when a child. She has a dim recollection of her life there, and retains the language and superstitions of her race,' replied Preston, rising from the table. 'I think you had better go at once, for she retires early; Lucy and I will follow you as soon as we can.'

Joe's cabin was located nearly in the centre of the little collection of negro houses, and a few hundred yards from the mansion. It was of logs, a story and a half high, and had originally been only about twenty feet square. To the primitive structure, however, an addition of the same dimensions had been made, and as it then stretched for more than forty feet along the narrow bypath which separated the two rows of negro shanties, it presented quite an imposing appearance. A second addition in its rear, though it did not increase its dignity in the eyes of 'street' observers, added largely to its proportions and convenience.

The various epochs in Joe's history were plainly written on his dwelling. The original building noted the time when, a common field hand, he had married a wife, and set up housekeeping; the front addition marked the era when his industry, intelligence, and devotion to his master's interest had raised him above the dead level of black servitude, and given him the management of the plantation; and the rear structure spoke pleasantly of the time when old Deborah, disabled by age from longer service at 'the great house,' and too infirm to clamber up the steep ladder which led to Joe's attic bedrooms, had come to doze away the remainder of her days under her son's roof.

The cabin was furnished with two entrance doors, and suspecting that the one in the older portion led directly into the kitchen, I rapped lightly at the other. In a moment it opened, and Joe ushered me into the living room.

That apartment occupied the whole of the newer front, and had a cheerful, cosy appearance. Its floor was covered with a tidy rag carpet, evidently of home manufacture, and its plastered walls were decorated with tasteful paper, and hung with a number of neatly framed engravings. Opposite the doorway stood a large mahogany bureau, and over it, suspended from the ceiling by leathern cords, was a curiously contrived shelving, containing a score or more of well-worn books. Among them I noticed a small edition of 'Shakespeare,' Milton's 'Poems,' Goldsmith's 'England,' the six volumes of 'Comprehensive Commentary,' Taylor's 'Holy Living and Dying,' the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' a 'United States Gazetteer,' and a complete set of the theological writings of Swedenborg. Neat chintz curtains covered the small windows, a number of brightly burnished brass candlesticks ornamented a plain wooden mantle over the broad fireplace, and a yellow-pine table, oiled and varnished, on which the 'tea things' were still standing, occupied the centre of the apartment.

Through an open door, at the right of the bureau, I caught a glimpse of the dormitory of the aged Africaness. As on the exterior of the building a brief epitome of Joe's history was written, so in that room a portion of his character was traced. Its comfortable and almost elegant furnishings told, plainer than any words, that he was a devoted and affectionate son. With its rich Brussels carpet, red window hangings, cosy lounge, neat centre table, and small black-walnut bureau, it might have been mistaken for the private apartment of a white lady of some pretensions.

It was a little after nightfall when I entered the cabin, but a bright fire, blazing on the hearth, gave me a full view of its occupants. Aggy, a tidily clad, middle-aged yellow woman, was clearing away the supper table, and Joe's mother was smoking a pipe in a large arm chair, in the chimney corner.

The old negress wore a black levantine gown, open in front, and gathered about the waist by a silken cord; a red and yellow turban, from underneath which escaped a few frosted locks, and a white cambric neckerchief that fell carelessly over her shoulders, and almost hid her withered, scrawny neck. She was upward of seventy, but so infirm that she appeared nearly a hundred. One of her lean, skinny arms, escaping from the loose sleeve of her dress, rested on her knee; and her bowed, bony frame leaned against the arm of her chair, as if incapable of sitting upright. Her features, with the exception of her nose, which curved slightly upward, were thin and regular; and her eyes were large, deep, and densely black, and seemed turned inward, as if gazing with a half-wondering stare at the strange mechanism which held together her queer frame-work of bones and gutta percha.

She was the old woman who had greeted Preston so affectionately on our arrival.

Turning to her as he tendered me a chair, Joe said:

'Mudder, dis am Mr. Kirke.'

Making a feeble effort to rise, and reaching out her trembling hand she exclaimed, in a voice just above a whisper:

'You'm welcome yere, right welcome, sar.'

'Thank you, aunty. Pray keep your seat; don't rise on my account.'

'Tank you, massa Kirke, fur comin' yere. It'm bery good ob you. Ole missy lub you, sar; you'm so good ter massa Robert. He'm my own chile, sar!'

This was undoubtedly a figure of speech, for the old woman's skin was altogether too black not to have given a trifle of its shading to the complexion of her children. It was not only black, but blue black, and of that peculiar hue which is seen only on the faces of native Africans.

Seeing that she had relinquished smoking, I said:

'Never mind me, aunty; I smoke myself sometimes.'

'Tank you, sar,' she replied, resuming her pipe, and relapsing into her previous position; 'ole wimmin lub 'backer, sar.'

The low tone in which this was said made me conclude that further conversation would be exhausting to her, so turning to Joe and Aggy—the latter had hurried through her domestic employments, and taken a seat near the fire—I entered into a general discussion of the old worthies that occupied Joe's book shelves.

I found the negro had taxed them for house room. He had levied on their best thoughts, and I soon experienced the uneasy sensation which one feels when he encounters a man who can 'talk him dry' on almost any subject. On the single topic of the business to which I was educated, I might have displayed, had it not been Sunday night, a greater amount of information; but in the knowledge of every subject that was broached, the black was my superior.

The conversation had rambled on for a full half hour, the old negress meanwhile puffing steadily away, and giving no heed to it; when suddenly her pipe dropped from her mouth, her eyes closed, her bent figure became erect, and a quick, convulsive shiver passed over her. Thinking she was about to fall in a fit, I exclaimed:

'Joe! See! your mother!'

'Neber mind, sar,' he quietly replied; 'it'm nuffin'. Only de power am on her.'

A few more convulsive spasms succeeded, when the old woman's face assumed a settled expression; and swaying her body back and forth with a slow, steady motion, she commenced humming a low chant. Gradually it grew louder, till it broke into a strange, wild song, filling the room, and coming back in short, broken echoes from the adjoining apartments. Struck with astonishment, I was about to speak, when Joe, laying his hand on my arm, said:

'Hush, sar! It am de song ob de kidnap slave!'

It was sung in the African tongue, but I thought I heard, as it rose and fell in a wild, irregular cadence, the thrilling story of the stolen black; his smothered cries, and fevered moans in the slaver's hold; the shriek of the wind, and the sullen sound of the surging waves as they broke against the accursed ship; and, then—as the old negress rose and poured forth quick, broken volumes of song—the loud mirth of the drunken crew, mingling with what seemed dying groans, and the heavy splash of falling bodies striking the sea.

As she concluded, with a firm, stately step—showing none of her previous decrepitude—she approached me:

Seeing that I regarded her movements with a look of startled interest, Joe said:

'Leff har do what she likes, sar. She hab suffin' to say to you.'

Taking a small bag[1 - This was the conjuror's bag of the Africans. It is called 'waiter,' or 'kunger,' by the Southern blacks, and is supposed to have the power to charm away evil spirits, and to do all manner of miraculously good things for its wearer. Those that I have seen are harmless little affairs, consisting only of small pieces of rags sewed up in coarse muslin.] from her bosom, and placing it in the open front of my waistcoat, she reached out her long, skinny arm, and placing her skeleton hand on the top of my head, chanted a low song. The words were mostly English, and the few I caught were something as follows:

'Oh, bress de swanga buckra man;
Bress wife an' chile ob buckra man.'
Bress all dat b'long to buckra man;
Barimo[2 - The name of the African god.] bress de buckra man;
De good Lord bress de buckra man;
Bress, bress de swanga buckra man.'

As she finished the invocation, she took both my hands in hers, and leaning forward, and muttering a few low words, seemed trying to read the story imprinted on my palms. Her eyes were closed, and thinking she might be troubled to see me without the use of those organs, I looked inquiringly at her son.

'She don't need eyes, sar,' said Joe, answering my thought; 'she'll tell all 'bout you widout dem.'

As he said this, she dropped one of my hands, and raising her right arm, made several passes over my head, then resting her hand again upon it, she began chanting another low song:

'What der yer see, mudder?' asked Joe, leaning forward, with a look of intense interest on his face.

'A tall gemman-de swanga gemman—in a big city. De night am dark an' cole—bery cole. Pore little chile am wid him, an' he cole—bery cole; him cloes pore—bery pore. Dey come to a big hous'n—great light in de winders—an' dey gwo in—swanga gemman an' pore chile. A great room dar, wid big fire, an' oh! sweet young missus. She jump up-swanga gemman speak to har, an' show de pore chile. She look sorry like, an' cry; den she frow har arm 'roun' de pore chile; take him to de fire, an' kiss him—kiss him ober an' ober agin.'