Part 11 (1/2)
When she went out of my earthly life the peace of G.o.d which pa.s.ses all understanding came down upon me from above, and enwrapped me in an impregnable hiding-place, where I have been hidden ever since. My windows look out only on the unseen and divine side of things; and I see my child in the presence of G.o.d, at rest forever, free from all earth's trials. Whatever may be your experience I know that grief is bitter anguish under any other conditions than these, and the mystery of it is crus.h.i.+ng.
”Our blessed Frances gave me your letter to read, and I could echo every word you said about her. She is queen among women and is doing a glorious work, not the least of which is the emanc.i.p.ation of women--coming out on every side. They have far more than they know for which to thank Frances Willard.”
To that letter I replied: ”If the Heavenly Father takes note of the sparrow's fall, it may be that He put the thought in Miss Willard's mind to ask you to help me; but, dear lady, you are many a day's journey ahead of me in religious experience when, in the presence of the death of your beloved, you can say, 'Thy will be done.' I wish I could, like you, will whatever G.o.d wills.
”I thank you for the account of your Ray, and I thank G.o.d that He created such a Christian mother. Simeon said to Mary: 'Yea, a sword shall pierce through thine own soul also.' Every one who has lost a child has been pierced through and through. In this crisis of my life I am amazed and stupefied by my own capacity for suffering, and actually look upon myself with an awed pity, as I would upon a stranger. How can I yield everything?
I had already buried one lovely daughter in the bloom of life; and I had only one left. I submit because I must. My heart cries out for my child; G.o.d forgive me, but I would call her back to me if I could.”
When the time drew near for the annual convention of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, my husband and sons urged that I should go to Detroit, hoping the change of scene and new responsibilities might arouse me from depression. Miss Willard had already written: ”My heart turns toward thee in thy desolation. Remember thou hast doting sisters. I believe thy beautiful Clara knows how we rally to thy side, and is glad.”
While I was in Detroit, Hannah Whitehall Smith called upon me several times, and talked about my condition of mind, and so inspired me with grat.i.tude that I endeavored to obey every suggestion she made, regardless of the pride and self-sufficiency which is so common with unsatisfied souls. She seemed to have direct access to the Heavenly Father, and laid my case before Him with such simplicity and faith that my heart was deeply touched, and I gained a new knowledge of spiritual relations. When I learned in these latter days, that she had been called to sorrow over her husband ”gone before,” I wrote to her in loving memory of her former goodness, and received a reply, from Eastnor Castle, where she and Lady Henry Somerset had been engaged in preparing a memorial of Miss Willard, which was issued to the people of Great Britain.
The letter reads: ”Your loving sympathy in my last great loss has been most welcome. My dear husband had been a great sufferer for eighteen months, and longed so eagerly to go that no one who loved him could be anything but thankful when his release came. I have been enabled to rejoice in his joy of having entered into the presence of the King. It cannot be long for me at the longest before I shall join him, and until then I am hidden in the Divine fortress of G.o.d's love and care. I love to think that you too are hidden there, dear friend and sister, and that together we may meet in the Divine Presence where there is fulness of joy even in the midst of earthly sorrow.
”Lady Henry joins me in love to you. She is, as we are, very sorry over the loss of our beloved Frances Willard; but G.o.d still lives and reigns, and in Him we can rest without anxiety. I have found Him a very present help in many a time of trouble, and I rejoice to know I was permitted to help you realize this in your hour of sore need.”
CHAPTER XV.
BECKY SPEAKS UP IN MEETING IN THE INTERESTS OF MORALITY.
The incidents which once enlivened the lives of every family that was served by the negro slave are fading from the minds of even many who were centers of those episodes. But they are of legendary interest to the younger generations. There are some things to be regretted in the negro being poured into the mold of the white man's education. The only true national music in the United States is that known as ”the negro melody.”
Will not so-called musical ”cultivation” tend to destroy the charmingly distinctive character of the negro's music? Art cannot supply or enhance the quality of his genius. It will be a definite loss if the music of the future shall lack the individualism of his songs, for with them will go the wonderful power of improvisation--the relic of his unfettered imagination, the voices of his native jungles struggling to translate themselves into speech. His happy _insouciance_ is already fleeing before the pressure of his growing responsibilities. Very much that const.i.tutes the picturesque and lovable in negro character will disappear with the negro point of view,--for if he survives in this civilization his point of view must merge into the Anglo-Saxon's. Only those who were ”to the manor born” can deftly interpret the idiosyncrasies of the plantation negro; so, while a few of us who owned them are yet alive, it may be a service to the future, as well as our duty and pleasure, to link their race peculiarities to the yet unborn, by revealing and embalming them through the garrulous pen. Becky Coleman's gifts as a _raconteuse_ deserve a record. It delights me to remember her as I sat one day at the door of the porch facing the wide river and the public road. Near by, through a path in the grounds, a procession of colored people pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed morning and evening, with buckets on their well-cus.h.i.+oned heads, to the cisterns of water in the rear of the house. Becky came along and greeted me with polite cordiality.
I invited her to stop and rest awhile, and filled her tin cup with iced lemonade from a pitcher standing near.
The woman seated herself on the steps, set down her pail beside her and sipped the cool beverage.
”Thanky, ma'am,” said she. ”I feels dat clean down in my foots. It's mighty hot fer dis time er year. Ole Aunt Mary is spendin' to-day at my house, en she hope me some, hoin' in my gyardin', en now um gwine to bile er pot o' greens and stchew some greasy b.u.t.ter beans (fer de ole 'oman don't never have nothin' but meat en brade at her house), en den she mus'
finish gittin' de gra.s.s en weeds outen my cabiges, for um bound to have a fall gyardin', en ef yo wants turnips, en lettice, en redishes, yo knows whar to fin' em.”
Becky lifted the lower flounce of my wrapper and inspected the embroidery, looking at me sharply from head to foot. ”Dat's a mighty purty dress yo got on, Miss Carrie,” said she, ”yo mus' lem me have it when yo're done wid it. Won't yo promise me?”
”Now, Becky,” I replied, ”don't ask me to make a promise I might forget, and you would be sure to remember; but you go on and tell me about your protracted meeting at the Royal Oak Church yesterday.”
Becky squared her portly person into a comfortable position, her hand on her hip, and with complacency and satisfaction beaming from her ebony colored face she began:
”Ya'as em I wuz dar; I was bleeged to be dar, fer um one uv de stchowerd sisters. You knows we dresses in white en black. I had on dat black silk dress yo sont me las' Chrimus. Dat is, I had on de tail uv it, wid er white sack instead of er ba.s.s, en I jes' let yo know nun of dese n.i.g.g.e.rs roun' here can beat me er dressin', when I gits on de close yo gie me. I had er starchy big white handkercher tied turbin fas.h.i.+n on my head, en Miss Lula's big breas'-pin right yeah” (putting her hand to her throat), ”en I tell yo, mun, I jes' outlooked ennything in dat house. Yander comes Aunt Loo, an' I bet she'll tell yo de same. 'Twas er feas' day--sackament day--en all de stchowerd sisters was er settin' roun' on de front benches, like dey does dem times, en dar wus Sis' Lizer Wright, who wus one of us, all dressed up in pure white, en settin' side uv her was Peter Green, en he wus fixed up too, mitely, even down to new shoes.
”Dey hilt pra'ar, en den Bro' Primus Johnson ris en showed er piece up paper 'en told us all 'twas er license fer to jine Peter Green and Lizer Wright in de holy bonds o' mattermony; 'But,' sez he, 'fo' I go any furder I want de bretherin to come for'ard en speak dey mines on de subjick.'
”Well, at dat, I seed er good many nods 'en winks er pa.s.sin' 'bout, but I never knowd 'zacly whut wus gwine on 'till one of de elders ris 'en said he dijected to havin' any ceremony said over dem folks, fer Sis' Lizer's fust husband, ole Unk' Jake, wus yit er livin', 'ceppen he died sence I lef' home dis mawin',' sez he.
”His 'pinion wus dat ef de deacorns wan't 'lowed but one wife 'cordin' to Scriptur, de stchowerd sisters mustn't have mor'n one man at de same time.
”Dat fotch Bro. Primus ter his feet, en he tun roun' to de sisters, he did, en 'lowed dat dey too mought git up en 'brace de mult.i.tude, en gie dur unnerstandin' in dis case. 'Pon dat, Sis' Anderson ris, en sez she, 'Dis 'oman orten be casted outen de church, en I ain't afeard to say so pine blank.' I tell yer she was in fer raisen uv a chune, en singin' her right out den en dar, wid de Elder leadin' of her ter de do', for dat's de way dey tu'ns em outen de church over here. 'Fer,' sez she, 'she's bent on committen' 'dultery--ef she ain't done it befo'--en its gwine clean agin whuts in dat ar volum on dat ar table,' en she p'inted her forefinger to de Bible er layin' dar, en ses she, 'We cyant 'ford to let sich doin's as dese to be gwine on in dis heah 'sciety.'
”Dey all sided 'long Sis' Andersen mostly, ceppen me. I wus sorry fer de 'oman a settin' dar wid her arms hugged up on her breas' like a pore crimi'al. I wuz mighty sorry fer her. So when Bro' Primus 'quired ef ennybody felt able ter counterfeit Sis' Andersen's evidence, en looked all roun', en n.o.body sed nuthin, when he axed 'em agin why, on dat second 'peal, I jes' riz up en tole 'em I knowed dat 'oman fo' de wah. To be sh.o.r.e she had tuck up wid old Unk' Jake long 'fo' dat. He wus er ingeneer in a big saw-mill on de Tucker place, en he had er son by his fust wife, killed in de wah. He wus mighty ole when I fust seed him--he ollers wus a heap too ole fer Sis' Lizer--but fer de las' six or seben year de ole man's done failed so he ain't no service to n.o.body--mor'n er chile, siz I.
Bein' as he is, sez I, widout any owner fer to feed en clove en fine him it comes powerful hard on Sis' Lizer to do all, fer I tell yer, he's des like er chile, only wus, fer a chile kin he'p himself some, but Unk' Jake cayn't do er Gawd's bit fer hisself, nor n.o.body else.”