_Slavery the Foundation of Caste.--Black its Preference.--The General
Wish for Black Hair and Eyes.--No Hatred to Color.--The White Slave.--A
Mistake.--Stole his Thunder.--The Burman.--Pew for Sale._
Caste is usually found to exist in communities or countries among
majorities, and against minorities. The basis of it is owing to some
supposed inferiority or degradation attached to the hated ones. However,
nothing is more foolish than this prejudice. But the silliest of all
caste is that which is founded on _color_; for those who entertain it
have not a single logical reason to offer in its defence.
The fact is, slavery has been the cause of all the prejudice against the
negro. Wherever the blacks are ill treated on account of their color, it
is because of their identity with a race that has long worn the chain
of slavery. Is there any thing in black, that it should be hated? If so,
why do we see so much black in common use as clothing among all classes?
Indeed, black is preferred to either white or colors. How often the
young man speaks in ecstasies of the black eyes and black hair of his
lady-love! Look at the hundreds of advertised hair-dyes, used for the
purpose of changing nature! See men with their gray beards dyed black;
women with those beautiful black locks, which, but yesterday, were as
white as the driven snow! Not only this, but even those with light
or red whiskers run to the dye-kettle, steal a color which nature has
refused them, and, an hour after, curse the negro for a complexion that
is not stolen. If black is so hateful, why do not gentlemen have their
boots whitewashed? If the slaves of the South had been white, the same
prejudice would have existed against them. Look at the “poor white
trash,” as the lower class of whites in the Southern States are termed.
Henry Clay would much rather have spent an evening with his servant
Charles than to have made a companion of one of his poor white
neighbors. It is the condition, not the color, that is so hateful.
“When the Britons first became known to the Tyrian mariners,” says
Macaulay, “they were little superior to the Sandwich Islanders.” Cæsar,
writing home from Britain, said, “They are the most ignorant people
I ever conquered.” Many of the Britons, after their conquest by the
Romans, were sent as slaves to Rome. Cicero, writing to his friend
Atticus, advised him not to buy slaves from England; “because,” said he,
“they cannot be taught to read, and are the ugliest and most stupid
race I ever saw.” These writers created a prejudice against the Britons,
which caused them to be sold very cheap in Rome, where they were seen
for years with brass collars on, containing their owner’s name. The
prejudice against the American negro is not worse today than that which
existed against the Britons. But, as soon as the condition of the poor,
ill-treated, and enslaved Britons was changed, the caste disappears.
Twenty-five years ago, a slave escaped from Tennessee, and came to
Buffalo, N.Y. He was as fair as the majority of whites, and, having been
a house-servant, his manners and language were not bad. His name was
Green. It was said that he had helped himself to some of his master’s
funds before leaving. For more than a month he had boarded at the
American, the finest hotel in the city, where he sat at table with
the boarders, and occupied the parlors in common with the rest of the
inmates.
Mr. Green passed for a Southern gentleman, sported a gold watch,
smoked his Havanas, and rode out occasionally. He was soon a favorite,
especially with the daughters of Col. D--------. Unfortunately for Mr.
Green, one day, as he was taking his seat at the dinner-table, he found
himself in front of one of his master’s neighbors, who recognized him.
The Southerner sent for the landlord, with whom he had a few moments’
conversation, after which mine host approached the boarder, and said,
“We don’t allow niggers at the table here: get up. You must wait till
the servants eat.” Mr. Green was driven from the table, not on account
of his color, but his condition. Under the old reign of slavery, it not
unfrequently occurred that the master’s acknowledged sons or daughters
were of a much darker complexion than some of the slave children.
On one occasion, after my old master had returned home from the
Legislature (of which he was a member), he had many new visitors. One of
these, a Major Moore, called in my master’s absence. The major had never
been to our place before, and therefore we were all strangers to him.
The servant showed the visitor into the parlor, and the mistress soon
after came in, and to whom the major introduced himself. I was at that
time about ten years old, and was as white as most white boys. Whenever
visitors came to the house, it was my part of the programme, to dress
myself in a neat suit, kept for such times, and go into the room, and
stand behind the lady’s chair. As I entered the room on this occasion,
I had to pass near by the major to reach the mistress. As I passed him,
mistaking me for the son, he put out his hand, and said, “How do you
do, bub?” And, before any answer could be given, he continued, “Madam,
I would have known your son if I had met him in Mexico; for he looks
so much like his papa.” The lady’s face reddened up, and she replied,
“That’s one of the niggers, sir;” and told me to go to the kitchen.
On my master’s return home, I heard him and the major talking the matter
over in the absence of the mistress. “I came near playing the devil here
to-day, colonel,” said the major.--“In what way?” inquired the former.
“It is always my custom,” said the latter, “to make fond of the children
where I visit; for it pleases the mammas. So, to-day, one of your little
niggers came into the room, and I spoke to him, reminding the madam
how much he resembled you.”--“Ha, ha, ha!” exclaimed the colonel, and
continued, “you did not miss it much by calling him my son. Ha, ha, ha!”
An incident of a rather amusing character took place on Cayuga Lake some
years ago. I had but recently returned from England, where I had never
been unpleasantly reminded of my color, when I was called to visit the
pretty little city of Ithaca. On my return, I came down the lake in
the steamer which leaves early in the morning. When the bell rang for
breakfast, I went to the table, where I found some twenty or thirty
persons. I had scarcely taken my seat, when a rather snobby-appearing
man, of dark complexion, looking as if a South-Carolina or Georgia sun
had tanned him, began rubbing his hands, and, turning up his nose,
called the steward, and said to him, “Is it the custom on this boat to
put niggers at the table with white people?” The servant stood for a
moment, as if uncertain what reply to make, when the passenger
continued, “Go tell the captain that I want him.” Away went the steward.
I had been too often insulted on account of my connection with the
slave, not to know for what the captain was wanted. However, as I was
hungry, I commenced helping myself to what I saw before me, yet keeping
an eye to the door, through which the captain was soon to make his
appearance. As the steward returned, and I heard the heavy boots of the
commander on the stairs, a happy thought struck me; and I eagerly
watched for the coming-in of the officer.
A moment more, and a strong voice called out, “Who wants me?”
I answered at once, “I, sir.”
“What do you wish?” asked the captain.
“I want you to take this man from the table,” said I. At this unexpected
turn of the affair, the whole cabin broke out into roars of laughter;
while my rival on the opposite side of the table seemed bursting with
rage. The captain, who had joined in the merriment, said,--
“Why do you want him taken from the table?”
“Is it your custom, captain,” said I, “to let niggers sit at table with
white folks on your boat?”
This question, together with the fact that the other passenger had sent
for the officer, and that I had “stolen his thunder,” appeared to please
the company very much, who gave themselves up to laughter; while
the Southern-looking man left the cabin with the exclamation, “_Damn
fools!_”
Nothing is more ridiculous than the legal decision in the States of
Ohio and Michigan, that a man containing not more than one-sixteenth of
African blood in his veins shall be considered a white man, and, upon
the-above basis, shall enjoy the elective franchise.
We know of a family in Cincinnati, with three brothers, the youngest of
whom is very fair, and who, under the above rule, is a voter; while the
other two brothers are too dark to exercise the suffrage. Now, it so
happens that the voting brother is ignorant and shiftless, while the
others are splendid scholars. Where there is a great difference in the
complexion of the husband and wife, there is generally a much greater
difference in the color of the children; and this picking out the sons,
on account of their fair complexion, seems cruel in the extreme, as
it creates a jealous feeling in the family. While visiting my friend
William Still, Esq., in Philadelphia, some time since, I was much amused
at seeing his little daughter, a child of eight or nine years, and her
cousin, entering the omnibus which passed the door, going towards their
school. Colored persons were not allowed to ride in those conveyances;
and one of the girls, being very fair, would pay the fare for both;
while the dark-complexioned one would keep her face veiled. Thus the
two children daily passed unmolested from their homes to the school,
and returned. I was informed that once while I was there the veil
unfortunately was lifted, the dark face seen, and the child turned out
of the coach. How foolish that one’s ride on a stormy day should depend
entirely on a black veil!
“Colorphobia, which has hitherto been directed against ‘American
citizens of African descent,’ has broken out in a new direction. Mong
Chan Loo is a Burman who recently graduated at Lewisburg University,
Penn., and has since been studying medicine, preparatory to returning to
Asia as a missionary. He is quite dark, but has straight hair, and is
a gentlemen of much cultivation. The other day, he took passage on the
Muskingum-river packet, ‘J. H. Bert,’ and, when the supper-bell rang,
was about to seat himself at the table. The captain prevented him,
informing him that, by the rules of the boat, colored persons must eat
separately from the whites. He grew indignant at this, refused to eat
on the boat at all, and, on arriving at Marietta, sued the owners of the
boat for five thousand dollars damages for ‘mental and bodily anguish
suffered.’ The case is a novel one; and its decision will perhaps
involve the question, whether Africans alone, or Asiatics, and, perhaps,
all dark-complexioned people, are included in the designation ‘colored.’
If the more sweeping definition prevails, brunettes will have to be
provided with legally-attested pedigrees to secure for themselves
seats at the first table and other Caucasian privileges.”--_Cincinnati
Gazette._
“The Dunkards, a peculiar religious society, numerous in some of the
Western States, at their recent annual meeting discussed the question,
‘Shall we receive colored persons into the church? and shall we salute
them with the holy kiss?’ It was decided that they should be received
into the church, but that all the members were to be left to their own
choice and taste in regard to saluting their colored brethren, with
the understanding, however, that all who refused to do so were to be
regarded as weak.”
In the year 1844, I visited a town in the State of Ohio, where a radical
abolitionist informed me that he owned a pew in the village church,
but had not attended worship there for years, owing to the proslavery
character of the preacher.
“Why don’t you sell your pew?” I inquired.
“I offered to sell it, last week, to a man, for ten dollars’ worth of
manure for my garden,” said he; “but the farmer, who happens to be one
of the pillars of the church, wants it for five dollars.”
“What did it cost?” I inquired.
“Fifty dollars,” was the reply.
“Are they very proslavery, the congregation?” I asked.
“Yes: they hate a black man worse than _pizen_,” said he.
“Have you any colored family in your neighborhood?” I inquired.
“We have,” said he, “a family about, four miles from here.”
“Are they very black?” I asked.
“Yes: as black as tar,” said he.
“Now,” said I, “my friend, I can put you in the way of selling your pew,
and for its worth, or near what it cost you.”
“If you can, I’ll give you half I get,” he replied.
“Get that colored family, every one of them, take them to church, don’t
miss a single Sunday; and, my word for it, in less than four weeks,
they, the church-folks, will make you an offer,” said I.
An arrangement was made with Mr. Spencer, the black man, by which
himself, wife, and two sons, were to attend church four successive
Sabbaths; for which, they were to receive in payment a hog. The
following Sunday, Mason’s pew was the centre of attraction. From the
moment that the Spencer Family arrived at the church, till the close of
the afternoon service, the eyes of the entire congregation were turned
towards “the niggers.” Early on Monday, Mr. Mason was called upon by the
“pillar,” who said, “I’ve concluded to give you ten dollars’ worth of
manure for your pew, Mr. Mason.”
“I can’t sell it for that,” was the reply. “I ask fifty dollars for my
pew; and I guess Mr. Spencer will take it, if he likes the preaching,”
continued the abolitionist.
“What!” said the ‘pillar,’ “does that nigger want the pew?”
“He’ll take it if the preaching suits him,” returned Mason.
The churchman left with a flea in his ear. The second Sunday, the blacks
were all on hand to hear the lining of the first hymn. The news of the
pew being occupied by the negroes on the previous occasion had spread
far and wide, and an increase of audience was the result. The clergyman
preached a real negro-hating sermon, apparently prepared for the express
purpose of driving the blacks away. However, this failed; for the
obnoxious persons were present in the afternoon. Mr. Mason was called
upon on Monday by another weighty member, who inquired if the pew was
for sale, and its price.
“Fifty dollars,” was the reply.
“I’ll give you twenty-five dollars,” said the member.
“Fifty dollars, and nothing less,” was Mason’s answer.
The weighty member left, without purchasing the pew. Being on a
lecturing tour in the vicinity, I ran into town, occasionally, to see
how the matter progressed; for I had an eye to one-half of the proceeds
of the sale of the pew.
During the week, Spencer came, complained of the preaching, saying that
his wife could not and would not stand it, and would refuse to attend
again: whereupon, I went over, through a dreary rain, and promised the
wife a shilling calico-dress if she would fulfil the agreement. This
overcame her objections. I also arranged that two colored children of
another family, near by, should be borrowed for the coming Sunday. Mason
was asked how the Spencers liked the preaching. He replied that the
blacks were well pleased, and especially with the last sermon, alluding
to the negro-hating discourse.
The following Sunday found Mason’s pew filled to overflowing; for the
two additional ones had left no space unoccupied. That Sunday did the
work completely; for the two borrowed boys added interest to the scene
by taking different courses. One was tumbling about over the laps of the
older persons in the pew, attracting rather more attention than was due
him, and occasionally asking for “bed and butter;” while the smaller one
slept, and snored loud enough to be heard several pews away. On Monday
morning following, Mr. Mason was called upon. The pew was sold for fifty
dollars cash. I received my portion of the funds, and gave Spencer’s
wife the calico gown. Mason called in the few hated radicals, and we had
a general good time.
During the same lecturing tour, I was called to visit the village of
Republic, some thirty miles from Sandusky.
On taking a seat in one of the cars where other passengers had seated
themselves, I was ordered out, with the remark, that “Niggers ain’t
allowed in here.” Refusing to leave the car, two athletic men, employed
by the road, came in at the bidding of the conductor, and, taking me by
the collar, dragged me out.
“Where shall I ride?” I asked. “Where you please; but not in these
cars,” was the reply. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have
declined going by the train. But I had an appointment, and must go. As
the signal for starting was given, I reluctantly mounted a flour-barrel
in the open freight-car attached to the train, and away we went through
the woods.
From my position, I had a very good view of the passengers in the
nearest car, and must confess that they did not appear to be the most
refined individuals. The majority looked like farmers. There were some
drovers, one of whom, with his dog at his feet, sat at the end window:
the animal occasionally got upon the seat by the side of its master,
when the latter would take him by the ears, and pull him off. The drover
seemed to say to me, as he eyed me sitting on the barrel in the hot sun,
“You can’t come where my dog is.” At the first stopping-place, a dozen
or more laboring-men, employed in repairing the road, got on the
train with their pickaxes and shovels. They, too, took seats in a
passenger-car. I had a copy of Pope’s poems, and was trying to read “The
Essay on Man;” but almost failed, on account of the severity of the sun.
However, a gentleman in the car, seeing my condition, took pity on me,
and, at the next stopping-place, kindly lent me his umbrella; which was
no sooner hoisted than it drew the attention of the drover at one of the
end windows, and some of the Irishmen at the other, who set up a jolly
laugh at my expense. Up to this time, the conductor had not called on
me for my ticket; but, as the train was nearing the place of my
destination, he climbed upon the car, came to me, and, holding out his
hand, said, “I’ll take your ticket, sir. “I have none,” said I. “Then,
I’ll take your fare,” continued he, still holding ont his hand. “How
much is it?” I inquired. “A dollar and a quarter,” he replied. “How
much do you charge those in the passenger-car?”--“The same,” was
the response. “Do you think that I will pay as much as those having
comfortable seats? No, sir. I shall do no such thing,” said I. “Then,”
said the conductor, “you must get off.”--“Stop your train, and I’ll get
off,” I replied. “Do you think I’ll stop these cars for you?”
“Well,” said I, “you can do as you please. I will not pay full fare, and
ride on a flour-barrel in the hot sun.”--“Since you make so much fuss
about it, give me a dollar, and you may go,” said the conductor. “I’ll
do no such thing,” I replied. “Why? Don’t you wish to pay your fare?”
asked he. “Yes,” I replied. “I will pay what’s right; but I’ll not pay
you a dollar for riding on a flour-barrel in the hot sun.”--“Then, since
you feel so terribly bad about it, give me seventy-five cents, and I’ll
say no more about it,” said the officer. “No, sir: I shall not do it,”
said I. “What do you mean to pay?” asked he. “How much do you charge per
hundred for freight?” I asked. “Twenty-five cents per hundred,” answered
the conductor. “Then I’ll pay thirty-seven and a-half cents,” said I;
“for I weigh one hundred and fifty pounds.” The astonished man eyed me
from head to feet; while the drover and the Irish laborers, who were
piled up at each window of the passenger-car, appeared not a little
amused at what they supposed to be a muss between the conductor and me.
Finally, the officer took a blank account out of his pocket, and
said, “Give me thirty-seven and a-half cents, and I’ll set you down as
freight.” I paid over the money, and saw myself duly put among the other
goods in the freight-car.
A New-York journal is responsible for the following:--
“It is not many months since a colored man came to this city from
abroad. A New-York merchant had been in business connection with him for
several years; and from that business connection had realized a fortune,
and felt that he must treat him kindly. When Sunday came, he invited him
to go to church with him. He went; and the merchant took him into his
own pew, near the pulpit, in a fashionable church. There was a prominent
member of the church near the merchant, who saw this with great
amazement. He could not be mistaken: it was a genuine ‘nigger,’ and not
a counterfeit. Midway in his sermon, the minister discovered him, and
was so confused by it, that he lost his place, and almost broke down.
“After service, the man who sat near the merchant went to him, and in
great indignation asked,--
“What does this mean?”
“What does what mean?”
“That you should bring a nigger into this church?”
“It is my pew.”
“Your pew, is it? And, because it is your pew, you must insult the whole
congregation!”
“He is intelligent and well educated,” answered the merchant.
“What do I care for that? He is a nigger!”
“But he is a friend of mine.”
“What of that? Must you therefore insult the whole congregation?”
“But he is a Christian, and belongs to the same denomination.”
“What do I care for that? Let him worship with his nigger Christians.”
“But he is worth five million dollars,” said the merchant.
“Worth what?”
“Worth five million dollars.”
“For God’s sake introduce me to him,” was the reply.