THE NEGRO FUNERAL.
It was about an hour after nightfall when we took our way to the
burial-ground. The moon had risen, but the clouds which gathered when
the sun went down, covered its face, and were fast spreading their
thick, black shadows over the little collection of negro-houses. Near
two new-made graves were gathered some two hundred men and women, as
dark as the night that was setting around them. As we entered the circle
the old preacher pointed to seats reserved for us, and the sable crowd
fell back a few paces, as if, even in the presence of death, they did
not forget the difference between their race and ours.
Scattered here and there among the trees, torches of lightwood threw a
wild and fitful light over the little cluster of graves, revealing the
long, straight boxes of rough pine that held the remains of the two
negroes, and lighting up the score or two of russet mounds where slept
the dusky kinsmen who had gone before them.
The simple head-boards that marked these humble graves chronicled
no bad biography or senseless rhyme, and told no false tales of
lives that might better not have been, but "SAM, AGE 22;" "JAKE'S
ELIZA;" "AUNT SUE;" "AUNT LUCY'S TOM;" "JOE;" and other like
inscriptions, scratched in rough characters on the unplaned boards, were
all the records there. The rude tenants had passed away and "left no
sign;" their birth, their age, their deeds, were alike unknown--unknown,
but not forgotten! for are they not written in the book of His
remembrance--and when he counteth up his jewels, may not some of them be
there?
The queer, grotesque dress, and sad, earnest looks of the black group;
the red, fitful glare of the blazing pine, and the white faces of the
tapped trees, gleaming through the gloom like so many sheeted ghosts
gathered to some death-carnival, made up a strange, wild scene--the
strangest and the wildest I had ever witnessed.
The covers of the rude coffins were not yet nailed down, and when we
arrived, the blacks were, one by one, taking a last look at the faces of
the dead. Soon, Junius, holding his weeping wife by the hand, approached
the smaller of the two boxes, which held all that was left of their
first-born. The mother, kneeling by its side, kissed again and again the
cold, shrunken lips, and sobbed as if her heart would break; and the
strong frame of the father shook convulsively, as he choked down the
great sorrow which welled up in his throat, and turned away from his boy
forever. As he did so, old Pompey said:
"Don't grebe, June, he'm whar de wicked cease from trubling, whar de
weary am at rest."
"I knows it; I knows it, Uncle. I knows de Lord am bery good to take
'im 'way; but why did he take de young chile, and leab de ole man har?"
"De little sapling dat grow in de shade may die while it'm young; de
great tree dat grow in de sun must lib till he'm rotted down."
These words were the one drop wanting to make the great grief which was
swelling in the negro's heart overflow. Giving one low, wild cry, he
folded his wife in his arms, and burst into a paroxysm of tears.
"Come now, my chil'ren," said the old preacher, kneeling down, "let us
pray."
The whole assemblage then knelt on the cold ground, while the old man
prayed, and a more sincere, heart-touching prayer never went up from
human lips to that God "who hath made of one blood all nations that
dwell on the face of the earth." Though clothed in rags, and in feeble
age at the mercy of a cruel taskmaster, that old slave was richer far
than his master. His simple faith, which saw through the darkness around
him into the clear and radiant light of the unseen day, was of far more
worth than all the wealth and glory of this world. I know not why it
was, but as I looked at him in the dim red light, which fell on his bent
form and cast a strange halo around his upturned face, I thought of
Stephen, as he gazed upward and behold heaven open, and "the Son of Man
seated at the right hand of the throne of God."
Rising from his knees, the old preacher turned slowly to the black mass
that encircled him, and said:
"My dear brederin and sisters, de Lord say dat 'de dust shill return to
de earth as it war, and de spirit to Him who gabe it,' and now, 'cordin'
to dat text, my friends, we'm gwine to put dis dust (pointing to the two
coffins) in de groun' whar it cum from, and whar it shill lay till de
bressed Lord blow de great trumpet on de resumrection mornin'. De
spirits of our brudders har de Lord hub already took to hisseff. 'Our
brudders,' I say, my chil'ren, 'case ebery one dat de Lord hab made am
brudders to you and to me, whedder dey'm bad or good, white or brack.
"Dis young chile, who hab gone 'way and leff his pore fader and mudder
suffrin' all ober wid grief, _he_ hab gone to de Lord, _shore_. _He_
neber done no wrong; he allers 'bey'd his massa, and neber said no hard
word, nor found no fault, not eben w'en de cruel, bad oberseer put de
load so heaby on him dat it kill him. Yes, my brederin and sisters, _he_
hab gone to de Lord; gone whar dey don't work in de swamps; whar de
little chil'ren don't tote de big shingles fru de water up to dar knees.
No swamps am dar; no shingles am dar; dey doan't need 'em, 'case dar de
hous'n haint builded wid hands, for dey'm all builded by de Lord, and
gib'n to de good niggers, ready-made, and for nuffin'. De Lord don't
say, like as ded massa say, 'Pomp, dar's de logs and de shingles' (dey'm
allers pore shingles, de kine dat woant sell; but massa say, 'dey'm good
'nuff for niggers,' ef de roof do leak). De Lord doan't say: 'Now, Pomp,
you go to work and build you' own house; but mine dat you does you,
task all de time, jess de same!' But de Lord--de bressed Lord--He say,
w'en we goes up dar, 'Dar, Pomp, dar's de house dat I'se been a buildin'
for you eber sence 'de foundation ob de worle.' It'm done now, and you
kin cum in; your room am jess ready, and ole Sal and de chil'ren dat I
tuk 'way from you eber so long ago, and dat you mourned ober and cried
ober as ef you'd neber see dem agin, dey'm dar too, all on 'em, a
waitin' for you. Dey'm been fixin' up de house 'spressly for you all
dese long years, and dey'b got it all nice and comfible now.' Yas, my
friends, glory be to Him, dat's what our Heabenly massa say, and who ob
you wouldn't hab sich a massa as dat? A massa dat doan't set you no hard
tasks, and dat gibs you 'nuff to eat, and time to rest and to sing and
to play! A massa dat doan't keep no Yankee oberseer to foller you 'bout
wid de big free-lashed whip; but dat leads you hisseff to de green
pastures and de still waters; and w'en you'm a-faint and a-tired, and
can't go no furder, dat takes you up in his arms, and carries you in his
bosom! What pore darky am dar dat wudn't hab sich a massa? What one ob
us, eben ef he had to work jess so hard as we works now, wudn't tink
heseff de happiest nigger in de hull worle, ef he could hab sich hous'n
to lib in as dem? dem hous'n 'not made wid hands, eternal in de
heabens!'
"But glory, glory to de Lord! my chil'ren, wese all got dat massa, ef we
only knowd it, and He'm buildin' dem hous'n up dar, now, for ebery one
ob us dat am tryin' to be good and to lub one anoder. _For ebery one ob
us_, I say, and we kin all git de fine hous'n ef we try.
"Recolember, too, my brudders, dat our great Massa am rich, bery rich,
and he kin do all he promise. _He_ doant say, w'en wese worked ober time
to git some little ting to comfort de sick chile, 'I knows, Pomp, you'se
done de work, an' I did 'gree to gib you de pay; but de fact am, Pomp,
de frost hab come so sudden dis yar, dat I'se loss de hull ob de sebenfh
dippin', and I'se pore, so pore, de chile muss go widout dis time.' No,
no, brudders, de bressed Lord He neber talk so. He neber break, 'case de
sebenfh dip am shet off, or 'case de price of turpentime gwo down at de
Norf. He neber sell his niggers down Souf, 'case he lose his money on he
hoss-race. No, my chil'ren, our HEABENLY Massa am rich, RICH, I say. He
own all dis worle, and all de oder worles dat am shinin' up dar in de
sky. He own dem all; but he tink more ob one ob you, more ob one ob
you--pore, ign'rant brack folks dat you am--dan ob all dem great worles!
Who wouldn't belong to sich a Massa as dat? Who wouldn't be his
nigger--not his slave--He doant hab no slaves--but his chile; and 'ef
his chile, den his heir, de heir ob God, and de jined heir wid de
bressed Jesus.' O my chil'ren! tink of dat! de heir ob de Lord ob all de
'arth and all de sky! What white man kin be more'n dat?
"Don't none ob you say you'm too wicked to be His chile; 'ca'se you
haint. He lubs de wicked ones de best, 'ca'se dey need his lub de most.
Yas, my brudders, eben de wickedest, ef dey's only sorry, and turn roun'
and leab off dar bad ways, he lub de bery best ob all, 'ca'se he'm all
lub and pity.
"Sam, har, my chil'ren, war wicked, but don't _we_ pity him; don't _we_
tink he hab a hard time, and don't we tink de bad oberseer, who'm layin'
dar in de house jess ready to gwo and answer for it--don't we tink he
gabe Sam bery great probincation?
"Dat's so," said a dozen of the auditors.
"Den don't you 'spose dat de bressed Lord know all dat, and dat He pity
Sam too. If we pore sinners feel sorrer for him, haint de Lord's heart
bigger'n our'n, and haint he more sorrer for him? Don't you tink dat ef
He lub and pity de bery worse whites, dat He lub and pity pore Sam, who
warn't so bery bad, arter all? Don't you tink He'll gib Sam a house?
P'r'aps' 'twont be one ob de fine hous'n, but wont it be a comfible
house, dat hain't no cracks, and one dat'll keep out de wind and de
rain? And don't you s'pose, my chil'ren, dat it'll be big 'nuff for
Jule, too--dat pore, repentin' chile, whose heart am clean broke, 'ca'se
she hab broughten dis on Sam--and won't de Lord--de good Lord--de
tender-hearted Lord--won't He touch Sam's heart, and coax him to forgib
Jule, and to take her inter his house up dar? I knows he will, my
chil'ren. I knows----"
The old negro paused abruptly; there was a quick swaying in the black
crowd--a hasty rush--a wild cry--and Sam's wife burst into the open
space around the preacher, and fell at his feet. Throwing her arms
wildly about him, she shrieked out:
"Say dat agin, Uncle Pomp! for de lub ob de good Lord, oh! say dat
agin!"
Bending down, the old man raised her gently in his arms, and folding her
there, as he would have folded a child, he said, in a voice thick with
emotion:
"It am so, Juley. I knows dat Sam will forgib you, and take you wid him
up dar."
Fastening her arms frantically around Pompey's neck, the poor woman
burst into a paroxysm of grief, while the old man's tears fell in great
drops on her upturned face, and many a dark cheek was wet, as with rain.
The scene had lasted a few minutes, and I was turning away to hide the
emotion that fast filled my eyes, and was creeping up, with a choking
feeling, to my throat, when the Colonel, from the farther edge of the
group, called out:
"Take that d---- d---- away--take her away, Pomp!"
The old negro turned toward his master with a sad, grieved look, but
gave no heed to the words.
"Take her away, some of you, I say," again cried the Colonel. "Pomp, you
mustn't keep these niggers all night in the cold."
At the sound of her master's voice the metif woman fell to the ground as
if struck by a Minie-ball. Soon several negroes lifted her up to bear
her off; but she struggled violently, and rent the woods with her wild
cries for "one more look at Sam."
"Look at him, you d---- d----; then go, and don't let me see you again."
She threw herself on the face of the dead, and covered the cold lips
with her kisses; then she rose, and with a weak, uncertain step,
staggered out into the darkness.
Was not the system which had so seared and hardened that man's heart,
begotten in the lowest hell?
The old preacher said no more, but four stout negro men stepped forward,
nailed down the lids, and lowered the rough boxes into the ground.
Turning to Madam P----, I saw her face was red with weeping. She turned
to go as the first earth fell, with a dull, heavy sound, on the rude
coffins; and giving her my arm, I led her from the scene.
As we walked slowly back to the house, a low wail--half a chant, half a
dirge--rose from the black crowd, and floated off on the still night
air, till it died away amid the far woods, in a strange, unearthly moan.
With that sad, wild music in our ears, we entered the mansion.
As we seated ourselves by the bright wood-fire on the library hearth,
obeying a sudden impulse which I could not restrain, I said to Madam
P----:
"The Colonel's treatment of that poor woman is inexplicable to me. Why
is he so hard with her? It is not in keeping with what I have seen of
his character."
"The Colonel is a peculiar man," replied the lady. "Noble, generous, and
a true friend, he is also a bitter, implacable enemy. When he once
conceives a dislike, his feelings become even vindictive. Never having
had an ungratified wish, he does not know how to feel for the sorrows of
those beneath him. Sam, though a proud, headstrong, unruly character,
was a great favorite with him; he felt his death much; and as he
attributes it to Jule, he feels terribly bitter toward her. She will
have to be sold to get her out of his way, for he will _never_ forgive
her."
It was some time before the Colonel joined us, and when at last he made
his appearance, he seemed in no mood for conversation. The lady soon
retired; but feeling unlike sleep, I took down a book from the shelves,
drew my chair near the fire, and fell to reading. The Colonel, too, was
deep in the newspapers, till, after a while, Jim entered the room:
"I'se cum to ax ef you've nuffin more to-night, Cunnel?" said the negro.
"No, nothing, Jim," replied his master; "but, stay--hadn't you better
sleep in front of Moye's door?"
"Dunno, sar; jess as you say."
"I think you'd better," returned the Colonel.
"Yas, massa," and the darky left the apartment.
The Colonel shortly rose, and bade me "good-night." I continued reading
till the clock struck eleven, when I laid the book aside and went to my
room.
I lodged, as I have said before, on the first floor, and was obliged to
pass by the overseer's apartment in going to mine. Wrapped in his
blanket, and stretched at full length on the ground, Jim lay there, fast
asleep. I passed on, thinking of the wisdom of placing a tired negro on
guard over an acute and desperate Yankee.
I rose in the morning with the sun, and had partly donned my clothing,
when I heard a loud uproar in the hall. Opening my door, I saw Jim
pounding vehemently at the Colonel's room, and looking as pale as is
possible with a person of his complexion.
"What the d--l is the matter?" asked his master, who now, partly
dressed, stepped into the hall.
"Moye hab gone, sar--he'm gone and took Firefly (my host's
five-thousand-dollar thorough-bred) wid him."
For a moment the Colonel stood stupified; then, his face turning to a
cold, clayey white, he seized the black by the throat, and hurled him to
the floor. With his thick boot raised, he seemed about to dash out the
man's brains with its ironed heel, when, on the instant, the octoroon
woman rushed, in her night-clothes, from his room, and, with desperate
energy, pushed him aside, exclaiming: "What would you do? Remember WHO
HE IS!"
The negro rose, and the Colonel, without a word, passed into his own
apartment.