The moral and social degradation of the colored population of the
Southern States, is attributable to two main causes, their mode of
living, and their religion. In treating upon these causes, and
especially the latter, I feel confident that I shall throw myself
open to the criticism of a numerous, if not an intelligent class of
the people upon whom I write. The entire absence of a knowledge of
the laws of physiology, amongst the colored inhabitants of the South
is proverbial. Their small unventilated houses, in poor streets and
dark alleys, in cities and towns, and the poorly-built log huts in the
country, are often not fit for horses. A room fifteen feet square, with
two, and sometimes three beds, and three or four in a bed, is common in
Tennessee.
No bathing conveniences whatever, and often not a wash dish about the
house, is the rule. The most inveterate eaters in the world, yet these
people have no idea of cooking outside of hog, hominy, corn bread, and
coffee. Yes, there is one more dish, it is the negro’s sun-flower in
the South, cabbages.
It is usual to see a woman coming from the market about five o’clock in
the evening, with a basket under her shawl, and in it a piece of pork,
bacon, or half a hog’s head, and one or two large heads of cabbage, and
some sweet potatoes. These are put to cook at once, and the odor from
the boiling pot may be snuffed in some distance off.
Generous to a fault, the host invites all who call in, to “stop to
supper.” They sit down to the table at about nine o’clock, spend fully
an hour over the first course, then the apple dumplings, after that,
the coffee and cake. Very few vegetables, except cabbages and sweet
potatoes, are ever used by these people. Consequently they are not
unfrequently ill from a want of the knowledge of the laws of health.
The assembling of large numbers in the cities and towns has proved
fatal.
Nearly all the statistics relating to the subject now accessible are
those coming from the larger Southern cities, and these would seem to
leave no doubt that in such centres of population the mortality of the
colored greatly exceeds that of the white race. In Washington, for
instance, where the negroes have enjoyed longer and more privileges
than in most Southern cities, the death-rate per thousand in the year
1876 was for the whites 26.537; for the colored 49.294; and for the
previous year it was a little worse for the blacks. In Baltimore, a
very healthy city, the total death-rate for 1875 was 21.67 in one
thousand, of which the whites showed 19.80, the colored 34.42. In a
still healthier little city, Chattanooga, Tenn., the statistics of
the last five years give the death-rate of the whites at 19.9; of the
colored, 37. The very best showing for the latter, singularly enough,
is made in Selma, Ala. It stands per one thousand, white, 14.28;
colored, 18.88. In Mobile, in the same State, the mortality of the
colored was just about double the rate among the whites. New Orleans
for 1875 gives the record of 25.45 for the death-rate of the whites, to
39.69 for that of the colored.
Lecturers of their own race, male and female, upon the laws of health,
is the first move needed.
After settling the question with his bacon and cabbage, the next
dearest thing to a colored man, in the South, is his religion. I call
it a “thing,” because they always speak of getting religion as if they
were going to market for it.
“You better go an’ get religion, dat’s what you better do, fer de devil
will be arter you one of dees days, and den whar will yer be?” said an
elderly Sister, who was on her way to the “Revival,” at St. Paul’s, in
Nashville, last winter. The man to whom she addressed these words of
advice stopped, raised his hat, and replied:
“Anty, I ain’t quite ready to-night, but I em gwine to get it before
the meetins close, kase when that getting-up day comes, I want to have
the witness; that I do.”
“Yes, yer better, fer ef yer don’t, dar’ll be a mighty stir ’mong de
brimstone down dar, dat dey will, fer yer’s bin bad nuff; I knows yer
fum A to izzard,” returned the old lady.
The church was already well filled, and the minister had taken his
text. As the speaker warmed up in his subject, the Sisters began to
swing their heads and reel to and fro, and eventually began a shout.
Soon, five or six were fairly at it, which threw the house into a buzz.
Seats were soon vacated near the shouters, to give them more room,
because the women did not wish to have their hats smashed in by the
frenzied Sisters. As a woman sprung up in her seat, throwing up her
long arms, with a loud scream, the lady on the adjoining seat quickly
left, and did not stop till she got to a safe distance.
“Ah, ha!” exclaimed a woman near by, “’fraid of your new bonnet! Ain’t
got much religion, I reckon. Specks you’ll have to come out of that if
you want to save your soul.”
“She thinks more of that hat now, than she does of a seat in heaven,”
said another.
“Never mind,” said a third, “when she gets de witness, she’ll drap dat
hat an’ shout herself out of breath.”
The shouting now became general; a dozen or more entering into it
most heartily. These demonstrations increased or abated, according to
movements of the leaders, who were in and about the pulpit; for the
minister had closed his discourse, and first one, and then another
would engage in prayer. The meeting was kept up till a late hour,
during which, four or five sisters becoming exhausted, had fallen upon
the floor and lay there, or had been removed by their friends.
St. Paul is a fine structure, with its spire bathed in the clouds, and
standing on the rising land in South Cherry Street, it is a building
that the citizens may well be proud of.
In the evening I went to the First Baptist Church, in Spruce Street.
This house is equal in size and finish to St. Paul. A large assembly
was in attendance, and a young man from Cincinnati was introduced
by the pastor as the preacher for the time being. He evidently felt
that to set a congregation to shouting, was the highest point to be
attained, and he was equal to the occasion. Failing to raise a good
shout by a reasonable amount of exertion, he took from his pocket a
letter, opened it, held it up and began, “When you reach the other
world you’ll be hunting for your mother, and the angel will read from
this paper. Yes, the angel will read from this paper.”
For fully ten minutes the preacher walked the pulpit, repeating in a
loud, incoherent manner, “And the angel will read from this letter.”
This created the wildest excitement, and not less than ten or fifteen
were shouting in different parts of the house, while four or five
were going from seat to seat shaking hands with the occupants of
the pews. “Let dat angel come right down now an’ read dat letter,”
shouted a Sister, at the top of her voice. This was the signal for
loud exclamations from various parts of the house. “Yes, yes, I want’s
to hear the letter.” “Come, Jesus, come, or send an angel to read the
letter.” “Lord, send us the power.” And other remarks filled the house.
The pastor highly complimented the effort, as one of “great power,”
which the audience most cordially endorsed. At the close of the service
the strange minister had hearty shakes of the hand from a large number
of leading men and women of the church. And this was one of the most
refined congregations in Nashville.
It will be difficult to erase from the mind of the negro of the South,
the prevailing idea that outward demonstrations, such as, shouting, the
loud “amen,” and the most boisterous noise in prayer, are not necessary
adjuncts to piety.
A young lady of good education and refinement, residing in East
Tennessee, told me that she had joined the church about a year
previous, and not until she had one shouting spell, did most of her
Sisters believe that she had “the Witness.”
“And did you really shout?” I inquired.
“Yes. I did it to stop their mouths, for at nearly every meeting, one
or more would say, ‘Sister Smith, I hope to live to see you show that
you’ve got the Witness, for where the grace of God is, there will be
shouting, and the sooner you comes to that point the better it will be
for you in the world to come.’”
To get religion, join a benevolent society that will pay them “sick
dues” when they are ill, and to bury them when they die, appears to
be the beginning, the aim, and the end of the desires of the colored
people of the South. In Petersburg I was informed that there were
thirty-two different secret societies in that city, and I met persons
who held membership in four at the same time. While such associations
are of great benefit to the improvident, they are, upon the whole, very
injurious. They take away all stimulus to secure homes and to provide
for the future.
As a man observed to me, “I b’longs ter four s’ieties, de ‘Samaritans,’
de ‘Gallalean Fisherman,’ de ‘Sons of Moses,’ an’ de ‘Wise Men of de
East.’ All of dees pays me two dollars a week when I is sick, an’
twenty-five dollars ter bury me when I dies. Now ain’t dat good?”
I replied that I thought it would be far better, if he put his money in
a home and educated himself.
“Well,” said he, “I is satisfied, kas, ef I put de money in a house,
maybe when I got sick some udder man might be hangin’ roun’ wantin’ me
ter die, an’ maybe de ole ’oman might want me gone too, an’ not take
good kere of me, an’ let me die an’ let de town bury me. But, now, yer
see, de s’iety takes kere of me and burries me. So, now, I am all right
fer dis worl’ an’ I is got de Witness, an’ dat fixes me fer hebben.”
This was all said in an earnest manner, showing that the brother had an
eye to business.
The determination of late years to ape the whites in the erection of
costly structures to worship in, is very injurious to our people. In
Petersburg, Va., a Baptist society pulled down a noble building, which
was of ample size, to give place to a more fashionable and expensive
one, simply because a sister Church had surpassed them in putting up a
house of worship. It is more consistent with piety and Godly sincerity
to say that we don’t believe there is any soul-saving and God-honoring
element in such expensive and useless ornaments to houses in which
to meet and humbly worship in simplicity and sincerity the true and
living God, according to his revealed will. Poor, laboring people who
are without homes of their own, and without (in many instances) steady
remunerative employment, can ill afford to pay high for useless and
showy things that neither instruct nor edify them. The manner, too, in
which the money is raised, is none of the best, to say the least of
it. For most of the money, both to build the churches and to pay the
ministers, is the hard earnings of men in the fields, at service, or by
our women over the wash-tub. When our people met and worshipped in less
costly and ornamental houses, their piety and sincerity was equally as
good as now, if not better. With more polish within and less ornament
without, we would be more spiritually and less worldly-minded.
Revival meetings, and the lateness of the hours at which they close,
are injurious to both health and morals. Many of the churches begin
in October, and continue till the holidays; and commencing again the
middle of January, they close in April. They often keep the meetings in
till eleven o’clock; sometimes till twelve; and in some country places,
they have gone on later. I was informed of a young woman who lost her
situation--a very good one--because the family could not sit up till
twelve o’clock every night to let her in, and she would not leave her
meeting so as to return earlier. Another source of moral degradation
lies in the fact that a very large number of men, calling themselves
“missionaries,” travel the length and breadth of the country, stopping
longest where they are best treated. The “missionary” is usually armed
with a recommendation from some minister in charge, or has a forged
one, it makes but little difference which. He may be able to read
enough to line a hymn, but that is about all.
His paper that he carries speaks of him as a man “gifted in revival
efforts,” and he at once sets about getting up a revival meeting. This
tramp, for he cannot be called anything else, has with him generally
a hymn-book, and an old faded, worn-out carpet-bag, with little or
nothing in it. He remains in a place just as long as the people
will keep him, which usually depends upon his ability to keep up an
excitement. I met a swarm of these lazy fellows all over the South, the
greatest number, however, in West Virginia.
The only remedy for this great evil lies in an educated ministry, which
is being supplied to a limited extent. It is very difficult, however,
to induce the uneducated, superstitious masses to receive and support
an intelligent Christian clergyman.
The great interest felt in the South for education amongst the colored
people often produce scenes of humor peculiar to the race. Enjoying the
hospitality of a family in West Virginia, I was not a little amused at
the preparation made for the reception of their eldest son, who had
been absent six months at Wilberforce College. A dinner with a turkey,
goose, pair of fowls, with a plentiful supply of side dishes, and apple
dumplings for dessert, was on the table at the hour that the son was
expected from the train.
An accident delayed the cars to such an extent that we were at the
table and dinner half through, when suddenly the door flew open, and
before us stood the hope of the family. The mother sprang up, raised
her hands and exclaimed, “Well, well, ef dar ain’t Peter, now. De Lord
bress dat chile, eh, an’ how college-like he seems. Jess look at him,
don’t he look edecated? Come right here dis minit an’ kiss your mammy.”
During this pleasant greeting, Peter stood near the door where he had
entered; dressed in his college rig, small cap on his head, bag swung
at his side, umbrella in the left hand, and a cigar in the right, with
a smile on his countenance, he looked the very personification of the
Harvard student. The father of the family, still holding his knife and
fork, sat with a glow upon his face, while the two youngsters, taking
advantage of the occasion, were helping themselves to the eatables.
At the bidding, “Come an’ kiss your mammy,” Peter came forward and did
the nice thing to all except the youngest boy, who said, “I can’t kiss
yer now, Pete, wait till I eat dees dumplins, den I’ll kiss yer.”
Dinner over, and Peter gave us some humorous accounts of college life,
to the great delight of his mother, who would occasionally exclaim,
“Bress de chile, what a hard time he muss hab dar at de college. An’
how dem boys wory’s him. Well, people’s got to undergo a heap to git
book larnin’, don’t dey?”
At night the house was filled, to see the young man from college.