down in de quahters. His wife Dasdy wuz a good-lookin,' good-natu'd
'oman, an' 'peared ter set a heap er sto' by Ben. De little boy wuz
name' Pete; he wuz 'bout eight er nine years ole, an' had already
'menced ter go out in de fiel' an' he'p his mammy pick cotton, fer Mars
Marrabo wuz one er dese yer folks w'at wants ter make eve'y aidge cut.
Dis yer little Pete wuz a mighty soople dancer, an' w'en his daddy would
set out in de yahd an' pick de banjo fer 'im, Pete could teach de ole
folks noo steps--dancin' jes seemed to come nachul ter 'im. Dey wuz a
little gal too; Ben didn' pay much 'tention ter de gal, but he wuz
monst'us fond er Dasdy an' de boy. He wuz sorry ter leab 'em, an' he
didn' tell 'em nuffin' 'bout it fer fear dey'd make a fuss. But on
Friday night Ben tuk all de bread an' meat dey wuz in de cabin an' made
fer de woods.
"W'en Sad'day come an' Ben didn' 'pear, an' nobody didn' know nuffin'
'bout 'im, Mars Marrabo 'lowed of co'se dat Ben had runned erway. He got
up a pahty an' tuk de dawgs out an' follered de scen' down ter de crick
an' los' it. Fer Ben had tuk a go'd-full er tar 'long wid' 'im, an' w'en
he got ter de crick he had 'n'inted his feet wid tar, an' dat th'owed de
houns' off'n de scent. Dey sarched de woods an' follered de roads an'
kep' watchin' fer a week, but dey couldn' fin' no sign er Ben. An' den
Mars Marrabo got mo' stric', an' wuked his niggers hahder'n eber, ez ef
he wanted ter try ter make up fer his loss.
"W'en Ben stahted out he wanted ter go ter de No'th. He didn' know how
fur it wuz, bet he 'lowed he retch dar in fo' er five days. He knowed de
No'th Stah, an' de fus night he kep' gwine right straight to'ds it. But
de nex' night it was rainin,' an' fer two er th'ee nights it stayed
cloudy, an' Ben couldn' see de No'th Stah. Howsomeber, he knowed he had
got stahted right' an' he kep' gwine right straight on de same way fer
a week er mo' 'spectin' ter git ter de No'th eve'y day, w'en one mawin'
early, atter he had b'en walkin' all night, he come right smack out on
de crick jes whar he had stahted f'om.
"Co'se Ben wuz monst'us disapp'inted. He had been wond'rin' w'y he hadn'
got ter de No'th befo,' an' behol,' heah he wuz back on de ole
plantation. He couldn' un'erstan' it at fus,' but he wuz so hongry he
didn' hab time ter study 'bout nuffin' fer a little w'ile but jes' ter
git sump'n' ter eat; fer he had done eat up de bread an' meat he tuk
away wid 'im, an' had been libbin' on roas'n-ears an' sweet'n taters
he'd slip out'n de woods an' fin' in co'n fiel's 'an 'tater-patches. He
look 'cross de crick, an' seed dis yer clay-bank, an' he waded ober an'
got all he could eat, an' den tuk a lump wid 'im, an' hid in de woods
ag'in 'til he could study de matter ober some.
"Fus' he 'lowed dat he better gib hiss'ef up an' take his lammin.' But
jes' den he 'membered de way Mars Marrabo looked at 'im an' w'at he said
'bout Sad'day night; an' den he 'lowed dat ef Mars Marrabo ketch 'im
now, he'd wear 'im ter a frazzle an' chaw up de frazzle, so de wouldn'
be nuffin' lef' un 'im at all, an' dat Mars Marrabo would make a'
example an' a warnin' of 'im fer all de niggers in de naberhood. Fac' is
Mars Marrabo prob'ly wouldn' a' done much ter 'im fer it 'ud be monst'us
po' 'couragement fer runaway niggers ter come back, ef dey gwineter git
killed w'en dey come. An' so Ben waited 'til night, an' den he went back
an' got some mo' clay an' eat it an' hid hisse'f in de woods ag'in.
"Well, hit wuz quare 'bout Ben, but he stayed roun' heah fer a mont,'
hidin' in de woods in de daytime, an' slippin' out nights an' gittin'
clay ter eat an' water f'om de crick yanker ter drink. De water in dat
crick wuz cl'ar in dem days, stidder bein' yallar lak it is now."
We had observed that the water, like that of most streams that take
their rise in swamps, had an amber tint to which the sand and clay
background of the bed of the stream imparted an even yellower hue.
"What did he do then, Julius?" asked my wife, who liked to hear the end
of a story.
"Well, Miss, he made up his min' den dat he wuz gwineter staht fer de
No'th ag'in. But wiles he b'en layin' roun' in de woods he had 'mence
ter feel monst'us lonesome, an' it 'peared ter him dat he jes' couldn'
go widout seein' Dasdy an' little Pete. Fus' he 'lowed he'd go up ter de
cabin, but he thought 'bout de dogs 'roun' de yahd, an' dat de yuther
dahkies mought see 'im, and so he 'cided he'd better watch fer 'em 'til
dey come long de road--it wuz dis yer same road--w'en he could come
out'n de woods an' talk ter 'em. An' he eben 'lowed he mought 'suade 'em
ter run erway wid 'im an' dey could all get ter de No'th, fer de nights
wuz cl'ar now, an' he couldn' lose de No'th Stah.
"So he waited two er th'ee days, an' sho' nuff long come Dasdy one
mornin,' comin' over to Mars Dugal's fer ter fetch some things fer her
missis. She wuz lookin' kinder down in de mouf, fer she thought a heap
er Ben, an' wuz monst'us sorry ter lose 'im, w'iles at de same time she
wuz glad he wuz free, fer she 'lowed he'd done got ter de Norf long
befo.' An' she wuz studyin' 'bout Ben, w'at a fine-lookin' man he wuz,
an' wond'rin' ef she'd eber see 'im any mo.'
"W'en Ben seed her comin' he waited 'til she got close by, an' den he
stepped out 'n de woods an' come face ter face wid her. She didn' 'pear
to know who he wuz, an' seem kinder skeered.
"'Hoddy, Dasdy honey,' he said.
"'Huh!' she said, ''pears ter me you'er mighty fermilyer on sho't
acquaintance.'
"'Sho't acquaintance.' Why, doan' yer know me, Dasdy?'
"'No. I doan know yer f'om a skeercrow. I never seed yer befo' in my
life, an' nebber wants ter see yer ag'in. Whar did yer com f'om anyhow?
Whose nigger is yer? Er is yer some low-down free nigger dat doan b'long
ter nobody an' doan own nobody?'
"'W'at fer you talk ter me like dat, honey? I's Ben, yo' Ben. Why doan
you know yo' own man?'
"He put out his ahms fer ter draw her ter 'im, but she jes' gib one
yell, an' stahted ter run. Ben wuz so 'stonish' he didn' know w'at ter
do, an' he stood dere in de road 'til he heared somebody e'se comin',
w'en he dahted in de woods ag'in.
"Po' Ben wuz so 'sturbed in his min' dat he couldn' hahdly eat any clay
dat day. He couldn' make out w'at wuz de matter wid Dasdy but he 'lowed
maybe she'd heared he wuz dead er sump'n,' an' thought he wuz a ha'nt,
an' dat wuz w'y she had run away. So he watch' by de side er de road,
an' nex' mornin' who should come erlong but little Pete, wid a reed over
his shoulder, an' a go'd-full er bait, gwine fishin' in de crick.
"Ben called 'im; 'Pete, O Pete! _Little_ Pete.'
"Little Pete cocked up his ears an' listened. 'Peared lak he'd heared
dat voice befo.' He stahted fer de woods fer ter see who it wuz callin'
'im, but befo' he got dere Ben stepped out an' retched fer im.
"'Come heah, honey, an' see yo' daddy, who ain' seenyer fer so long.'
"But little Pete tuk one look at 'im, an' den 'menceter holler an squeal
an' kick an' bite an' scratch. Ben wuz so 'stonish' dat he couldn' hoi'
de boy, who slipped out'n his ban's an run to'ds de house ez fas' ez his
legs would tote 'im.
"Po' Ben kep' gittin' wus an' wus mixed up. He couldn' make out fer de
life er 'im w'at could be de matter. Nobody didn' 'pear ter wanter own
'im. He felt so cas' down dat he didn' notice a nigger man comin' long
de road 'til he got right close up on 'im, an' didn' heah dis man w'en
he said 'Hoddy' ter 'im.
"'Wat's de matter wid yer?' said de yuther man w'en Ben didn' 'spon'.
'Wat jedge er member er de legislater er hotel-keeper does you b'long
ter dat you can't speak ter a man w'en he says hoddy ter yer?'
"Ben kinder come ter hisse'f an' seed it wuz Primus, who b'long ter his
marster an' knowed 'im as well as anybody. But befo' he could git de
words out'n his mouf Primus went on talkin.'
"'Youer de mos' mis'able lookin' merlatter I eber seed. Dem rags look
lak dey be'n run th'oo a sawmill. My marster doan 'low no strange
niggers roun' dis yer plantation, an' yo' better take yo' yaller hide
'way f'um yer as fas' as yo' kin.'
"Jes den somebody hollered on de yuther side er de crick, an' Primus
stahted off on a run, so Ben didn' hab no chance ter say no mo' ter 'im.
"Ben almos' 'lowed he wuz gwine out'n' his min', he wuz so 'stonished
an' mazed at none er dese yer folks reco'nizin' 'im. He went back in de
woods ag'in an' stayed dere all day, wond'rin' w'at he wuz gwineter do.
Oncet er twicet he seed folks comin' 'long de road, an' stahted out ter
speak ter 'em, but changed his min' an' slip' back ag'in.
"Co'se ef Mars Marrabo had been huntin' Ben he would 'a' foun' 'im. But
he had long sence los' all hope er seein' im ag'in, an' so nobody didn'
'sturb Ben in de woods. He stayed hid a day er two mo' an' den he got so
lonesome an' homesick fer Dasdy an' little Pete an' de yuther
dahkies,--somebody ter talk ter--dat he jes' made up his min' ter go
right up ter de house an' gib hisse'f up an' take his med'cine. Mars
Marrabo couldn' do nuffin' mo' d'n kill 'im an' he mought's well be dead
as hidin' in de woods wid nobody ter talk ter er look at ner nuffin'. He
had jes' come out 'n de woods an' stahted up dis ve'y road, w'en who
sh'd come 'long in a hoss 'n buggy but ole Mars Marrabo, drivin' ober
ter dat yuther brickyahd youer gwinter see now. Ben run out 'n de woods,
and fell down on his knees in de road right in front er Mars Marrabo.
Mars Marrabo had to pull on de lines an' hoi' de hoss up ter keep 'im
f'um runnin' ober Ben.
"'Git out'n de road, you fool nigger,' says Mars Marrabo, 'does yer
wanter git run ober? Whose nigger is you, anyhow?'
"I's yo' nigger, Mars Marrabo; doan yer know Ben, w'at runned erway?'
"'Yas, I knows my Ben w'at runned erway. Does you know whar he is?'
"'Why, I's yo' Ben, Mars Marrabo. Doan yer know me, marster?'
"'No, I doan know yer, yer yaller rascal! W'at de debbil yer mean by
tellin' me sich a lie? Ben wuz black ez a coal an' straight ez an'
arrer. Youer yaller ez dat clay-bank, an' crooked ez a bair'l-hoop. I
reckon youer some 'stracted nigger, tun't out by some marster w'at doan
wanter take keer er yer. You git off'n my plantation, an' doan show yo'
clay-cullud hide aroun' yer no more, er I'll hab yer sent ter jail an'
whip.'
"Mars Marrabo drove erway an' lef' po' Ben mo' dead 'n alive. He crep'
back in de bushes an' laid down an' wep' lak a baby. He didn' hab no
wife, no chile, no frien's, no marster--he'd be'n willin' ernuff to git
'long widout a marster, w'en he had one, but it 'peared lak a sin fer
his own marster ter 'ny 'im an' cas' 'im off dat-a-way. It 'peared ter
'im he mought jes' ez well be dead ez livin', fer he wuz all alone in de
worl', wid nowhar ter go, an' nobody didn' hab nuffin' ter say ter 'im
but ter 'buse 'im an' drive 'im erway.
"Atter he got ober his grievin' spell he 'mence ter wonder w'at Mars
Marrabo meant by callin' 'im yaller, an' ez long ez nobody didn' seem
ter keer whuther dey seed 'im er not, he went down by de crick in broad
daylight, an' kneel down by de water an' looked at his face. Fus' he
didn' reco'nize hisse'f an' glanshed back ter see ef dey wa'n't somebody
lookin' ober his shoulder--but dey wa'n't. An' w'en he looked back in de
water he seed de same thing--he wa'n't black no mo', but had turnt ter a
light yaller.
"Ben didn' knowed w'at ter make er it fer a minute er so. Fus' he 'lowed
he must hab de yaller fever, er de yaller janders, er sump'n lak dat'!
But he had knowed rale dark folks ter hab janders befo', and it hadn't
nebber 'fected 'em dat-a-way. But bimeby he got up o'ff'n 'is han's an'
knees an' wuz stan'in' lookin' ober de crick at de clay-bank, an'
wond'rin ef de clay he'd b'en eat'n' hadn' turnt 'im yaller w'en he
heared sump'n say jes' ez plain ez wo'ds.
"'Turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay!'
"He looked all roun', but he couldn' see nobody but a big bullfrog
settin' on a log on de yuther side er de crick. An' w'en he turnt roun'
an' sta'ted back in de woods, he heared de same thing behin' 'im.
"'Turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay!'
"Dem wo'ds kep' ringin' in 'is yeahs 'til he fin'lly 'lowed dey wuz
boun' ter be so, er e'se dey wouldn' a b'en tol ter 'im, an' dat he had
libbed on clay so long an' had eat so much, dat he must 'a' jes nach'ly
turnt ter clay!"
"Imperious Caesar, turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away,"
I murmured parenthentically.
"Yas, suh," said the old man, "turnt ter clay. But you's mistook in de
name, suh; hit wuz Ben, you 'member, not Caesar. Ole Mars Marrabo did
hab a nigger name' Caesar, but dat wuz anudder one."
"Don't interrupt him, John," said my wife impatiently. "What happened
then, Julius?"
"Well, po' Ben didn' know w'at ter do. He had be'n lonesome ernuff
befo', but now he didn' eben hab his own se'f ter 'so'ciate wid, fer he
felt mo' lak a stranger 'n he did lak Ben. In a day er so mo' he 'mence
ter wonder whuther he wuz libbin' er not. He had hearn 'bout folks
turnin' ter clay w'en dey wuz dead, an' he 'lowed maybe he wuz dead an'
didn' knowed it, an' dat wuz de reason w'y eve'body run erway f'm 'im
an' wouldn' hab nuffin' ter do wid 'im. An' ennyhow, he 'lowed ef he
wa'n't dead, he mought's well be. He wande'ed roun' a day er so mo', an'
fin'lly de lonesomeness, an' de sleepin' out in de woods, 'mongs' de
snakes an' sco'pions, an' not habbin' nuffin' fit ter eat, 'mence ter
tell on him, mo' an' mo', an' he kep' gittin' weakah an' weakah 'til one
day, w'en he went down by de crick fer ter git a drink er water, he
foun' his limbs gittin' so stiff hit 'uz all he could do ter crawl up on
de bank an' lay down in de sun. He laid dere 'til he died, an' de sun
beat down on 'im, an' beat down on 'im, an' beat down on 'im, fer th'ee
er fo' days, 'til it baked 'im as ha'd as a brick. An' den a big win'
come erlong an' blowed a tree down, an' it fell on 'im an' smashed 'im
all ter pieces, an' groun' 'im ter powder. An' den a big rain come
erlong, an' washed 'im in de crick, 'an eber sence den de water in dat
crick's b'en jes' as yer sees it now. An dat wuz de een' er po' lonesome
Ben, an' dat's de reason w'y I knows dat clay'll make brick an' w'y I
doan nebber lak ter see no black folks eat'n it."
My wife came of a family of reformers, who could never contemplate an
evil without seeking an immediate remedy. When I decided that the bank
of edible clay was not fit for brickmaking, she asked me if I would not
have it carted away, suggesting at the same time that it could be used
to fill a low place in another part of the plantation.
"It would be too expensive," I said.
"Oh, no," she replied, "I don't think so. I have been talking with Uncle
Julius about it, and he says he has a nephew who is out of employment,
and who will take the contract for ten dollars, if you will furnish the
mule and cart, and board him while the job lasts."
As I had no desire to add another permanent member to my household, I
told her it would be useless; that if the people did not get clay there
they would find it elsewhere, and perhaps an inferior quality which
might do greater harm, and that the best way to stop them from eating it
was to teach them self-respect, when she had opportunity, and those
habits of industry and thrift whereby they could get their living from
the soil in a manner less direct but more commendable.
Superstitions and Folk-Lore of the South
During a recent visit to North Carolina, after a long absence, I took
occasion to inquire into the latter-day prevalence of the old-time
belief in what was known as "conjuration" or "goopher," my childish
recollection of which I have elsewhere embodied into a number of
stories. The derivation of the word "goopher" I do not know, nor whether
any other writer than myself has recognized its existence, though it is
in frequent use in certain parts of the South. The origin of this
curious superstition itself is perhaps more easily traceable. It
probably grew, in the first place, out of African fetichism which was
brought over from the dark continent along with the dark people. Certain
features, too, suggest a distant affinity with Voodooism, or snake
worship, a cult which seems to have been indigenous to tropical America.
These beliefs, which in the place of their origin had all the sanctions
of religion and social custom, became, in the shadow of the white man's
civilization, a pale reflection of their former selves. In time, too,
they were mingled and confused with the witchcraft and ghost lore of the
white man, and the tricks and delusions of the Indian conjurer. In the
old plantation days they flourished vigorously, though discouraged by
the "great house," and their potency was well established among the
blacks and the poorer whites. Education, however, has thrown the ban of
disrepute upon witchcraft and conjuration. The stern frown of the
preacher, who looks upon superstition as the ally of the Evil One; the
scornful sneer of the teacher, who sees in it a part of the livery of
bondage, have driven this quaint combination of ancestral traditions to
the remote chimney corners of old black aunties, from which it is
difficult for the stranger to unearth them. Mr. Harris, in his Uncle
Remus stories, has, with fine literary discrimination, collected and put
into pleasing and enduring form, the plantation stories which dealt with
animal lore, but so little attention has been paid to those dealing with
so-called conjuration, that they seem in a fair way to disappear,
without leaving a trace behind. The loss may not be very great, but
these vanishing traditions might furnish valuable data for the
sociologist, in the future study of racial development. In writing, a
few years ago, the volume entitled _The Conjure Woman_, I suspect that
I was more influenced by the literary value of the material than by its
sociological bearing, and therefore took, or thought I did, considerable
liberty with my subject. Imagination, however, can only act upon
data--one must have somewhere in his consciousness the ideas which he
puts together to form a connected whole. Creative talent, of whatever
grade, is, in the last analysis, only the power of rearrangement--there
is nothing new under the sun. I was the more firmly impressed with this
thought after I had interviewed half a dozen old women, and a genuine
"conjure doctor;" for I discovered that the brilliant touches, due, I
had thought, to my own imagination, were after all but dormant ideas,
lodged in my childish mind by old Aunt This and old Uncle That, and
awaiting only the spur of imagination to bring them again to the
surface. For instance, in the story, "Hot-foot Hannibal," there figures
a conjure doll with pepper feet. Those pepper feet I regarded as
peculiarly my own, a purely original creation. I heard, only the other
day, in North Carolina, of the consternation struck to the heart of a
certain dark individual, upon finding upon his doorstep a rabbit's
foot--a good omen in itself perhaps--to which a malign influence had
been imparted by tying to one end of it, in the form of a cross, two
small pods of red pepper!
Most of the delusions connected with this belief in conjuration grow out
of mere lack of enlightenment. As primeval men saw a personality behind
every natural phenomenon, and found a god or a devil in wind, rain, and
hail, in lightning, and in storm, so the untaught man or woman who is
assailed by an unusual ache or pain, some strenuous symptom of serious
physical disorder, is prompt to accept the suggestion, which tradition
approves, that some evil influence is behind his discomfort; and what
more natural than to conclude that some rival in business or in love has
set this force in motion?
Relics of ancestral barbarism are found among all peoples, but advanced
civilization has at least shaken off the more obvious absurdities of
superstition. We no longer attribute insanity to demoniac possession,
nor suppose that a king's touch can cure scrofula. To many old people
in the South, however, any unusual ache or pain is quite as likely to
have been caused by some external evil influence as by natural causes.
Tumors, sudden swellings due to inflammatory rheumatism or the bites of
insects, are especially open to suspicion. Paralysis is proof positive
of conjuration. If there is any doubt, the "conjure doctor" invariably
removes it. The credulity of ignorance is his chief stock in
trade--there is no question, when he is summoned, but that the patient
has been tricked.
The means of conjuration are as simple as the indications. It is a
condition of all witch stories that there must in some way be contact,
either with the person, or with some object or image intended to
represent the person to be affected; or, if not actual contact, at least
close proximity. The charm is placed under the door-sill, or buried
under the hearth, or hidden in the mattress of the person to be
conjured. It may be a crude attempt to imitate the body of the victim,
or it may consist merely of a bottle, or a gourd, or a little bag,
containing a few rusty nails, crooked pins, or horsehairs. It may be a
mysterious mixture thrown surreptitiously upon the person to be injured,
or merely a line drawn across a road or path, which line it is fatal for
a certain man or woman to cross. I heard of a case of a laboring man who
went two miles out of his way, every morning and evening, while going to
and from his work, to avoid such a line drawn for him by a certain
powerful enemy.
Some of the more gruesome phases of the belief in conjuration suggest
possible poisoning, a knowledge of which baleful art was once supposed
to be widespread among the imported Negroes of the olden time. The blood
or venom of snakes, spiders, and lizards is supposed to be employed for
this purpose. The results of its administration are so peculiar,
however, and so entirely improbable, that one is supposed to doubt even
the initial use of poison, and figure it in as part of the same general
delusion. For instance, a certain man "swelled up all over" and became
"pieded," that is, pied or spotted. A white physician who was summoned
thought that the man thus singularly afflicted was poisoned, but did not
recognize the poison nor know the antidote. A conjure doctor,
subsequently called in, was more prompt in his diagnosis. The man, he
said, was poisoned with a lizard, which at that very moment was lodged
somewhere in the patient's anatomy. The lizards and snakes in these
stories, by the way, are not confined to the usual ducts and cavities of
the human body, but seem to have freedom of movement throughout the
whole structure. This lizard, according to the "doctor," would start
from the man's shoulder, descend to his hand, return to the shoulder,
and pass down the side of the body to the leg. When it reached the calf
of the leg the lizard's head would appear right under the skin. After it
had been perceptible for three days the lizard was to be cut out with a
razor, or the man would die. Sure enough, the lizard manifested its
presence in the appointed place at the appointed time; but the patient
would not permit the surgery, and at the end of three days paid with
death the penalty of his obstinacy. Old Aunt Harriet told me, with
solemn earnestness, that she herself had taken a snake from her own arm,
in sections, after a similar experience. Old Harriet may have been
lying, but was, I imagine, merely self-deluded. Witches, prior to being
burned, have often confessed their commerce with the Evil One. Why
should Harriet hesitate to relate a simple personal experience which
involved her in no blame whatever?
Old Uncle Jim, a shrewd, hard old sinner, and a palpable fraud, who did
not, I imagine, believe in himself to any great extent, gave me some
private points as to the manner in which these reptiles were thus
transferred to the human system. If a snake or a lizard be killed, and a
few drops of its blood be dried upon a plate or in a gourd, the person
next eating or drinking from the contaminated vessel will soon become
the unwilling landlord of a reptilian tenant. There are other avenues,
too, by which the reptile may gain admittance; but when expelled by the
conjure doctor's arts or medicines, it always leaves at the point where
it entered. This belief may have originally derived its existence from
the fact that certain tropical insects sometimes lay their eggs beneath
the skins of animals, or even of men, from which it is difficult to
expel them until the larvae are hatched. The chico or "jigger" of the
West Indies and the Spanish Main is the most obvious example.