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 constitutes 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 passed and repassed morning and evening, with buckets on their well-cushioned 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 butter beans (fer de ole ’oman don’t never have nothin’ but meat en brade at her house), en den she mus’ finish gittin’ de grass 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 bass, en I jes’ let yo know nun of dese niggers 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 fashin 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 passin’ ’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 multitude, 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 nobody 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 shore 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 nobody—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 nobody else.”

“Is he too feeble to walk about?” I asked.

“Well, ma’am, in ’bout er hour, he mought git as fer frum here as yo gyardin gate yander—hoppin’ long slow on his stick.”

Becky rose and very perfectly imitated the bowed figure and halting gait of the poor old negro. Throwing down the stick she had used, she resumed her seat and her subject, saying; “Sis’ Lizer done er good part by dat ole man. She has him to feed wid er spoon, fer his han’ is dat shakey dat he spills everyt’ing ’fo he gets it ter his mouf. When she goes ter de fiel’ she puts er baskit er co’n by him so he kin muse hisself feedin’ de chicken en ducks.

“Ole folks, yo know, eats mighty often,” said Becky, “en den he mus’ be fed thru de night. Ef she don’t git up en gin him dat cake or some mush en milk, why she cayn’t sleep fer his cryin’—jes’ like er chile.”

“You were telling me, Becky, what occurred at church; suppose you go on with that story,” said I.

“Gawd bless yer soul, honey, dat wan’t no story. I wish I may die dis minit ef I didn’t tell yo de Gawd’s trufe. Oh, yas; I had ris en wus er speakin’ up fer de ’oman, how long I knowed her en so on, en den I said——” she spoke louder, rising and gesticulating: “Brethren, you see dat grass out yander en dat yaller spotted dog er wallerin’ roun’ on it? Well den, yo sees it, en yo sees dat steer er standin’ er little ways off; now dat ox would be eatin’ dat grass ef he warn’t driv away by de dog. Ole Unk’ Jake ain’t no dog. He ain’t dat mean en low down. He done gie Sis’ Lizer er paper signifyin’ his cornsent fer her to take ’nother pardner.

“Een I jes’ went on—‘Bretherin,’ says I, ‘nobody nee’nter talk ’bout no ’dultery neither, fer yo all knows dere want no lawful marryin’ nohow in slave times en Reb times. De scan’lous can’t be no wus en ’tis. Yo mus’ jes’ sider dat Sis’ Lizer wants ter marry, now fer de fust time, en live like er Christon in her ole days. Nobody musn’t hender her in de doin’ of er right t’ing, but let us pray fer de incomin’ uv de Sperit.’

“We mus’ feel fer one another, sez I, ’en none de res’ kin do no better’n Sis’ Lizer. De Word says ef yer right arm defend yo, cut it off, en ef yer right eye ain’t right, pull it out. ‘Bretherin,’ says I, ‘dey ain’t nothin’ ’tall gin dese folks bein’ jined together in dat ar book dar, nor nowhares else.’

“Brudder Primus ’lowed, he did, dat Sis Coleman had thowed mo’ light on do case dan ennybody else, en perceeded ter ax Peter Green ef he wus willin’ en able to help Sis’ Lizer take keer of ole Unk Jake, en he signified he wus; en den everybody wus satisfied en de ceremony wus said over ’em right den en dar, fo’ de preacher tuk his tex’ en preached his sarmont.

“But dis won’t do me,” said Becky. “I mus’ go long en put on my dinner ’fo’ de ole man come ’long en holler fer his vittles. Good-by, Miss Carrie,” said she, rising, “don’t yo forgit yo promised me dat dress yo got on. I wants to put it away ’ginst I die, to be berry’d in. Dat ’min’s me dat Aunt Patsey’s sholey bad off. She cayn’t las’ much longer.”

“You’ve had that woman dying for a week, Becky.”

“No, ma’am, I ain’t had her dyin’! It’s de Lord! If ’twas me diff’unt people would die fum dem dat does die—I tell yer!”