When she went out of my earthly life the peace of G.o.d which pa.s.ses all understanding came down upon me from above, and enwrapped me in an impregnable hiding-place, where I have been hidden ever since. My windows look out only on the unseen and divine side of things; and I see my child in the presence of G.o.d, at rest forever, free from all earth's trials. Whatever may be your experience I know that grief is bitter anguish under any other conditions than these, and the mystery of it is crushing.

"Our blessed Frances gave me your letter to read, and I could echo every word you said about her. She is queen among women and is doing a glorious work, not the least of which is the emanc.i.p.ation of women--coming out on every side. They have far more than they know for which to thank Frances Willard."

To that letter I replied: "If the Heavenly Father takes note of the sparrow's fall, it may be that He put the thought in Miss Willard's mind to ask you to help me; but, dear lady, you are many a day's journey ahead of me in religious experience when, in the presence of the death of your beloved, you can say, 'Thy will be done.' I wish I could, like you, will whatever G.o.d wills.

"I thank you for the account of your Ray, and I thank G.o.d that He created such a Christian mother. Simeon said to Mary: 'Yea, a sword shall pierce through thine own soul also.' Every one who has lost a child has been pierced through and through. In this crisis of my life I am amazed and stupefied by my own capacity for suffering, and actually look upon myself with an awed pity, as I would upon a stranger. How can I yield everything?

I had already buried one lovely daughter in the bloom of life; and I had only one left. I submit because I must. My heart cries out for my child; G.o.d forgive me, but I would call her back to me if I could."

When the time drew near for the annual convention of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, my husband and sons urged that I should go to Detroit, hoping the change of scene and new responsibilities might arouse me from depression. Miss Willard had already written: "My heart turns toward thee in thy desolation. Remember thou hast doting sisters. I believe thy beautiful Clara knows how we rally to thy side, and is glad."

While I was in Detroit, Hannah Whitehall Smith called upon me several times, and talked about my condition of mind, and so inspired me with grat.i.tude that I endeavored to obey every suggestion she made, regardless of the pride and self-sufficiency which is so common with unsatisfied souls. She seemed to have direct access to the Heavenly Father, and laid my case before Him with such simplicity and faith that my heart was deeply touched, and I gained a new knowledge of spiritual relations. When I learned in these latter days, that she had been called to sorrow over her husband "gone before," I wrote to her in loving memory of her former goodness, and received a reply, from Eastnor Castle, where she and Lady Henry Somerset had been engaged in preparing a memorial of Miss Willard, which was issued to the people of Great Britain.

The letter reads: "Your loving sympathy in my last great loss has been most welcome. My dear husband had been a great sufferer for eighteen months, and longed so eagerly to go that no one who loved him could be anything but thankful when his release came. I have been enabled to rejoice in his joy of having entered into the presence of the King. It cannot be long for me at the longest before I shall join him, and until then I am hidden in the Divine fortress of G.o.d's love and care. I love to think that you too are hidden there, dear friend and sister, and that together we may meet in the Divine Presence where there is fulness of joy even in the midst of earthly sorrow.

"Lady Henry joins me in love to you. She is, as we are, very sorry over the loss of our beloved Frances Willard; but G.o.d still lives and reigns, and in Him we can rest without anxiety. I have found Him a very present help in many a time of trouble, and I rejoice to know I was permitted to help you realize this in your hour of sore need."

CHAPTER XV.

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 const.i.tutes 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 pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.ter beans (fer de ole 'oman don't never have nothin' but meat en brade at her house), en den she mus'

finish gittin' de gra.s.s 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 ba.s.s, en I jes' let yo know nun of dese n.i.g.g.e.rs 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 pa.s.sin' '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 mult.i.tude, 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 n.o.body 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 sh.o.r.e 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 n.o.body--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 n.o.body 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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, 'n.o.body 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. n.o.body 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!"

CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE AND THE BLESSED COLORED PEOPLE.

As has been intimated, I became president of the New Orleans W. C. T. U.

not from deep conviction of duty on the temperance question, but because I could not resist the inspirations of Frances Willard's convictions. Once in the work I gave my heart and my conscience to it with such measure of success that in January, 1883, a State convention was called to meet in New Orleans in the hall of the Y. M. C. A. Miss Willard was again present, and was my guest. Rev. W. C. Carter, D. D., pastor of Felicity Street M.

E. Church South, was the knightly brother who stood beside us in this hour when we were without reputation, n.o.bly doing his sworn duty as a soldier of the Cross, to speak the truth and defend the weak. Miss Willard spoke twice in his church. At a table where a number of dignitaries of the church were dining, referring to this event, a friend remarked that Dr.

Carter had said the only time his church was full was on this occasion of Miss Willard's address. "No," the doctor replied, "I did not say that. I said the _first_ time it was full. It was full again--but she filled it!"

There was a peculiar fitness in the time of Miss Willard's early visits to the South. Women who had been fully occupied with the requirements of society and the responsibilities of a dependency of slaves, were now tossed to and fro amidst the exigencies and bewilderments of strange and for the most part painful circ.u.mstances, and were eager that new adjustments should relieve the strained situation, and that they might find out what to do. Frances Willard gave to many of them a holy purpose, directing it into broader fields of spiritual and philanthropic culture than they had ever known. For the local and denominational she subst.i.tuted the vision of humanity. It seemed to me that when Miss Willard and Miss Gordon bravely started out to find a new country they discovered Louisiana, and like Columbus, they set up a religious standard and prayed over it--and organized the W. C. T. U. I was one result of that voyage of discovery. It immersed me in much trouble, care and business--sometimes it seemed as if I had more than my head and hands could hold--unused was I to plans and work and burdens. I prayed to be delivered from too much care unless it might set forward the cause. I was willing "to spend and be spent," but sometimes I felt as if I had mistaken my calling. I only knew that I was on the right road, and tried to look to G.o.d to lead me. Doubts might come to-morrow, but to-day I trusted. In ten years I saw the work established in most of the chief towns of the State, and many men and women afield who had learned the doctrine of total abstinence for the individual and the gospel of prohibition for the commonwealth.

During these years I gathered numerous delightful a.s.sociations in my State work and in my annual attendance upon the conventions of the National W. C. T. U. Among the National workers who aided me greatly in my early work was Mrs. Judith Ellen Foster who, with her husband, was for a week my guest, and spoke in crowded churches. Although I did not wholly sympathize with her when later she withdrew from the National W. C. T. U., our friendly personal relations were never broken. Her brilliant abilities as a temperance worker and as a pioneer woman-member of the bar commanded my respect, and I have not ceased to be grateful for the sustaining power of her inspirations and acts. For the first time in my life, at one of her meetings in New Orleans, I sat in a pulpit--where Bishops Newman and Simpson had officiated--and very peculiar were my feelings in such a place.

Besides Mrs. Foster, Mrs. Mary T. Lathrop, Mrs. Clara C. Hoffman and Mrs.

Hannah Whitehall Smith from National ranks did much to create sentiment for our cause in Louisiana. No speaker in America has excelled Mrs.