On other occasions the lady has something to say on the subject.
“Notice.—I, Edith Phinn, hereby beg to notify the public that my chief cause to leave my husband was this: He has ill-treated me and threatened to shoot me with his revolver, and I am now residing at my families residence, 50 Cumberland Road, Spanish Town.”
I do like “my families residence.”
And yet another indignant lady—
“Notice.—I beg to inform the public that I have not left the care and protection of my husband as stated by him” (I do regret that I missed his advertisement), “and furthermore all his real and personal belongings are for myself and his four children. We are living in his home, I never left it even for a day. So I therefore warn the public not to transact any business with him without my consent.—(Mrs) M. E. Sibblies, Lewis Store, Clonmel, P.O.”
A lady who can take care of herself!
I suppose nobody quite realises what it is that appeals to a man in the woman he takes. Presumably there is usually some strong attraction, and yet there is a story told in Jamaica, a perfectly true story I believe, which makes me feel that some people are either easily satisfied or exceedingly accommodating.
There were brides and grooms and bridesmaids and ushers, and much excitement and confusion and giggling, but the parson went on gravely with the ceremony, trusting by his correct demeanour to bring these dark children of the church to a realisation of the solemnity of the sacrament in which they were taking part. But they would not calm down.
“I think—” he began severely, when the last words had been spoken, but an usher, who had been particularly objectionable, interrupted him, and he gave him the attention now he had denied him during the service.
“But sali, but minister,” stammered the excited gentleman in a high collar, “you's married de wrong woman on to de wrong man!”
Now I, being a common-sense heathen, should have been tempted to say, like the clergyman officiating at Easter-time marriages in the Potteries, when ten or twelve couples are married at once, “Now, sort yourselves.” It seems to me it is the intention that counts. But our clergyman was made of different stuff. He firmly believed he had bound indissolubly men and women who did not desire each other, and in much consternation he retired to his study and sat there with his head in his hands, wondering what on earth he should do.
Meanwhile, the wedding party also discussed the matter. And presently the much-troubled parson heard a tap at his door.
“Come in,” he said gloomily, and in came the wedding parties, all wreathed in smiles.
“Well, minister,” said the spokesman amiably, “we's been tarkin' an' tarkin' an' we's 'greed to mak' ta change!”
And the parson was mightily relieved. He did not understand how lightly matrimony sits upon the negro.
But that surely was nothing to the predicament of the lady who took her baby to be christened, and announced at the font in answer to the question, “How do you name this child?”
“Call de chile Beel-ze-bub.”
“Oh, but that's not a proper name for a child,” cried the horrified minister.
The proud mother looked at him doubtfully.
“But I get him outer de Bible.”
“But I tell you it's a wicked name,” asseverated the minister.
She sighed. All the trouble to be gone through again.
“Den, minister, what I call him?”
“Well, call him John if you want a Bible name. That's in the Bible.”
Still the woman felt vaguely there was something wrong.
“You sure dat good name for him, minister”—very earnestly.
“Oh yes, quite sure,” said the minister, anxious to put as far behind them as possible the dreadful scandal of Beelzebub.
So John the baby was christened, and the mother carried it outside and the minister came out and did the benevolent pastor to her and her friends.
“De chile's name am John,” announced the mother.
“Hoo! John!” snorted a neighbour with more knowledge, “but amn't de piccaninny a gal?” And sure enough she was.
Leonie, being sent on a message, returned nonchalantly and empty-handed.
“But, Leonie, where's the parcel?” Leonie smiled non-committally.
“But, surely, if they didn't give you a parcel they gave you a letter?”
“Oh yes, missus,” agreed Leonie readily, “dey give me a paper but he lose he's self on de way up.” And of course there was no more to be said.
My wrath was as nothing to the wrath of a lady who wanted a pergola made exactly like one she had already that had been up for three or four years and was nicely covered with roses.
She took the negro carpenter and showed him the pergola, measured it under his eyes, gave him the measurements and the lumber, and left him to make another on the other side of the house. Then, alas, she went away for the day. When she came back, to her horror and dismay she found her original pergola, all covered with its nicely-tended creepers—the work of years—had been taken down, stripped of its greenery, laid on the ground, and the thoughtful and careful carpenter was engaged in measuring it so as to make the new one exactly like it! What she said I don't know, but incidents like this help me to understand the punishments the slaves received of yore.
This same woman's husband happened to say casually to his carter that he would want him to go into Montego Bay, 16 miles away, the next day. Next day he found carter and team missing, and could only use bad language. They did not return till long after dark.
“Well, boss,” said the driver cheerfully, “I been to Kerr's, an' I been to Hart's, an' I been to—” and he mentioned half a dozen places—“an' I wait an' wait, an' I wait, an' I go back an' dey none get nothen' for yous.''
“Why, you fool,” said his angry master, “you ought to have come to me, I had something I wanted you to take into town.”
After all, the uneducated negro is not the only fool in the world, and though I laugh, I feel very kindly towards the sinners.
But, sometimes, their foolishness harmed themselves, though I am bound to say that was not their view of the case.
One of my neighbours, a very kindly American, being told by her boy that he wanted to go off early on Christmas Day, thoughtfully asked him if he would then rather have the money instead of the Christmas dinner. He considered a moment, and to her surprise elected to have the dinner.
On Christmas Day, immediately after the first breakfast, which is very early in the tropics—seldom after seven, often long before—she went into the kitchen to give her orders for the day, and there to her great surprise she saw her boy tucking into his Christmas dinner which the cook had cooked for him.
“Me eating it now, missus,” he explained with a grin.
“But, Howard!” cried the lady, “how can you possibly eat your dinner immediately after breakfast?”
“Wanting a long day,” he explained, and the explanation seemed to him perfectly natural.
His mistress knew that boy. There is a negro pudding made of grated coconut, coconut milk, corn-meal and sugar, baked. Not a bad pudding if a little is taken, but Howard one day got outside a large pie-dish full, and then came rubbing his stomach and groaning to his mistress.
“Why, Howard,” she said a little severely, “I should think you did have indigestion. Why didn't you put half that pudding away till to-morrow?”
“Ah, missus,” he said, “when he in dish, pudding hab two masters. Now———” No, words were unnecessary. He'd certainly got that pudding.
I suppose his case was on a par with that of the woman servant in the same place who, usually going barefoot, appeared on that same Christmas morning of 1920 in a pair of elaborate boots, very high-heeled and much too small for her. She could hardly totter when she came to wish her master and mistress a happy Christmas before setting out on her holiday. Her mistress said nothing. She had exhausted herself over Howard, but her husband, the old doctor, took it upon himself to remonstrate.
“Oh, Alice, how can you wear such boots!”
“Ony for to-day, doctor,” she said insinuatingly, “on'y jus' for to-day!” A long holiday meant for enjoyment, in boots too tight for her, with heels raised at least a couple of inches—imagine the agony of it.
But if the ignorant negro is foolish, his foolishness is as nothing sometimes to that of the white man who sets out to help and improve him.
Britain is not always wise in the Governors she chooses, though the Governor in a small community is a powerful means to good. There was one wellmeaning man in an island that shall be nameless, who was certainly most desirous to help the black people, therefore it occurred to him one day to send a telegram to a rich planter of his acquaintance, asking him to come and see him as he had something of importance to discuss with him. Now, a request from a Governor is almost a royal command, but our planter knew his Governor. He was busy, and he did not there and then dash off and travel the many miles that lay between him and Government House. Still, since his estate was a long way off, he came at some inconvenience to himself.
And the first greetings over:
“You have the welfare of your people at heart, Mr————?”
“Surely, sir.”
“I wanted to know—would you be prepared to put up a picture show?”
“On my place, sir?”
“Why, yes, of course, for the benefit of your hands.”
“But—but——I'm at least five-and-twenty miles from the port, and the port is at least six days from New York, and——”
“Yes, of course, I know that.”
“And where am I to get fresh pictures?”
The Governor looked attentive.
“They would come to the first show,” explained the planter patiently, “and enjoy it, they would come to the second night, the third night they'd grumble, and after that they'd laugh at me for a fool.”
“H'm—ha—h'm. Well, what about dancing? They're fond of dancing?”
“Of course.”
“Would you put them up a dancing hall?”
“With a floor?”
“Of course.”
And the planter sighed again for his wasted time, for everyone—except this Governor apparently—knows that the West Indian negro dances every night of his life very happily on the bare earth by the light of the stars or the moon! And I agree with the planter such exercise is a great deal more wholesome taken in the fresh air as the plantation hands are content to take it.
That planter went home an angry man, and he was met by his still more angry head man, who had taken his boots to be mended.
“Massa—massa—” he stammered furiously, “dat man—dat tief—boots no mended—he wearing dem. Massa—massa, can I have him up for breach of promise?”
But if anyone is really interested in peasant life in Jamaica he should read the books of Herbert de Lisser, C.M.G., whose country will some day be deeply grateful to him that he has—among other things he has done for her—portrayed to the life a type that is rapidly passing away.
Mr Harrison, the Custos of Manchester, tells me that the negro is becoming proud. It is the first step upward. He will not always beg, however great his need. He will not if he can help it acknowledge his poverty. He told me how upon one of his sugar estates he found that for some time the cook he had engaged to cook for the working women, who were supposed to provide the material for breakfast, had nothing to do. The women had no food to be cooked. But they never complained, hungry they quietly went to work. He therefore instructed his “busha” to supply yams or plantains or cocos and coconut oil sufficient for a good breakfast for each woman. They accepted it gratefully, and they did a far better day's work afterwards. This same gentleman told me how the little children are like their parents, becoming proud and self-respecting. They are very poor in that parish where a former wasteful generation has denuded the mountains of trees to grow coffee, and so interfered with the rainfall—but do you think the children are going to acknowledge their poverty? Oh, they have taken their dinners to school, and if you doubt it, they hold up their little tin pails proudly. Not for worlds would they take off the cover and show that inside is that most uninteresting of all foods, cold boiled yam and not, I am afraid, sometimes enough of that.
No one will ever taunt such women and children with being servile. Never!
As I write this, I come across an extract from an old writer on the negro slave which is worth quoting, the contrast is so great.
“Negroes,” he says, “are crafty, artful, plausible, not often grateful for small services, deceitful, overreaching... they are avaricious and selfish, giving all the plague they can to their white rulers, little ashamed of falsehood and even strongly addicted to theft.” But still even he admits “he has some good qualities mingled with his unamiable ones. He is patient, cheerful and commonly submissive, capable at times of grateful attachments where uniformly well treated, and kind and affectionate towards his kindred and offspring.” And he goes on to say how tender are the negro mothers. In fact, even he had to acknowledge that the great bulk of the negroes were beyond the master's observation, and we of later date can see for ourselves that the faults he complains of are not peculiar to negroes, but are the common faults of the slave.
As yet, however, the man of African race is often something of a slavish imitator of things European. He struts and boasts of his progress exactly as children do. After all, he has had such a toilsome way to climb since Britain bestowed upon him freedom and poverty, is it to be wondered at if occasionally he has gone a little astray.
A little while ago the Hon. Marcus Garvey visited Jamaica, and black Jamaica celebrated his arrival by a full page advertisement in theGleanerwith a very large picture—a little smeared in the printing—of the gentleman in question, the most noticeable feature of which was his large expanse of white waistcoat.
“Big Meetings & Concerts” (announced the advertisement in largest type) “Arranged All Over the Island to Hear Hon. Marcus Garvey. Elected Provisional President of Africa, President General of the Universal Negro Improvement Association and” (oh bathos!) “President of the Black Star Line Steamship Corporation.
“He will be in Jamaica nine days and will speak as follows———”
And then a list is given of the places at which he will speak, and the subjects on which he will speak, and it also announces that as President General of his Association he will appear on these nights in his robes of office.
At the bottom of the page it says in large type that Marcus Garvey was elected by twenty-five thousand delegates to the World Convention of Negroes in New York last summer as the First Provisional President of Africa.
This is delicious! I don't want to laugh at the black man, but I think it's a serious clog on his upward career to elect Presidents in this casual manner. I have seen the only attempt at modern civilised government in Africa by the black man, and I can only condemn it as a dismal failure, why, then, should the men of negro descent take upon themselves to elect for the negroes in Africa a President without a with or by your leave. It is really much as if the Americans in New York decided to elect a President General of Europe or Asia without reference to the feelings of the peoples of those continents. Of course, it may be merely a term of endearment—if so, I have nothing to say against it. Everybody to their taste. President of the Negro Improvement Association is quite another matter. We all wish that society well, so well we would not have it weakened by any comic opera blandishments, and President of the Black Star Line is quite legitimate, even though it is a little—well—just a little consequential, for the “Black Star Line” is composed as yet of but one steamer, theYarmouth, under 1000 tons. The first time she came into Kingston harbour, black Kingston went hysterical with delight. That a ship should sail with a black captain, and manned by a black crew, seemed to it an amazing thing. When the dark man makes a fuss over a ship run by his own people, he is saying in effect—“We are children as yet, but you see we are growing up. We are coming into our own.”
It seems to me the negro's great fault is that he is bombastic and claims too much. Marcus Garvey and his crowd are I suppose the natural reaction from the years of ghastly slavery, when a black man could not even own himself. Of course we only notice those who come strutting ridiculously before the footlights. I know there is many and many a negro as decent, upright, and self-respecting a man as his white confrère, but the trouble is we do not notice him beside his more boastful brother.
That the negro does want his interests looking after I have not the slightest doubt. Our servants used to come to Eva who was clever with her needle to cut out their clothes for them, and it was wicked to see the stuff which those poor girls, whose pay was only 6s. and 7s. a week, used to buy at ridiculously high prices. I have seen 1s. 6d. and 1s. 9d. a yard paid for unbleached calico that could not possibly have cost the seller 1 1/2d. a yard. And it had been bought at a negro shop, they were, in fact, imposed upon by men of their race.
How these things are to be corrected I know not. Education I suppose, and education we must remember is not the mere teaching of reading and writing. I am sorry to say I doubt sometimes if the authorities in Jamaica are giving the Jamaican the best education that they can.
“Dear Mrs———— is so good.” That is, good for the negroes. They wouldn't even ask her to dinner because she is not amusing. They would laugh very much at the idea of themselves subscribing to her standards of life.
No wonder we get inflated gentlemen proclaiming themselves “Provisional President of Africa!”
For the negro is capable of better things. It is a great shame that certain of his numbers should make him a laughing-stock.
When first the idea of contingents of West Indian soldiers for the World War was mooted, there was opposition. It would be such a bad thing for the negro, it would give him an extravagant idea of his own value, the country on the return of its soldiers might look forward to discontent in a certain section, might even fear outrage and rapine.
But I think the contrary has been the case. Exceptions of course there must have been. I should not like to set out to count the exceptions among the white returned soldiers, but the average Jamaican soldier settled down quietly to his work in his own country, worked all the better because he had been counted a citizen of the Empire, was proud that his thews and sinews had helped mightily in the great struggle, was glad to be received at last on equal terms by men of the colour that so long had held him in bondage.
I hold, and hold very strongly, that the very first step in the upraising of either a man or a people is the cultivation of proper pride.
Read this letter I received from a doctor in the Cameroons during the war—
“Certainly the wickedest three hours,” he wrote concerning a night attack up country, “I ever put in.” We could not guess the range in the cloudy moonlight. The Germans held a hill, we had not a scrap of cover, the breast-high grass prevented charging, and also made the men stand up to shoot. By 6.30 a.m. the Germans cleared out precipitately, leaving us in possession of a very good camp.
“The men were splendid. Tmoru Calfa, a sergeant-major, shot through the spine high up, lay down by his section and controlled their fire. He died next day. His was only one instance of their conduct.”
When the Great Roll is called, not among the least surely will be found the name of that sergeant, pagan from the north of the Gold Coast, who, being shot high up in the spine, lay down beside his men, controlled their firing and died next day. Not the Unknown Warrior buried in Westminster Abbey could have done more.
Which man will the negro race in future years think upon more gladly as its representative, Marcus Garvey or Tmoru Calfa?
The coming of the negro race to the New World marks a most extraordinary phase in the world's history. They came unwillingly as slaves, and as slaves they were held with all the ignominy inseparable from that condition. Of the race in America I know nothing save what little I have seen in the streets of New Orleans, where they seem as far apart from the ruling race as the mountain tops in Jamaica are from the river-beds. But in Jamaica, whatever there may have been in the old days, there is now no such cleft. There is, of course, a difference, but it is a difference that is passing, that will pass as the years go on and the dark man fits himself to take his place in the world as the social equal of the white.
Already he sits in the Legislature. He has come a long, long way up from the chained savage brought in the slave ships. I hope that if a dark man reads this book he will not think unkindly of me for writing as if there were a difference between black and white. There is, it would be foolish to ignore it, but it is only the difference of education and training. We must remember that in past ages the Anglo-Saxon stood in the market-place in Rome chained and in slavery, that blue eyes and flaxen hair marked the savage, and dark complexion and black eyes the civilised man. The time of servitude of the black man is a little closer. He has to come up the same stony path that the white man trod, and he will do it more easily and more quickly—he is doing it—because the white man has prepared the way.
And I say that deliberately, knowing all the hardships that the white man has inflicted, for when I talk of the time of servitude of the blacks in the West Indies, you, my readers, will do me the justice to own that I have by no means glossed over the crudities and the foolishness and the brutality of men of my own colour. But the world is changing, changing fast. It is a better place to live in in this twentieth century, it will be a better place still as the years roll on, and the black man like the white will come into his own.