As the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am black,
Because the sun hath looked upon me:
My mother's children were angry with me;
They made me the keeper of the vineyards;
But mine own vineyard have I not kept.
THE SONG OF SOLOMON.
Out of the North the train thundered, and we woke to see the crimson2 soil of Georgia stretching away bare and monotonous3 right and left. Here and there lay straggling, unlovely villages, and lean men loafed leisurely4 at the depots5; then again came the stretch of pines and clay. Yet we did not nod, nor weary of the scene; for this is historic ground. Right across our track, three hundred and sixty years ago, wandered the cavalcade6 of Hernando de Soto, looking for gold and the Great Sea; and he and his foot-sore captives disappeared yonder in the grim forests to the west. Here sits Atlanta, the city of a hundred hills, with something Western, something Southern, and something quite its own, in its busy life. Just this side Atlanta is the land of the Cherokees and to the southwest, not far from where Sam Hose was crucified, you may stand on a spot which is to-day the centre of the Negro problem,—the centre of those nine million men who are America's dark heritage from slavery and the slave-trade.
Not only is Georgia thus the geographical7 focus of our Negro population, but in many other respects, both now and yesterday, the Negro problems have seemed to be centered in this State. No other State in the union can count a million Negroes among its citizens,—a population as large as the slave population of the whole union in 1800; no other State fought so long and strenuously8 to gather this host of Africans. Oglethorpe thought slavery against law and gospel; but the circumstances which gave Georgia its first inhabitants were not calculated to furnish citizens over-nice in their ideas about rum and slaves. Despite the prohibitions9 of the trustees, these Georgians, like some of their descendants, proceeded to take the law into their own hands; and so pliant11 were the judges, and so flagrant the smuggling12, and so earnest were the prayers of Whitefield, that by the middle of the eighteenth century all restrictions13 were swept away, and the slave-trade went merrily on for fifty years and more.
Down in Darien, where the Delegal riots took place some summers ago, there used to come a strong protest against slavery from the Scotch14 Highlanders; and the Moravians of Ebenezer did not like the system. But not till the Haytian Terror of Toussaint was the trade in men even checked; while the national statute15 of 1808 did not suffice to stop it. How the Africans poured in!—fifty thousand between 1790 and 1810, and then, from Virginia and from smugglers, two thousand a year for many years more. So the thirty thousand Negroes of Georgia in 1790 doubled in a decade,—were over a hundred thousand in 1810, had reached two hundred thousand in 1820, and half a million at the time of the war. Thus like a snake the black population writhed16 upward.
But we must hasten on our journey. This that we pass as we near Atlanta is the ancient land of the Cherokees,—that brave Indian nation which strove so long for its fatherland, until Fate and the United States Government drove them beyond the Mississippi. If you wish to ride with me you must come into the "Jim Crow Car." There will be no objection,—already four other white men, and a little white girl with her nurse, are in there. Usually the races are mixed in there; but the white coach is all white. Of course this car is not so good as the other, but it is fairly clean and comfortable. The discomfort17 lies chiefly in the hearts of those four black men yonder—and in mine.
We rumble18 south in quite a business-like way. The bare red clay and pines of Northern Georgia begin to disappear, and in their place appears a rich rolling land, luxuriant, and here and there well tilled. This is the land of the Creek19 Indians; and a hard time the Georgians had to seize it. The towns grow more frequent and more interesting, and brand-new cotton mills rise on every side. Below Macon the world grows darker; for now we approach the Black Belt,—that strange land of shadows, at which even slaves paled in the past, and whence come now only faint and half-intelligible murmurs20 to the world beyond. The "Jim Crow Car" grows larger and a shade better; three rough field-hands and two or three white loafers accompany us, and the newsboy still spreads his wares21 at one end. The sun is setting, but we can see the great cotton country as we enter it,—the soil now dark and fertile, now thin and gray, with fruit-trees and dilapidated buildings,—all the way to Albany.
At Albany, in the heart of the Black Belt, we stop. Two hundred miles south of Atlanta, two hundred miles west of the Atlantic, and one hundred miles north of the Great Gulf22 lies Dougherty County, with ten thousand Negroes and two thousand whites. The Flint River winds down from Andersonville, and, turning suddenly at Albany, the county-seat, hurries on to join the Chattahoochee and the sea. Andrew Jackson knew the Flint well, and marched across it once to avenge24 the Indian Massacre25 at Fort Mims. That was in 1814, not long before the battle of New Orleans; and by the Creek treaty that followed this campaign, all Dougherty County, and much other rich land, was ceded27 to Georgia. Still, settlers fought shy of this land, for the Indians were all about, and they were unpleasant neighbors in those days. The panic of 1837, which Jackson bequeathed to Van Buren, turned the planters from the impoverished28 lands of Virginia, the Carolinas, and east Georgia, toward the West. The Indians were removed to Indian Territory, and settlers poured into these coveted29 lands to retrieve30 their broken fortunes. For a radius31 of a hundred miles about Albany, stretched a great fertile land, luxuriant with forests of pine, oak, ash, hickory, and poplar; hot with the sun and damp with the rich black swamp-land; and here the corner-stone of the Cotton Kingdom was laid.
Albany is to-day a wide-streeted, placid32, Southern town, with a broad sweep of stores and saloons, and flanking rows of homes,—whites usually to the north, and blacks to the south. Six days in the week the town looks decidedly too small for itself, and takes frequent and prolonged naps. But on Saturday suddenly the whole county disgorges itself upon the place, and a perfect flood of black peasantry pours through the streets, fills the stores, blocks the sidewalks, chokes the thoroughfares, and takes full possession of the town. They are black, sturdy, uncouth33 country folk, good-natured and simple, talkative to a degree, and yet far more silent and brooding than the crowds of the Rhine-pfalz, or Naples, or Cracow. They drink considerable quantities of whiskey, but do not get very drunk; they talk and laugh loudly at times, but seldom quarrel or fight. They walk up and down the streets, meet and gossip with friends, stare at the shop windows, buy coffee, cheap candy, and clothes, and at dusk drive home—happy? well no, not exactly happy, but much happier than as though they had not come.
Thus Albany is a real capital,—a typical Southern county town, the centre of the life of ten thousand souls; their point of contact with the outer world, their centre of news and gossip, their market for buying and selling, borrowing and lending, their fountain of justice and law. Once upon a time we knew country life so well and city life so little, that we illustrated34 city life as that of a closely crowded country district. Now the world has well-nigh forgotten what the country is, and we must imagine a little city of black people scattered35 far and wide over three hundred lonesome square miles of land, without train or trolley37, in the midst of cotton and corn, and wide patches of sand and gloomy soil.
It gets pretty hot in Southern Georgia in July,—a sort of dull, determined38 heat that seems quite independent of the sun; so it took us some days to muster39 courage enough to leave the porch and venture out on the long country roads, that we might see this unknown world. Finally we started. It was about ten in the morning, bright with a faint breeze, and we jogged leisurely southward in the valley of the Flint. We passed the scattered box-like cabins of the brickyard hands, and the long tenement-row facetiously40 called "The Ark," and were soon in the open country, and on the confines of the great plantations42 of other days. There is the "Joe Fields place"; a rough old fellow was he, and had killed many a "nigger" in his day. Twelve miles his plantation41 used to run,—a regular barony. It is nearly all gone now; only straggling bits belong to the family, and the rest has passed to Jews and Negroes. Even the bits which are left are heavily mortgaged, and, like the rest of the land, tilled by tenants44. Here is one of them now,—a tall brown man, a hard worker and a hard drinker, illiterate46, but versed47 in farmlore, as his nodding crops declare. This distressingly48 new board house is his, and he has just moved out of yonder moss49-grown cabin with its one square room.
From the curtains in Benton's house, down the road, a dark comely face is staring at the strangers; for passing carriages are not every-day occurrences here. Benton is an intelligent yellow man with a good-sized family, and manages a plantation blasted by the war and now the broken staff of the widow. He might be well-to-do, they say; but he carouses50 too much in Albany. And the half-desolate spirit of neglect born of the very soil seems to have settled on these acres. In times past there were cotton-gins and machinery51 here; but they have rotted away.
The whole land seems forlorn and forsaken52. Here are the remnants of the vast plantations of the Sheldons, the Pellots, and the Rensons; but the souls of them are passed. The houses lie in half ruin, or have wholly disappeared; the fences have flown, and the families are wandering in the world. Strange vicissitudes53 have met these whilom masters. Yonder stretch the wide acres of Bildad Reasor; he died in war-time, but the upstart overseer hastened to wed26 the widow. Then he went, and his neighbors too, and now only the black tenant45 remains54; but the shadow-hand of the master's grand-nephew or cousin or creditor55 stretches out of the gray distance to collect the rack-rent remorselessly, and so the land is uncared-for and poor. Only black tenants can stand such a system, and they only because they must. Ten miles we have ridden to-day and have seen no white face.
A resistless feeling of depression falls slowly upon us, despite the gaudy56 sunshine and the green cottonfields. This, then, is the Cotton Kingdom,—the shadow of a marvellous dream. And where is the King? Perhaps this is he,—the sweating ploughman, tilling his eighty acres with two lean mules57, and fighting a hard battle with debt. So we sit musing59, until, as we turn a corner on the sandy road, there comes a fairer scene suddenly in view,—a neat cottage snugly60 ensconced by the road, and near it a little store. A tall bronzed man rises from the porch as we hail him, and comes out to our carriage. He is six feet in height, with a sober face that smiles gravely. He walks too straight to be a tenant,—yes, he owns two hundred and forty acres. "The land is run down since the boom-days of eighteen hundred and fifty," he explains, and cotton is low. Three black tenants live on his place, and in his little store he keeps a small stock of tobacco, snuff, soap, and soda62, for the neighborhood. Here is his gin-house with new machinery just installed. Three hundred bales of cotton went through it last year. Two children he has sent away to school. Yes, he says sadly, he is getting on, but cotton is down to four cents; I know how Debt sits staring at him.
Wherever the King may be, the parks and palaces of the Cotton Kingdom have not wholly disappeared. We plunge63 even now into great groves65 of oak and towering pine, with an undergrowth of myrtle and shrubbery. This was the "home-house" of the Thompsons,—slave-barons66 who drove their coach and four in the merry past. All is silence now, and ashes, and tangled67 weeds. The owner put his whole fortune into the rising cotton industry of the fifties, and with the falling prices of the eighties he packed up and stole away. Yonder is another grove64, with unkempt lawn, great magnolias, and grass-grown paths. The Big House stands in half-ruin, its great front door staring blankly at the street, and the back part grotesquely68 restored for its black tenant. A shabby, well-built Negro he is, unlucky and irresolute69. He digs hard to pay rent to the white girl who owns the remnant of the place. She married a policeman, and lives in Savannah.
Now and again we come to churches. Here is one now,—Shepherd's, they call it,—a great whitewashed70 barn of a thing, perched on stilts71 of stone, and looking for all the world as though it were just resting here a moment and might be expected to waddle72 off down the road at almost any time. And yet it is the centre of a hundred cabin homes; and sometimes, of a Sunday, five hundred persons from far and near gather here and talk and eat and sing. There is a schoolhouse near,—a very airy, empty shed; but even this is an improvement, for usually the school is held in the church. The churches vary from log-huts to those like Shepherd's, and the schools from nothing to this little house that sits demurely73 on the county line. It is a tiny plank-house, perhaps ten by twenty, and has within a double row of rough unplaned benches, resting mostly on legs, sometimes on boxes. Opposite the door is a square home-made desk. In one corner are the ruins of a stove, and in the other a dim blackboard. It is the cheerfulest schoolhouse I have seen in Dougherty, save in town. Back of the schoolhouse is a lodgehouse two stories high and not quite finished. Societies meet there,—societies "to care for the sick and bury the dead"; and these societies grow and flourish.
We had come to the boundaries of Dougherty, and were about to turn west along the county-line, when all these sights were pointed74 out to us by a kindly75 old man, black, white-haired, and seventy. Forty-five years he had lived here, and now supports himself and his old wife by the help of the steer76 tethered yonder and the charity of his black neighbors. He shows us the farm of the Hills just across the county line in Baker,—a widow and two strapping77 sons, who raised ten bales (one need not add "cotton" down here) last year. There are fences and pigs and cows, and the soft-voiced, velvet-skinned young Memnon, who sauntered half-bashfully over to greet the strangers, is proud of his home. We turn now to the west along the county line. Great dismantled78 trunks of pines tower above the green cottonfields, cracking their naked gnarled fingers toward the border of living forest beyond. There is little beauty in this region, only a sort of crude abandon that suggests power,—a naked grandeur79, as it were. The houses are bare and straight; there are no hammocks or easy-chairs, and few flowers. So when, as here at Rawdon's, one sees a vine clinging to a little porch, and home-like windows peeping over the fences, one takes a long breath. I think I never before quite realized the place of the Fence in civilization. This is the Land of the Unfenced, where crouch80 on either hand scores of ugly one-room cabins, cheerless and dirty. Here lies the Negro problem in its naked dirt and penury81. And here are no fences. But now and then the crisscross rails or straight palings break into view, and then we know a touch of culture is near. Of course Harrison Gohagen,—a quiet yellow man, young, smooth-faced, and diligent,—of course he is lord of some hundred acres, and we expect to see a vision of well-kept rooms and fat beds and laughing children. For has he not fine fences? And those over yonder, why should they build fences on the rack-rented land? It will only increase their rent.
On we wind, through sand and pines and glimpses of old plantations, till there creeps into sight a cluster of buildings,—wood and brick, mills and houses, and scattered cabins. It seemed quite a village. As it came nearer and nearer, however, the aspect changed: the buildings were rotten, the bricks were falling out, the mills were silent, and the store was closed. Only in the cabins appeared now and then a bit of lazy life. I could imagine the place under some weird82 spell, and was half-minded to search out the princess. An old ragged83 black man, honest, simple, and improvident84, told us the tale. The Wizard of the North—the Capitalist—had rushed down in the seventies to woo this coy dark soil. He bought a square mile or more, and for a time the field-hands sang, the gins groaned86, and the mills buzzed. Then came a change. The agent's son embezzled87 the funds and ran off with them. Then the agent himself disappeared. Finally the new agent stole even the books, and the company in wrath88 closed its business and its houses, refused to sell, and let houses and furniture and machinery rust10 and rot. So the Waters-Loring plantation was stilled by the spell of dishonesty, and stands like some gaunt rebuke89 to a scarred land.
Somehow that plantation ended our day's journey; for I could not shake off the influence of that silent scene. Back toward town we glided90, past the straight and thread-like pines, past a dark tree-dotted pond where the air was heavy with a dead sweet perfume. White slender-legged curlews flitted by us, and the garnet blooms of the cotton looked gay against the green and purple stalks. A peasant girl was hoeing in the field, white-turbaned and black-limbed. All this we saw, but the spell still lay upon us.
How curious a land is this,—how full of untold91 story, of tragedy and laughter, and the rich legacy92 of human life; shadowed with a tragic93 past, and big with future promise! This is the Black Belt of Georgia. Dougherty County is the west end of the Black Belt, and men once called it the Egypt of the Confederacy. It is full of historic interest. First there is the Swamp, to the west, where the Chickasawhatchee flows sullenly94 southward. The shadow of an old plantation lies at its edge, forlorn and dark. Then comes the pool; pendent gray moss and brackish95 waters appear, and forests filled with wildfowl. In one place the wood is on fire, smouldering in dull red anger; but nobody minds. Then the swamp grows beautiful; a raised road, built by chained Negro convicts, dips down into it, and forms a way walled and almost covered in living green. Spreading trees spring from a prodigal96 luxuriance of undergrowth; great dark green shadows fade into the black background, until all is one mass of tangled semi-tropical foliage97, marvellous in its weird savage98 splendor99. Once we crossed a black silent stream, where the sad trees and writhing100 creepers, all glinting fiery101 yellow and green, seemed like some vast cathedral,—some green Milan builded of wildwood. And as I crossed, I seemed to see again that fierce tragedy of seventy years ago. Osceola, the Indian-Negro chieftain, had risen in the swamps of Florida, vowing102 vengeance103. His war-cry reached the red Creeks104 of Dougherty, and their war-cry rang from the Chattahoochee to the sea. Men and women and children fled and fell before them as they swept into Dougherty. In yonder shadows a dark and hideously105 painted warrior106 glided stealthily on,—another and another, until three hundred had crept into the treacherous107 swamp. Then the false slime closing about them called the white men from the east. Waist-deep, they fought beneath the tall trees, until the war-cry was hushed and the Indians glided back into the west. Small wonder the wood is red.
Then came the black slaves. Day after day the clank of chained feet marching from Virginia and Carolina to Georgia was heard in these rich swamp lands. Day after day the songs of the callous108, the wail109 of the motherless, and the muttered curses of the wretched echoed from the Flint to the Chickasawhatchee, until by 1860 there had risen in West Dougherty perhaps the richest slave kingdom the modern world ever knew. A hundred and fifty barons commanded the labor110 of nearly six thousand Negroes, held sway over farms with ninety thousand acres tilled land, valued even in times of cheap soil at three millions of dollars. Twenty thousand bales of ginned cotton went yearly to England, New and Old; and men that came there bankrupt made money and grew rich. In a single decade the cotton output increased four-fold and the value of lands was tripled. It was the heyday111 of the nouveau riche, and a life of careless extravagance among the masters. Four and six bobtailed thoroughbreds rolled their coaches to town; open hospitality and gay entertainment were the rule. Parks and groves were laid out, rich with flower and vine, and in the midst stood the low wide-halled "big house," with its porch and columns and great fireplaces.
And yet with all this there was something sordid112, something forced,—a certain feverish113 unrest and recklessness; for was not all this show and tinsel built upon a groan85? "This land was a little Hell," said a ragged, brown, and grave-faced man to me. We were seated near a roadside blacksmith shop, and behind was the bare ruin of some master's home. "I've seen niggers drop dead in the furrow114, but they were kicked aside, and the plough never stopped. Down in the guard-house, there's where the blood ran."
With such foundations a kingdom must in time sway and fall. The masters moved to Macon and Augusta, and left only the irresponsible overseers on the land. And the result is such ruin as this, the Lloyd "home-place":—great waving oaks, a spread of lawn, myrtles and chestnuts115, all ragged and wild; a solitary116 gate-post standing117 where once was a castle entrance; an old rusty118 anvil119 lying amid rotting bellows120 and wood in the ruins of a blacksmith shop; a wide rambling121 old mansion122, brown and dingy123, filled now with the grandchildren of the slaves who once waited on its tables; while the family of the master has dwindled124 to two lone36 women, who live in Macon and feed hungrily off the remnants of an earldom. So we ride on, past phantom125 gates and falling homes,—past the once flourishing farms of the Smiths, the Gandys, and the Lagores,—and find all dilapidated and half ruined, even there where a solitary white woman, a relic126 of other days, sits alone in state among miles of Negroes and rides to town in her ancient coach each day.
This was indeed the Egypt of the Confederacy,—the rich granary whence potatoes and corn and cotton poured out to the famished127 and ragged Confederate troops as they battled for a cause lost long before 1861. Sheltered and secure, it became the place of refuge for families, wealth, and slaves. Yet even then the hard ruthless rape128 of the land began to tell. The red-clay sub-soil already had begun to peer above the loam129. The harder the slaves were driven the more careless and fatal was their farming. Then came the revolution of war and Emancipation130, the bewilderment of Reconstruction,—and now, what is the Egypt of the Confederacy, and what meaning has it for the nation's weal or woe131?
It is a land of rapid contrasts and of curiously132 mingled133 hope and pain. Here sits a pretty blue-eyed quadroon hiding her bare feet; she was married only last week, and yonder in the field is her dark young husband, hoeing to support her, at thirty cents a day without board. Across the way is Gatesby, brown and tall, lord of two thousand acres shrewdly won and held. There is a store conducted by his black son, a blacksmith shop, and a ginnery. Five miles below here is a town owned and controlled by one white New Englander. He owns almost a Rhode Island county, with thousands of acres and hundreds of black laborers134. Their cabins look better than most, and the farm, with machinery and fertilizers, is much more business-like than any in the county, although the manager drives hard bargains in wages. When now we turn and look five miles above, there on the edge of town are five houses of prostitutes,—two of blacks and three of whites; and in one of the houses of the whites a worthless black boy was harbored too openly two years ago; so he was hanged for rape. And here, too, is the high whitewashed fence of the "stockade," as the county prison is called; the white folks say it is ever full of black criminals,—the black folks say that only colored boys are sent to jail, and they not because they are guilty, but because the State needs criminals to eke136 out its income by their forced labor.
Immigrants are heirs of the slave baron43 in Dougherty; and as we ride westward137, by wide stretching cornfields and stubby orchards138 of peach and pear, we see on all sides within the circle of dark forest a Land of Canaan. Here and there are tales of projects for money-getting, born in the swift days of Reconstruction,—"improvement" companies, wine companies, mills and factories; most failed, and foreigners fell heir. It is a beautiful land, this Dougherty, west of the Flint. The forests are wonderful, the solemn pines have disappeared, and this is the "Oakey Woods," with its wealth of hickories, beeches139, oaks and palmettos. But a pall140 of debt hangs over the beautiful land; the merchants are in debt to the wholesalers, the planters are in debt to the merchants, the tenants owe the planters, and laborers bow and bend beneath the burden of it all. Here and there a man has raised his head above these murky142 waters. We passed one fenced stock-farm with grass and grazing cattle, that looked very home-like after endless corn and cotton. Here and there are black free-holders: there is the gaunt dull-black Jackson, with his hundred acres. "I says, 'Look up! If you don't look up you can't get up,'" remarks Jackson, philosophically143. And he's gotten up. Dark Carter's neat barns would do credit to New England. His master helped him to get a start, but when the black man died last fall the master's sons immediately laid claim to the estate. "And them white folks will get it, too," said my yellow gossip.
I turn from these well-tended acres with a comfortable feeling that the Negro is rising. Even then, however, the fields, as we proceed, begin to redden and the trees disappear. Rows of old cabins appear filled with renters and laborers,—cheerless, bare, and dirty, for the most part, although here and there the very age and decay makes the scene picturesque144. A young black fellow greets us. He is twenty-two, and just married. Until last year he had good luck renting; then cotton fell, and the sheriff seized and sold all he had. So he moved here, where the rent is higher, the land poorer, and the owner inflexible145; he rents a forty-dollar mule58 for twenty dollars a year. Poor lad!—a slave at twenty-two. This plantation, owned now by a foreigner, was a part of the famous Bolton estate. After the war it was for many years worked by gangs of Negro convicts,—and black convicts then were even more plentiful146 than now; it was a way of making Negroes work, and the question of guilt135 was a minor147 one. Hard tales of cruelty and mistreatment of the chained freemen are told, but the county authorities were deaf until the free-labor market was nearly ruined by wholesale141 migration148. Then they took the convicts from the plantations, but not until one of the fairest regions of the "Oakey Woods" had been ruined and ravished into a red waste, out of which only a Yankee or an immigrant could squeeze more blood from debt-cursed tenants.
No wonder that Luke Black, slow, dull, and discouraged, shuffles149 to our carriage and talks hopelessly. Why should he strive? Every year finds him deeper in debt. How strange that Georgia, the world-heralded refuge of poor debtors150, should bind151 her own to sloth152 and misfortune as ruthlessly as ever England did! The poor land groans153 with its birth-pains, and brings forth154 scarcely a hundred pounds of cotton to the acre, where fifty years ago it yielded eight times as much. Of his meagre yield the tenant pays from a quarter to a third in rent, and most of the rest in interest on food and supplies bought on credit. Twenty years yonder sunken-cheeked, old black man has labored155 under that system, and now, turned day-laborer, is supporting his wife and boarding himself on his wages of a dollar and a half a week, received only part of the year.
The Bolton convict farm formerly156 included the neighboring plantation. Here it was that the convicts were lodged157 in the great log prison still standing. A dismal158 place it still remains, with rows of ugly huts filled with surly ignorant tenants. "What rent do you pay here?" I inquired. "I don't know,—what is it, Sam?" "All we make," answered Sam. It is a depressing place,—bare, unshaded, with no charm of past association, only a memory of forced human toil,—now, then, and before the war. They are not happy, these black men whom we meet throughout this region. There is little of the joyous159 abandon and playfulness which we are wont160 to associate with the plantation Negro. At best, the natural good-nature is edged with complaint or has changed into sullenness161 and gloom. And now and then it blazes forth in veiled but hot anger. I remember one big red-eyed black whom we met by the roadside. Forty-five years he had labored on this farm, beginning with nothing, and still having nothing. To be sure, he had given four children a common-school training, and perhaps if the new fence-law had not allowed unfenced crops in West Dougherty he might have raised a little stock and kept ahead. As it is, he is hopelessly in debt, disappointed, and embittered162. He stopped us to inquire after the black boy in Albany, whom it was said a policeman had shot and killed for loud talking on the sidewalk. And then he said slowly: "Let a white man touch me, and he dies; I don't boast this,—I don't say it around loud, or before the children,—but I mean it. I've seen them whip my father and my old mother in them cotton-rows till the blood ran; by—" and we passed on.
Now Sears, whom we met next lolling under the chubby163 oak-trees, was of quite different fibre. Happy?—Well, yes; he laughed and flipped164 pebbles165, and thought the world was as it was. He had worked here twelve years and has nothing but a mortgaged mule. Children? Yes, seven; but they hadn't been to school this year,—couldn't afford books and clothes, and couldn't spare their work. There go part of them to the fields now,—three big boys astride mules, and a strapping girl with bare brown legs. Careless ignorance and laziness here, fierce hate and vindictiveness166 there;—these are the extremes of the Negro problem which we met that day, and we scarce knew which we preferred.
Here and there we meet distinct characters quite out of the ordinary. One came out of a piece of newly cleared ground, making a wide detour167 to avoid the snakes. He was an old, hollow-cheeked man, with a drawn168 and characterful brown face. He had a sort of self-contained quaintness169 and rough humor impossible to describe; a certain cynical170 earnestness that puzzled one. "The niggers were jealous of me over on the other place," he said, "and so me and the old woman begged this piece of woods, and I cleared it up myself. Made nothing for two years, but I reckon I've got a crop now." The cotton looked tall and rich, and we praised it. He curtsied low, and then bowed almost to the ground, with an imperturbable171 gravity that seemed almost suspicious. Then he continued, "My mule died last week,"—a calamity172 in this land equal to a devastating173 fire in town,—"but a white man loaned me another." Then he added, eyeing us, "Oh, I gets along with white folks." We turned the conversation. "Bears? deer?" he answered, "well, I should say there were," and he let fly a string of brave oaths, as he told hunting-tales of the swamp. We left him standing still in the middle of the road looking after us, and yet apparently174 not noticing us.
The Whistle place, which includes his bit of land, was bought soon after the war by an English syndicate, the "Dixie Cotton and Corn Company." A marvellous deal of style their factor put on, with his servants and coach-and-six; so much so that the concern soon landed in inextricable bankruptcy175. Nobody lives in the old house now, but a man comes each winter out of the North and collects his high rents. I know not which are the more touching,—such old empty houses, or the homes of the masters' sons. Sad and bitter tales lie hidden back of those white doors,—tales of poverty, of struggle, of disappointment. A revolution such as that of '63 is a terrible thing; they that rose rich in the morning often slept in paupers176' beds. Beggars and vulgar speculators rose to rule over them, and their children went astray. See yonder sad-colored house, with its cabins and fences and glad crops! It is not glad within; last month the prodigal son of the struggling father wrote home from the city for money. Money! Where was it to come from? And so the son rose in the night and killed his baby, and killed his wife, and shot himself dead. And the world passed on.
I remember wheeling around a bend in the road beside a graceful177 bit of forest and a singing brook178. A long low house faced us, with porch and flying pillars, great oaken door, and a broad lawn shining in the evening sun. But the window-panes were gone, the pillars were worm-eaten, and the moss-grown roof was falling in. Half curiously I peered through the unhinged door, and saw where, on the wall across the hall, was written in once gay letters a faded "Welcome."
Quite a contrast to the southwestern part of Dougherty County is the northwest. Soberly timbered in oak and pine, it has none of that half-tropical luxuriance of the southwest. Then, too, there are fewer signs of a romantic past, and more of systematic179 modern land-grabbing and money-getting. White people are more in evidence here, and farmer and hired labor replace to some extent the absentee landlord and rack-rented tenant. The crops have neither the luxuriance of the richer land nor the signs of neglect so often seen, and there were fences and meadows here and there. Most of this land was poor, and beneath the notice of the slave-baron, before the war. Since then his poor relations and foreign immigrants have seized it. The returns of the farmer are too small to allow much for wages, and yet he will not sell off small farms. There is the Negro Sanford; he has worked fourteen years as overseer on the Ladson place, and "paid out enough for fertilizers to have bought a farm," but the owner will not sell off a few acres.
Two children—a boy and a girl—are hoeing sturdily in the fields on the farm where Corliss works. He is smooth-faced and brown, and is fencing up his pigs. He used to run a successful cotton-gin, but the Cotton Seed Oil Trust has forced the price of ginning so low that he says it hardly pays him. He points out a stately old house over the way as the home of "Pa Willis." We eagerly ride over, for "Pa Willis" was the tall and powerful black Moses who led the Negroes for a generation, and led them well. He was a Baptist preacher, and when he died, two thousand black people followed him to the grave; and now they preach his funeral sermon each year. His widow lives here,—a weazened, sharp-featured little woman, who curtsied quaintly180 as we greeted her. Further on lives Jack23 Delson, the most prosperous Negro farmer in the county. It is a joy to meet him,—a great broad-shouldered, handsome black man, intelligent and jovial181. Six hundred and fifty acres he owns, and has eleven black tenants. A neat and tidy home nestled in a flower-garden, and a little store stands beside it.
We pass the Munson place, where a plucky182 white widow is renting and struggling; and the eleven hundred acres of the Sennet plantation, with its Negro overseer. Then the character of the farms begins to change. Nearly all the lands belong to Russian Jews; the overseers are white, and the cabins are bare board-houses scattered here and there. The rents are high, and day-laborers and "contract" hands abound183. It is a keen, hard struggle for living here, and few have time to talk. Tired with the long ride, we gladly drive into Gillonsville. It is a silent cluster of farmhouses184 standing on the crossroads, with one of its stores closed and the other kept by a Negro preacher. They tell great tales of busy times at Gillonsville before all the railroads came to Albany; now it is chiefly a memory. Riding down the street, we stop at the preacher's and seat ourselves before the door. It was one of those scenes one cannot soon forget:—a wide, low, little house, whose motherly roof reached over and sheltered a snug61 little porch. There we sat, after the long hot drive, drinking cool water,—the talkative little storekeeper who is my daily companion; the silent old black woman patching pantaloons and saying never a word; the ragged picture of helpless misfortune who called in just to see the preacher; and finally the neat matronly preacher's wife, plump, yellow, and intelligent. "Own land?" said the wife; "well, only this house." Then she added quietly. "We did buy seven hundred acres across up yonder, and paid for it; but they cheated us out of it. Sells was the owner." "Sells!" echoed the ragged misfortune, who was leaning against the balustrade and listening, "he's a regular cheat. I worked for him thirty-seven days this spring, and he paid me in cardboard checks which were to be cashed at the end of the month. But he never cashed them,—kept putting me off. Then the sheriff came and took my mule and corn and furniture—" "Furniture? But furniture is exempt185 from seizure186 by law." "Well, he took it just the same," said the hard-faced man.
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1
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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depots
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| 仓库( depot的名词复数 )； 火车站； 车库； 军需库 | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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prohibitions
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| 禁令，禁律( prohibition的名词复数 )； 禁酒； 禁例 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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14
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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15
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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18
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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23
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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24
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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ceded
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| v.让给，割让，放弃( cede的过去式 ) | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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30
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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31
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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38
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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40
facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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41
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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42
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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43
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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44
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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45
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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46
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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47
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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48
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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49
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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50
carouses
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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52
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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53
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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54
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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55
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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56
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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57
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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58
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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59
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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60
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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61
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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62
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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63
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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64
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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66
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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67
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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69
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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72
waddle
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| vi.摇摆地走；n.摇摆的走路(样子) | |
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73
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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74
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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75
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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76
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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77
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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78
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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79
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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80
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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81
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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82
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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83
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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84
improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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85
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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86
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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87
embezzled
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| v.贪污，盗用（公款）( embezzle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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89
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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90
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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91
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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92
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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93
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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95
brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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98
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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99
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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100
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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101
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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102
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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103
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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104
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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105
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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106
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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107
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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108
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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109
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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110
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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111
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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112
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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113
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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114
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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115
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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116
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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117
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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118
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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119
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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120
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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121
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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122
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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123
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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124
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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126
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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127
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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128
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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129
loam
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| n.沃土 | |
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130
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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131
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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132
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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133
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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134
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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135
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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136
eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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137
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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138
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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139
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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140
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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141
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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142
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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143
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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144
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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145
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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146
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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147
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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148
migration
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| n.迁移，移居，（鸟类等的）迁徙 | |
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149
shuffles
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| n.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的名词复数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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150
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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151
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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152
sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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153
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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154
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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155
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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156
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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157
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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158
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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159
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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160
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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161
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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162
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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164
flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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165
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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166
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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167
detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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168
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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169
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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170
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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171
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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172
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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173
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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174
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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175
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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176
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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177
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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178
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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179
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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180
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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181
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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182
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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183
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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184
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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185
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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186
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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