To lay this body down;
I know moon-rise, I know star-rise;
I walk in the moonlight, I walk in the starlight;
I'll lie in the grave and stretch out my arms,
I'll go to judgment1 in the evening of the day,
And my soul and thy soul shall meet that day,
When I lay this body down.
NEGRO SONG.
They that walked in darkness sang songs in the olden days—Sorrow Songs—for they were weary at heart. And so before each thought that I have written in this book I have set a phrase, a haunting echo of these weird2 old songs in which the soul of the black slave spoke3 to men. Ever since I was a child these songs have stirred me strangely. They came out of the South unknown to me, one by one, and yet at once I knew them as of me and of mine. Then in after years when I came to Nashville I saw the great temple builded of these songs towering over the pale city. To me Jubilee4 Hall seemed ever made of the songs themselves, and its bricks were red with the blood and dust of toil5. Out of them rose for me morning, noon, and night, bursts of wonderful melody, full of the voices of my brothers and sisters, full of the voices of the past.
Little of beauty has America given the world save the rude grandeur6 God himself stamped on her bosom7; the human spirit in this new world has expressed itself in vigor8 and ingenuity9 rather than in beauty. And so by fateful chance the Negro folk-song—the rhythmic10 cry of the slave—stands to-day not simply as the sole American music, but as the most beautiful expression of human experience born this side the seas. It has been neglected, it has been, and is, half despised, and above all it has been persistently11 mistaken and misunderstood; but notwithstanding, it still remains12 as the singular spiritual heritage of the nation and the greatest gift of the Negro people.
Away back in the thirties the melody of these slave songs stirred the nation, but the songs were soon half forgotten. Some, like "Near the lake where drooped13 the willow," passed into current airs and their source was forgotten; others were caricatured on the "minstrel" stage and their memory died away. Then in war-time came the singular Port Royal experiment after the capture of Hilton Head, and perhaps for the first time the North met the Southern slave face to face and heart to heart with no third witness. The Sea Islands of the Carolinas, where they met, were filled with a black folk of primitive14 type, touched and moulded less by the world about them than any others outside the Black Belt. Their appearance was uncouth16, their language funny, but their hearts were human and their singing stirred men with a mighty17 power. Thomas Wentworth Higginson hastened to tell of these songs, and Miss McKim and others urged upon the world their rare beauty. But the world listened only half credulously18 until the Fisk Jubilee Singers sang the slave songs so deeply into the world's heart that it can never wholly forget them again.
There was once a blacksmith's son born at Cadiz, New York, who in the changes of time taught school in Ohio and helped defend Cincinnati from Kirby Smith. Then he fought at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg and finally served in the Freedmen's Bureau at Nashville. Here he formed a Sunday-school class of black children in 1866, and sang with them and taught them to sing. And then they taught him to sing, and when once the glory of the Jubilee songs passed into the soul of George L. White, he knew his life-work was to let those Negroes sing to the world as they had sung to him. So in 1871 the pilgrimage of the Fisk Jubilee Singers began. North to Cincinnati they rode,—four half-clothed black boys and five girl-women,—led by a man with a cause and a purpose. They stopped at Wilberforce, the oldest of Negro schools, where a black bishop19 blessed them. Then they went, fighting cold and starvation, shut out of hotels, and cheerfully sneered20 at, ever northward21; and ever the magic of their song kept thrilling hearts, until a burst of applause in the Congregational Council at Oberlin revealed them to the world. They came to New York and Henry Ward22 Beecher dared to welcome them, even though the metropolitan23 dailies sneered at his "Nigger Minstrels." So their songs conquered till they sang across the land and across the sea, before Queen and Kaiser, in Scotland and Ireland, Holland and Switzerland. Seven years they sang, and brought back a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to found Fisk University.
Since their day they have been imitated—sometimes well, by the singers of Hampton and Atlanta, sometimes ill, by straggling quartettes. Caricature has sought again to spoil the quaint24 beauty of the music, and has filled the air with many debased melodies which vulgar ears scarce know from the real. But the true Negro folk-song still lives in the hearts of those who have heard them truly sung and in the hearts of the Negro people.
What are these songs, and what do they mean? I know little of music and can say nothing in technical phrase, but I know something of men, and knowing them, I know that these songs are the articulate message of the slave to the world. They tell us in these eager days that life was joyous25 to the black slave, careless and happy. I can easily believe this of some, of many. But not all the past South, though it rose from the dead, can gainsay26 the heart-touching witness of these songs. They are the music of an unhappy people, of the children of disappointment; they tell of death and suffering and unvoiced longing27 toward a truer world, of misty28 wanderings and hidden ways.
The songs are indeed the siftings of centuries; the music is far more ancient than the words, and in it we can trace here and there signs of development. My grandfather's grandmother was seized by an evil Dutch trader two centuries ago; and coming to the valleys of the Hudson and Housatonic, black, little, and lithe29, she shivered and shrank in the harsh north winds, looked longingly30 at the hills, and often crooned a heathen melody to the child between her knees, thus:
Do ba-na co-ba, ge-ne me, ge-ne me!
Do ba-na co-ba, ge-ne me, ge-ne me!
Ben d' nu-li, nu-li, nu-li, ben d' le.
The child sang it to his children and they to their children's children, and so two hundred years it has travelled down to us and we sing it to our children, knowing as little as our fathers what its words may mean, but knowing well the meaning of its music.
This was primitive African music; it may be seen in larger form in the strange chant which heralds31 "The Coming of John":
"You may bury me in the East,
You may bury me in the West,
But I'll hear the trumpet32 sound in that morning,"
—the voice of exile.
Ten master songs, more or less, one may pluck from the forest of melody-songs of undoubted Negro origin and wide popular currency, and songs peculiarly characteristic of the slave. One of these I have just mentioned. Another whose strains begin this book is "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen." When, struck with a sudden poverty, the United States refused to fulfill33 its promises of land to the freedmen, a brigadier-general went down to the Sea Islands to carry the news. An old woman on the outskirts34 of the throng35 began singing this song; all the mass joined with her, swaying. And the soldier wept.
The third song is the cradle-song of death which all men know,-"Swing low, sweet chariot,"—whose bars begin the life story of "Alexander Crummell." Then there is the song of many waters, "Roll, Jordan, roll," a mighty chorus with minor36 cadences37. There were many songs of the fugitive38 like that which opens "The Wings of Atalanta," and the more familiar "Been a-listening." The seventh is the song of the End and the Beginning—"My Lord, what a mourning! when the stars begin to fall"; a strain of this is placed before "The Dawn of Freedom." The song of groping—"My way's cloudy"—begins "The Meaning of Progress"; the ninth is the song of this chapter—"Wrestlin' Jacob, the day is a-breaking,"—a paean39 of hopeful strife40. The last master song is the song of songs—"Steal away,"—sprung from "The Faith of the Fathers."
There are many others of the Negro folk-songs as striking and characteristic as these, as, for instance, the three strains in the third, eighth, and ninth chapters; and others I am sure could easily make a selection on more scientific principles. There are, too, songs that seem to be a step removed from the more primitive types: there is the maze-like medley41, "Bright sparkles," one phrase of which heads "The Black Belt"; the Easter carol, "Dust, dust and ashes"; the dirge42, "My mother's took her flight and gone home"; and that burst of melody hovering43 over "The Passing of the First-Born"—"I hope my mother will be there in that beautiful world on high."
These represent a third step in the development of the slave song, of which "You may bury me in the East" is the first, and songs like "March on" (chapter six) and "Steal away" are the second. The first is African music, the second Afro-American, while the third is a blending of Negro music with the music heard in the foster land. The result is still distinctively44 Negro and the method of blending original, but the elements are both Negro and Caucasian. One might go further and find a fourth step in this development, where the songs of white America have been distinctively influenced by the slave songs or have incorporated whole phrases of Negro melody, as "Swanee River" and "Old Black Joe." Side by side, too, with the growth has gone the debasements and imitations—the Negro "minstrel" songs, many of the "gospel" hymns45, and some of the contemporary "coon" songs,—a mass of music in which the novice46 may easily lose himself and never find the real Negro melodies.
In these songs, I have said, the slave spoke to the world. Such a message is naturally veiled and half articulate. Words and music have lost each other and new and cant47 phrases of a dimly understood theology have displaced the older sentiment. Once in a while we catch a strange word of an unknown tongue, as the "Mighty Myo," which figures as a river of death; more often slight words or mere48 doggerel49 are joined to music of singular sweetness. Purely50 secular51 songs are few in number, partly because many of them were turned into hymns by a change of words, partly because the frolics were seldom heard by the stranger, and the music less often caught. Of nearly all the songs, however, the music is distinctly sorrowful. The ten master songs I have mentioned tell in word and music of trouble and exile, of strife and hiding; they grope toward some unseen power and sigh for rest in the End.
The words that are left to us are not without interest, and, cleared of evident dross52, they conceal53 much of real poetry and meaning beneath conventional theology and unmeaning rhapsody. Like all primitive folk, the slave stood near to Nature's heart. Life was a "rough and rolling sea" like the brown Atlantic of the Sea Islands; the "Wilderness54" was the home of God, and the "lonesome valley" led to the way of life. "Winter'll soon be over," was the picture of life and death to a tropical imagination. The sudden wild thunderstorms of the South awed55 and impressed the Negroes,—at times the rumbling56 seemed to them "mournful," at times imperious:
"My Lord calls me,
He calls me by the thunder,
The trumpet sounds it in my soul."
The monotonous57 toil and exposure is painted in many words. One sees the ploughmen in the hot, moist furrow58, singing:
"Dere's no rain to wet you,
Dere's no sun to burn you,
Oh, push along, believer,
I want to go home."
The bowed and bent59 old man cries, with thrice-repeated wail60:
"O Lord, keep me from sinking down,"
and he rebukes61 the devil of doubt who can whisper:
"Jesus is dead and God's gone away."
Yet the soul-hunger is there, the restlessness of the savage62, the wail of the wanderer, and the plaint is put in one little phrase:
My soul wants something that's new, that's new
Over the inner thoughts of the slaves and their relations one with another the shadow of fear ever hung, so that we get but glimpses here and there, and also with them, eloquent63 omissions64 and silences. Mother and child are sung, but seldom father; fugitive and weary wanderer call for pity and affection, but there is little of wooing and wedding; the rocks and the mountains are well known, but home is unknown. Strange blending of love and helplessness sings through the refrain:
"Yonder's my ole mudder,
Been waggin' at de hill so long;
'Bout15 time she cross over,
Git home bime-by."
Elsewhere comes the cry of the "motherless" and the "Farewell, farewell, my only child."
Love-songs are scarce and fall into two categories—the frivolous65 and light, and the sad. Of deep successful love there is ominous66 silence, and in one of the oldest of these songs there is a depth of history and meaning:
Poor Ro-sy, poor gal67; Poor Ro-sy,
poor gal; Ro-sy break my poor heart,
Heav'n shall-a-be my home.
A black woman said of the song, "It can't be sung without a full heart and a troubled sperrit." The same voice sings here that sings in the German folk-song:
"Jetz Geh i' an's brunele, trink' aber net."
Of death the Negro showed little fear, but talked of it familiarly and even fondly as simply a crossing of the waters, perhaps—who knows?—back to his ancient forests again. Later days transfigured his fatalism, and amid the dust and dirt the toiler68 sang:
"Dust, dust and ashes, fly over my grave,
But the Lord shall bear my spirit home."
The things evidently borrowed from the surrounding world undergo characteristic change when they enter the mouth of the slave. Especially is this true of Bible phrases. "Weep, O captive daughter of Zion," is quaintly69 turned into "Zion, weep-a-low," and the wheels of Ezekiel are turned every way in the mystic dreaming of the slave, till he says:
There's a little wheel a-turnin' in-a-my heart."
As in olden time, the words of these hymns were improvised70 by some leading minstrel of the religious band. The circumstances of the gathering71, however, the rhythm of the songs, and the limitations of allowable thought, confined the poetry for the most part to single or double lines, and they seldom were expanded to quatrains or longer tales, although there are some few examples of sustained efforts, chiefly paraphrases72 of the Bible. Three short series of verses have always attracted me,—the one that heads this chapter, of one line of which Thomas Wentworth Higginson has fittingly said, "Never, it seems to me, since man first lived and suffered was his infinite longing for peace uttered more plaintively73." The second and third are descriptions of the Last Judgment,—the one a late improvisation74, with some traces of outside influence:
"Oh, the stars in the elements are falling,
And the moon drips away into blood,
And the ransomed75 of the Lord are returning unto God,
Blessed be the name of the Lord."
And the other earlier and homelier picture from the low coast lands:
"Michael, haul the boat ashore76,
Then you'll hear the horn they blow,
Then you'll hear the trumpet sound,
Trumpet sound the world around,
Trumpet sound for rich and poor,
Trumpet sound the Jubilee,
Trumpet sound for you and me."
Through all the sorrow of the Sorrow Songs there breathes a hope—a faith in the ultimate justice of things. The minor cadences of despair change often to triumph and calm confidence. Sometimes it is faith in life, sometimes a faith in death, sometimes assurance of boundless77 justice in some fair world beyond. But whichever it is, the meaning is always clear: that sometime, somewhere, men will judge men by their souls and not by their skins. Is such a hope justified78? Do the Sorrow Songs sing true?
The silently growing assumption of this age is that the probation79 of races is past, and that the backward races of to-day are of proven inefficiency80 and not worth the saving. Such an assumption is the arrogance81 of peoples irreverent toward Time and ignorant of the deeds of men. A thousand years ago such an assumption, easily possible, would have made it difficult for the Teuton to prove his right to life. Two thousand years ago such dogmatism, readily welcome, would have scouted82 the idea of blond races ever leading civilization. So wofully unorganized is sociological knowledge that the meaning of progress, the meaning of "swift" and "slow" in human doing, and the limits of human perfectability, are veiled, unanswered sphinxes on the shores of science. Why should AEschylus have sung two thousand years before Shakespeare was born? Why has civilization flourished in Europe, and flickered83, flamed, and died in Africa? So long as the world stands meekly84 dumb before such questions, shall this nation proclaim its ignorance and unhallowed prejudices by denying freedom of opportunity to those who brought the Sorrow Songs to the Seats of the Mighty?
Your country? How came it yours? Before the Pilgrims landed we were here. Here we have brought our three gifts and mingled85 them with yours: a gift of story and song—soft, stirring melody in an ill-harmonized and unmelodious land; the gift of sweat and brawn86 to beat back the wilderness, conquer the soil, and lay the foundations of this vast economic empire two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done it; the third, a gift of the Spirit. Around us the history of the land has centred for thrice a hundred years; out of the nation's heart we have called all that was best to throttle87 and subdue88 all that was worst; fire and blood, prayer and sacrifice, have billowed over this people, and they have found peace only in the altars of the God of Right. Nor has our gift of the Spirit been merely passive. Actively89 we have woven ourselves with the very warp90 and woof of this nation,—we fought their battles, shared their sorrow, mingled our blood with theirs, and generation after generation have pleaded with a headstrong, careless people to despise not Justice, Mercy, and Truth, lest the nation be smitten91 with a curse. Our song, our toil, our cheer, and warning have been given to this nation in blood-brotherhood. Are not these gifts worth the giving? Is not this work and striving? Would America have been America without her Negro people?
Even so is the hope that sang in the songs of my fathers well sung. If somewhere in this whirl and chaos92 of things there dwells Eternal Good, pitiful yet masterful, then anon in His good time America shall rend93 the Veil and the prisoned shall go free. Free, free as the sunshine trickling94 down the morning into these high windows of mine, free as yonder fresh young voices welling up to me from the caverns95 of brick and mortar96 below—swelling with song, instinct with life, tremulous treble and darkening bass97. My children, my little children, are singing to the sunshine, and thus they sing:
Let us cheer the wea-ry trav-el-ler,
Cheer the wea-ry trav-el-ler, Let us
cheer the wea-ry trav-el-ler
A-long the heav-en-ly way.
And the traveller girds himself, and sets his face toward the Morning, and goes his way.
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1
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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6
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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7
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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9
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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10
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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13
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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credulously
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| adv.轻信地，易被瞒地 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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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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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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paean
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| n.赞美歌，欢乐歌 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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43
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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distinctively
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| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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54
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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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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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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toiler
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| 辛劳者，勤劳者 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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paraphrases
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| n.释义，意译( paraphrase的名词复数 )v.释义，意译( paraphrase的第三人称单数 ) | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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ransomed
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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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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brawn
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| n.体力 | |
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throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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