Part 7

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted mid-leg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bells ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself with watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite, who, being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at the front windows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further without to amuse me.

The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along; there was no variety even in the rain; it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter, patter, patter, excepting that now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella. It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase of the day) when in the course of the morning a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the street with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of wet box-coats and upper benjamins. The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vagabond boys and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed hostler, and that nondescript animal yclept Boots, and all the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was transient: the coach again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes; the street again became silent, and the rain continued to rain on.

The evening gradually wore away. The travelers read the papers two or three times over. Some drew round the fire and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures, their overturns and breakings-down. They discussed the credits of different merchants and different inns, and the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids and kind landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their nightcaps; that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and water or sugar, or some other mixture of the kind; after which they one after another rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and walked off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvelously uncomfortable slippers. There was only one man left,—a short-legged, long-bodied plethoric fellow, with a very large sandy head. He sat by himself with a glass of port wine negus and a spoon, sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that remained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless and almost spectral box-coats of departed travelers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the drippings of the rain—drop, drop, drop—from the eaves of the house.

Irving’s Last Interview with Scott.

It was at Sunnyside, on a glorious afternoon in June, 1855, that surrounded by scenery which Irving has best described, he narrated to me (S. Austin Allibone) the following account of his last interview with Scott:

“I was in London when Scott arrived after his attack of paralysis, on his way to the continent in search of health. I received a note from Lockhart, begging me to come and take dinner with Scott and himself the next day. When I entered the room Scott grasped my hand, and looked me steadfastly in the face. ‘Time has dealt gently with you, my friend, since we parted,’ he exclaimed:—he referred to the difference in himself since we had met. At dinner, I could see that Scott’s mind was failing. He was painfully conscious of it himself. He would talk with much animation, and we would listen with the most respectful attention; but there was an effort and an embarrassment in his manner; he knew all was not right. It was very distressing, and we (Irving, Lockhart, and Anne Scott) tried to keep up the conversation between ourselves, that Sir Walter might talk as little as possible. After dinner he took my arm to walk up-stairs, which he did with difficulty. He turned and looked in my face, and said, ‘They need not tell a man his mind is not affected when his body is as much impaired as mine.’ This was my last interview with Scott. I heard afterward that he was better; but I never saw him again.”

Two years later (in 1857), in narrating the same event, Irving told me that as Scott passed up the stairs with him after dinner, he remarked, “Times are sadly changed since we walked up the Eildon hills together.”

JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.

There is no better literary _manner_ than the manner of Mr. Paulding. Certainly no American, and possibly no living writer of England has more of those numerous peculiarities which go to the formation of a happy style.—_Edgar A. Poe._

His works are exclusively and eminently natural, and his descriptions of natural scenery are often eminently beautiful.—_London Athenæum._

TIME A DESTROYER.—I saw a temple, reared by the hands of man, standing with its high pinnacle in the distant plain. The streams beat about it; the God of nature hurled his thunderbolts against it; yet it stood firm as adamant. Revelry was in the halls; the gay, the young, the beautiful were there. I returned, and lo! the temple was no more. Its high walls lay scattered in ruin; moss and grass grew rankly there; and, at the midnight hour, the owl’s long cry added to the solitude. The young, the gay, who had reveled there, had passed away. I saw a child rejoicing in his youth, the idol of his mother, and the pride of his father. I returned and the child had become old. Trembling with the weight of years, he stood the last of his generation, a stranger amidst all the desolation around him. I saw an old oak standing in all its pride upon the mountain; the birds were caroling in its boughs. I returned and saw the oak was leafless and sapless; the winds were playing at their pastime through the branches. “Who is the destroyer?” said I to my guardian angel. “It is Time,” said he. When the morning stars sang together for joy over the new-made world, he commenced his course, and when he has destroyed all that is beautiful on the earth, plucked the sun from his sphere, veiled the moon in blood; yea, when he shall have rolled the heavens and the earth away as a scroll, then shall an angel from the throne of God come forth, and, with one foot upon the land, lift up his hand toward heaven, and swear by heaven’s eternal, “time was, but time shall be no more.”

[End of Required Reading for December.]

RETURNING.

By MARY HARRISON.

“The spirit shall return to the God who gave it.”

White clouds upon heaven’s bosom rest, Begotten of the sunshine’s love, Now nestled like a fondled dove Upon a woman’s loving breast.

Heaven feeds her baby clouds, they grow, Then leave her for their manhood’s life; And wail and scramble in the strife Through which all earth-born children go.

They sink and wander in the gloom Of winding subterranean ways, And learn the loss of heavenlier days, By groping through their chosen tomb.

At length, lights gleam along the distant way, With eager thoughts of childhood, blest, And hopes of entering into rest, They leap to airy, sunny day.

Now rivers slave them to the fields To fill the cattle-troughs with drink, And dress the rose-boughs on their brink, And feed the grass the meadow yields.

For friends and good, they look behind, Then curse the past, and pray to be Unborn again within the sea, For birth has been to them unkind.

All scenes have gone! no good has come! From bank to bank the waters heave With tides which only mock and grieve, Despairs of long-lost, hopeless home.

And looking but for lulling sleep, The last deep solace of the grave, They leap to meet the leaping wave, And find their lost home in the deep.

So through his day, blind man has striven, As vapor-clouds, he came to be, Drawn from, then wandering to the sea, Invisible, with God in heaven.

EDUCATION OF THE NEGRO POPULATION.

By ATTICUS G. HAYGOOD, D.D.

FACTS ON THE SURFACE.

The records in the Department of Education, in Washington City, show that in the recent slave States of the Union the total school population was, in 1881, 5,814,261. Of these, 3,973,676 were white; 1,840,585 colored children. Counting both races the total school enrollment for 1881 was 3,034,896; of these 2,232,337 were white, 802,559 colored children. Nearly half the white, and more than half the colored school population was, in 1881, out of school. In some of these States the school term is from three to five months; in the cotton States not more than three. Perhaps five months each year is as long a school term as the conditions and needs of the laboring classes in these States will allow.

In 1881 these States expended upon their public schools $13,359,784; except perhaps in one state this money was expended without distinction of race. The races have schools of their own; doctrinaires would mix them by force of law; those who are actually doing the work of education in these States know that this can not be done, and that only harm would come of it, if the experiment were attempted. For neither race would do so well if taught together; the colored children do not desire mixed schools, and the white children will not attend them. In such conditions law is helpless, and force is folly; also ruin.

OTHER FACTS.

The official figures give the numbers; parole evidence is necessary to complete the statement of the case. In 1881 there were, as the Department of Education reports, in the Southern States 17,248 common schools for colored children. With exceptions so few that they are inappreciable in these statements, the teachers in these 17,248 common schools were colored—the large majority being women. The majority of these teachers are pitiably incompetent; some of them are well furnished for their work, and are doing it faithfully and successfully. Nearly all of these colored teachers who are of any use have received their preparation in the various schools for higher instruction established by societies and churches in the Northern States. Some of the best work is done in schools established and carried on by individual devotion—I will not say enterprise. Taking them all together there are nearly one hundred and fifty of these schools, called, as fancy or circumstances prompted or allowed, universities, colleges, institutes, seminaries, normal schools, etc., etc. There is hardly an “academy” among them.

OVER-NAMING.

Many will think me wrong in the opinion I now offer; some of the wisest of the teachers in the real work of teaching negroes will agree with me: it is a misfortune that the names given these schools are so out of proportion to their real work and character. None of them, even in catalogues, go beyond the ordinary college course; many of them do not come up to it; in none of them do more than a very small number complete this course. There is not a university, in any proper sense, among them all. It is not in the spirit of censure that I speak of these things, but of deep interest in the great and necessary work, that the good people engaged in these schools are trying, with rare consecration and in the teeth of a thousand discouragements, to accomplish.

The great names for these schools have done harm. They are misleading to begin with, and that is an evil. It is hard enough to get the indifferent or the antagonistic people to understand the subject of the education of the negroes at best; it is harder when new meanings have to be given to old names in order to state acts. I am of the opinion that the names given to most of these schools have done some harm in the North—whence the money has been drawn to support them. Northern men have sometimes spoken to me on these subjects in language that made it plain that they would have helped more but from a conviction that “schools and not universities are what these poor people need.” _Per contra_, it may well enough be answered, some have given largely to build “universities” that would not give to establish schools. As to the influence on northern sentiment of the _too-great names_, those who know that sentiment better than I do can express themselves more definitely. I know that the big names have done harm in the States where the schools are. At this point let me say, I am only stating what I believe to be facts. Comments, inferences, justifications, do not concern me just now.

First, then, the large names have excited prejudice among the white people who did not know what was back of the names. Most of them, for a long time, did not know what the universities and colleges were really trying to do; the majority do not know at this time.

Some of those who did know something thought the whole business a mere sham; for a long time only a few southern white people really knew that faithful, wise and successful teaching was done in these colleges and universities—most of it not being college or university work at all. The few who really knew what good work was being done could over-look the ambitious names—it being a weakness in the South and West, yielded to by not a few, to give great names to small schools for white youth. The wiser and kinder-hearted ones could condone the offense of over-large names in view of their own example.

The big names did as much as anything else to anger the poor whites against all negro education. People who know human nature will understand this statement without explanation: those who do not know human nature will not understand it anyway.

The worst evil, in the long run, of this big naming of schools for the negroes, fell upon the negroes themselves. It aggravated the tendency—very strong among them—to be satisfied with the name of a thing in the lack of the thing itself, and, what is more, not knowing that they can lack the thing when they have the name. Take, for example, “⸺ University,” an admirable school well known to me. Its annual enrollment will average three hundred; its catalogue course reaches from the primary studies through an ordinary college curriculum; one in ten attempts this college course; one in fifty may complete it. The whole three hundred tell their friends: “I was educated in ⸺ University.” It gives them importance. They pass as scholars beyond their merits among their own people. In many of them it breeds injurious conceits—of a sort that makes enemies of those who might be friends, and prejudices with the uninformed—who in all countries are the majority—the whole subject of negro education. It is to be feared that only a few colored students know the difference between “⸺ University” and a real university.

NO SHAM IN THE WORK DONE.

Let me say with emphasis at this point: there is no sham in the work done in these schools. It is genuine, honest, useful work. This is a general statement; there may be, doubtless are, some schools that do not deserve this praise. But the point I wish to make plain to the readers of THE CHAUTAUQUAN is this: if there be sham it is not in the work done, but in the name given the place where it is done. I asked one of the veterans: “Why did you call this school a university?” He answered: “We hoped it would grow to it some day.” How could I blame the hopefulness of those who did the naming? So many of our white schools had been named under the same sort of prophetic impulse.

TRAINING SCHOOLS.

It is those schools backed by the churches and benevolent societies of the North that are doing the most of the work of preparing teachers among the colored people for the colored people. The very best of the more than seventeen thousand colored teachers have learned whatever they know in these schools. Most of the Southern State governments have recognized the necessity of preparing colored teachers, and make annual appropriations to carry on this work. A few States have established schools of their own; generally they make appropriations to some of the best of the schools established by others.

The great and crying need in the work of education among the people is better teachers in their common schools. They can not be prepared in a day or a year; for it takes much money and much time. The training schools are without endowments, and their patrons are unable to pay more than the lowest tuition fees. If these schools—call them universities, colleges, institutes, seminaries—what you will, are to keep going at their present rate, to say nothing of improvement, white people must furnish the money, for the best of reasons; the negroes have not money to do this sort of work. Most of this money will have to come from Northern pockets, if it comes at all. The State of New York is worth more in property returned for taxation than all the Southern States together—leaving out Missouri, counted in the census of 1880 among “Western States.”

THE JOHN F. SLATER FUND

Begins to do its blessed work. This fund is dedicated to the work of “Uplifting the lately emancipated population of the Southern States and their posterity, by conferring on them the blessings of Christian education,” and it seeks to accomplish this result by “the training of teachers among the people requiring to be taught.” This fund works through existing institutions; it does not found new schools; there are already more good and deserving schools than it can help. Many times the sum this fund affords could be wisely used.

There is not space in this article to discuss the question, but my opinion may be stated: It is necessary that the United States government should aid the States to make their public schools more efficient. Whatever may be true of other sections, the Southern States, owing to the facts of their history and to conditions now existing, are not able to do the work that is upon them.

As to the sentiment in these States on the subject of negro education, it may be said in brief: The outcry of small village papers does not always even reflect the sentiment of the people, and there are certain facts that indicate that the work of educating the negroes will go on with less and less hindrance. Three such facts I mention in closing this article: (1) The duty and necessity of educating the negro has been recognized by every representative church in the South. (2) This necessity is recognized in the educational system of every Southern State. (3) No man who believes he has any political or educational “future,” any longer opposes, under his proper name, the education of his negro fellow citizens.

* * * * *

Dress changes, but we are not to suppose on that account that the make of the body changes also. Politeness or rudeness, knowledge or ignorance, more or less of a certain degree of guilelessness and simplicity, a serious or playful humor; these are but the outer crust of a man, and may all change; but the heart changes not, and the whole of man is in the heart. One age is ignorant, but the fashion of being learned may come; we are all moved by self-interest, but the fashion of being disinterested will never come. Amidst the countless myriads of creatures born in the space of a hundred years, nature may perhaps produce two or three dozen of rational beings whom she must scatter over the world, and you can readily imagine that they are never found any where in such large numbers as to set the fashion of virtue and uprightness.—_Fontenelle._

MAN OF LEARNING, TELL ME SOMETHING.

By MARGARET MEREDITH.

I wonder if men could not be persuaded to alter their style of conversation with girls, to talk to us as they talk to men?

We have a feeling that learned young men are the dullest of talkers; not because they talk weightily; Oh, no! because they talk so lightly, and lightness is not their forte.

A diligent student, a very cormorant, perhaps, of knowledge, dons a white necktie and sallies forth, and resolutely leaves behind for the evening every material he has wherewith to make himself agreeable. He is not witty, he is too busy to be a gossip, he is too little in company to learn an easy jog of commonplace or compliment. So he sits on a sofa, and the girl makes some opening remark, to which he replies with studied interest; and at the pause she magnetically feels that it is best to make a longer remark this time. If she were talking to a lad, she might drift into expressing some of her real ideas, and find profit and pleasure in airing them; but for the amusement of this young savant, by no means. Still, at his next turn to speak, or the next, she has come suggestively near some subject worth talking of; if he were with a man he would instantly plunge in, and in five minutes they would be deep in discussion or description, sharpening their wits by every sentence, fixing what they have read, shaping their crude opinions, thoroughly enjoying each other; and for this they need not be equals in cultivation, nor altogether equals in mind.

Why should it be so different when talking with a woman? There is no reason, but habit. One says, “People dislike to talk shop; the busy scholar wants a rest.” On the contrary, most people, I think, would rather talk shop than anything else. If it is their life interest and their strong point, they have so much more to say. The truth is, they fear that the listener will object, and so “in company” they avoid it. I wager the listener would be delighted.

I do not write so much to those who can get up at will a brilliant flow of mere scintillation. That is a scarce enough article to be valuable. Yet they might use it occasionally on sense as well as on nonsense, and make themselves all the more notably entertaining.

I once knew a grave professional man who was said to be both clever and cultivated, but for me there seemed no possible way to enjoy him. His visits were the most empty occasions. He was “a desirable person to be visited by,” but he was unendurable; though he did not fail to be politely attentive in more ways than one. I was glad he was going away. Just then a mutual friend came on the scene, who had views on this matter. I know she gave him the benefit of them, as well as if she had told me; for such an amazing change I never saw. The passive sitter waked up, the bore became a charming talker, and all because he had taken his own permission to be agreeable in his natural way. I was so sorry when he left town!

That instance of transformation is what inspires my appeal. The thing would seem grounded and settled, incapable of cure, but what one exhortation can accomplish has been proved.

And it is a case in which the butterfly may well spring full-colored from the chrysalis, for the stuff that talk is made of is all there; not repartee, of course, or always brilliant expression for one’s thoughts and facts; but thoughts and facts very simply used make an evening world-wide different from a succession of laboriously-framed sentences carefully intended to be about something in which the man does not take any interest, and the woman sees he does not. Can we wonder that the sand-man has to be struggled with many a time by both parties? Young boys do not blink with sleep under your very eyes; but full-grown men often do, and largely because they insist on pursuing at thirty-five about the same topics of conversation that they used at eighteen.