Certain Beliefs and Superstitions of the Negro

— The negroes on our Southern plantations have apparently adopted with marvelous rapidity the customs, language, and religion of the race that brought them into slavery a mere century ago. Yet, though they seem so readily to h ve accepted the forms of worship of the dominant race, one finds, on looking closely into the matter, that they cling to some very barbarous beliefs and superstitions, and oftentimes these strange fancies are wrapped about with the garb of religion.

The negro has his church. His church has its bell that peals forth cheerily on Sunday morning. He has his Sunday-school, his inarching with banners, and his reading of essays on Children’s Day. He learns, and he sings wondrously well, many gospel hymns ; and we trust, in truth believe, that many of the great lessons of Christianity fix themselves in his heart and exhibit themselves in his life. Knowing all this, and seeing how he reaches toward the light, reaching out of the darkness of an ignorance near akin to barbarism, it is strange to note how he retards his progress toward the acquisition of clear light by clinging to purposeless and very curious superstitions.

For instance, it is surprising to learn that negroes of honesty and sobriety, who profess a desire to live better lives, are sometimes excluded from membership in these same churches because “ the candiduct,” as he is called, has not had “ a ’sperience ” of “ bein’ shuck over hell.” Such strange beliefs the negro treasures down deep in his heart ; beliefs of which his advancement in religion, education, and civilization — adopted all from the white man — takes no cognizance.

It is not often that we can lift a corner of that dusky brain curtain to catch a glimpse into that cloudy adytum where the moon shows herself a lump of ice, and the sun is considered to exhibit itself as a woman singing, singing, forever singing.

A few questions put at various times to the people of the dark race have brought to me answers which serve in some sort as glimpses into tiiat repository of quaint fancies.

I shall endeavor to transcribe a few of these replies as nearly as possible as the negro himself would give them.

“ What,” I once asked a negro, “ is your idea of this world we live in ? ”

“ Dee tell me,” was the answer, “ dat dis worl’ is a gre’t star ; but hit 'pear ter me ter be a gre’t big flower.”

Again I asked, “ What is thunder ? ”

To this came divers replies. One negro said that thunder was a round ball not larger than a boy’s toy marble. “It do make s’ much noise rollin’ ’caze hit ’s let loose film de hand of God.”

Another thought thunder was “ de movin’ of God’s feet on de sky, and de lightenin’ is de winklein’ of his eye.”

“What is wind ? ” I asked.

“ Hit’s a blaze,” was the reply ; “ hit’s red like fire, but hit’s cold. How does I know hit’s red ? ’Caze dem folks what can see wind is done tole me dat red is de color of hit. Some folks can see wind, and t’o’her folks can’t. Hogs can always see wind; dee des run and grunt when dee see hits whirlin’ redness. If any pusson will suck a sow, dat pusson will git power in his eyes to see wind. And whenever a wind rises, hit is risin’ on dyin’ breaf. Breaf of de dyin’ folks in de worril fills de wind’s wings and makes ’em strong.”

To the question, “What is air ?” came the answer, “ Hit ’s des low wind.” To the interrogation, “ Where does snow come from?” came the reply, “It is blowed off de tops de highest mountains.”

“ What are clouds made of ? ”

“ Made of all de smoke blowed up from de worril since de worril was made.”

“ Of what are the stars made ? ”

“ Dee is des halls of fire hung up in de sky.”

“How long will the stars hang in the sky ? ”

“ Dee will hang twel de Great Day of Jedgement. On dat day John will take a shinin’ broom in his hand, and he will sweep de sky clean of stars ; sweep de sky clean of stars like a woman sweeps a floor clean of dust. De stars will fall from his broom, and will bust wid blazes and great noise des ’fo’ dee touch de earth.”

“ You say the moon is a lump of ice; now what will become of that at the Last Great Day ? ” I have sometimes asked.

“Hit will drip away in blood.”

The queer recitation of ignorance continued somewhat after this manner : —

“What will become of the rocks ? ”

“Dee will des melt. De rocks? Dee des growed. Dee ’ll des agin melt away. De ocean ? Hit 'll only des bile away. De sun ? Well, you know de sun is a ’oman ; hit got face, hit got eyes, hit can see all you do. She sings, — she do sing all day long. As she rises she sings low, but when she gits such a distance up she sings loud ! All ’cross de high sky she sings loud, but when she gits seek a distance down she sings low agin. Dat’s de reason noises can’t carry far in de middle of de day ; de sounds air des deadened by de sun’s singin’. Nobody can edzactly hear what air de words of de song she sings, but ev’ybody is deefened by her hummin’, ’caze hearin’ her dee can’t hear no other noise to speak of.”

“ What,” I asked one wise in the doctrines of ignorance, “are those stars with long lights streaming from them ? ”

“ Macomet stars. Dee come fer signs of wars. And often is de times dat us see strange lights and quare shadows all over de worril in spots. I don’t know what dem be, but I does know dat de worril sometimes puts on mournin’. She puts on mournin’-close same like a widow ’oman. Is you notice dat dark shadow in de moon ? Dat’s a man, dat is. He put dar fer workin’ on a Sunday. Dat little shadder by him is his little dog. De little dog did n’t do no harm ; he des follered de man. When you see a rainbow,” continued my informant, “ you 'll des know den dat de moon is done got des behime de sun, and is lookin’ over her shoulder.”

I discover that there are various superstitions concerning the origin of the appearance of the rainbow. One old negro tells me that rainbows are kept in the bottom of brooks until such times as they are needed to “ pen de sky.” He tells me that he has seen a rainbow in the very act of rising from its watery bed.

“ How did the world look when it was new ? ” I once asked.

“ Mighty strange, — mighty strange. De jay-bird brung de first grit of dirt ever was brung ter dis earth. I don’t know how come he done dat, but I do know dat de jay-bird is ’bleeged ter go down ter de devil ev’y Friday des at one o’clock and carry a grit of dirt in his bill. Also, I can tell bow dar was no water in de worril twel de mournin -dove dug de fust spring ; she dug hit wid her bill. Also, I can tell bow, when de white dove flew out of de Noray’s Ark, she planted de first grain of corn [maize] dat ever had been planted on de earth. I can tell you, too, how de mockin’-bird stole dat first grain of corn. I know, I do, dat de robin did plant de first cedar-tree ever was in dis worril, De first fire was brung to de worril from de devil; hit’s long been quench fer ourns usin’, but dat left wid de devil, hit ain’t never done been quench, and never is ter be.”

I asked what sort of people were in the world when the world was new.

The reply came as follows : “ Many of de animals you see now was oncet folks, old-time folks ; dese big rattlesnakes, dee was one time bad folks. In de old days dee was changed ter snakes, and dee air des essentially dat way twel yit. Monkeys use ter be old-time folks also ; dee ac’ like folks yit. De squinch-owls, dem what shiver roun’ do house when a pusson gwine die, dee was all ole women when de worril was young. Dese moles dat you see burrowin’ underground, dee was old-time folks ; dee was too proud to walk on de groun’, and so dee was put under de groun’. Cats was oncet witches,—witcher-men and witcherwomen. De swamp-owls, dee was ole women also. Dee one time ’fuse ter give de Lord a piece of bread, as he walk here on de earth, so dee was indain ter be owls. All de ole folks tell me,” continued my informant, “dat dar use ter be three houses clost tog’er wherever you go, and dem three houses belong ter de Injun man, de fox, and de rabbit. De white man done drive off de Injun, done mos’ drive off de fox, but Brer Rabbit, he say he gwine stay.”

Besides these queer fancies of the causes of natural phenomena and of the world’s earliest history, they of the dark race have a strange, unwritten law concerning religious belief, custom, and expression with which every professor of religion must be familiar. To the unconverted they apply phrases like these : “still in de open fiel,”

“ settin’ on de sinner seat,” and many more of like nature. To the converted they apply phrases like these : “ He done been shuck over hell ; ” “ He’s done spilt de cup of damnation;” “He’s done broke de bonds ; ” “ He’s tryin’ on de gole waistband;” “He’s waggin’ Wid de cross;”

“ He’s shuck out de shine line gyarment, and he’s ready ter put hit on ; ” “ He ’s a shoutin’ member ; ” “ She’s a rockin’ Christian ;” “ He’s on prayin’ groun’ and pleadin’ terms ; ” “ She ’s done des come th’oo ; ” “He ’s done been led a far way ; ” “ She ’s sippin’ de cup of salvation ;” “ He ’s tuck a seat wid de member-men ; ” “ He’s gethered in ;” “ She ’s done told her ’sperience and she ’s done profess.”

The “ experiences ” that must be told before gaining admission to the church are sometimes marvelous, yet to one who has heard a repetition of many of these “ experiences ” there is observable in all an accord with certain unwritten laws.

Few sensations more startling to a fairly educated mind can be imagined than those that assail one after the hearing of several of these marvelous recitations of soul journeyings and soul experiences. The negroes who go through these soul ordeals are called “seekers.” One must be a “seeker” ere he can become a “ member.” Many of the negroes, during the time for “ seekin’ ’Iigion,” tie a cloth about the head, and all who “ seek ” are expected to drop all work and look very woe-begone. The seeker must be carried in spirit to heaven and hell, and he must give in church an account of these spirit-journeys.

Though many of these recitations of spiritual experiences are strangely absurd, some are really striking and poetic.

One negro who applied for church membership said that he had passed much of his time for seeking in spiritual wanderings through the lower regions. He was surprised to find the dwellers of that land apparently far less unhappy than he had been taught to believe them to he : so he asked his guide through this realm of darkness : “Brother, whar’s de fire? Brother, dis ain’t nigh as bad as folks up yonder tell us it is, for dee tell us dis place is fall of fire. Brother, whar ’s de fire ?” For reply his guide stopped, turned to his questioner, opened up his heart, — “same as a cook’oman opens a stove door,” — and all within his bared breast the horror-stricken seeker beheld a rolling, whirling sea of flame. “ For, oh, my brother,” cried the guide, “ hit’s widin, — de fire is widin ! ”

The negroes’ descriptions of the beauty of heaven rarely, if ever, touch on any note of the sublime. I have heard from them only accounts of passing through many doors, of houses of many rooms, of drinking from golden vessels, of walking over glittering bridges, of offering to gain admission to those great gates that they love to describe, “ a new heart.” The most absurd “ ’sperience ” I ever heard was that of a very old negro, who professed to have been granted a glimpse into the great gates of what constitutes their poor ignorant ideal of a happy beyond. He saw there, he said, an old “ fellow-servant,” one who had died but a short time before. He described the happy state of his old friend as follows : “ I seen him sittin’ high in heaven. I seen him wid de eye of faith. He was sittin’ right sider dat pool er molasses. He had a seat right under de fritter-tree dat grows by dat sweet pool, and des whenever he is so minded he do reach up his hand, and he do grab off a handful of dem good fritters dat hang thick on dat tree, and he do des reach over and dip dem fritters in dat pool, and eat des as commodious ! ”

It is in their hymns, unwritten by themselves save on their hearts, as one generation sings unto another, that the negroes preserve their best inspiration, their most fervid fancies. These hymns are rarely to be heard now, for they grow shyer day by day of singing those grand chants, those unique hymns, loved and sung often by them in their days of slavery. The younger generation, the negroes born “ since surrender,” though ambitious to learn the cheery and attractive songs taught in their “free schools,” are willing enough to let those marvelous melodies of their people drift into oblivion.