The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1904-06-07
THE OLD NEGRO.
A Glass That Is Dropping Out of
Southern Life.

looking decent IN picturesque rags, Is
fast dropping out of southern life His
''old woman" Waddling comfortably
under the big clothes basket or fol-
lowing proudly a sleeked up grand
baby of "we-all's folks" is a rare
figure now in SOuther towns. Even
the south ern winter is a fatal season
to the old Africans constitution
Every spring the ranks, pitiably thin
ner, shamble out into sunshiny streets
and alleys. with tolera BILE surety OF
falling with next winters SHOWS
Like his master, the former slave
has grown hoary in the struggle to
meet new conditions, but unlike his
master, he has not been able to con-
ouer. Worn with the struggle, he
drops out of life, with no successor in
his race, no bequeathment of himself
to history except through the dialect
story of the south. With him passes
Illustration of that unique relation be-
tween master and slave which pre-
served the old wine of bondage in the
new bottles of the nineteenth century
and left a peculiar cordially between
the two after emancipation.
The idiOm of the old Negroes dialect,
his hashlight phrases of feeling and
warm, shrewd imagery pass with him.
The inimita BILE slurs of his soft enun-
citation and comical, picturesque, mis-
called long words give a popularity
to his dialect which none other, not
even the Scotch, possesses for the pub
lie mind. The manner which he put
coat sets him apart in age as a gentle
man of cultured address. When he
stands at the back door bowling over
his ragged hat he discovers the truth
that elegance is acquired by associa-
ton, for the fineness of ante-bellum
parlors hangs on his old lisp and
obsequious gallantry. Every town in
the south has among its public char
acters one of these old negroes. To
have reached this present age he has
been necessarily of the uncommon, in
dustrious, sober type.
He has, if he is very old, given up
his patch" or his old horse has been
forbidden by the prevention of cruelty
society to creak about in his rickety
cart, or shiny young buck may have
displaced him as a janitor of some
public building. He only does odd
jobs about de place of old acqua1nt-
ances. He is shy of modern hustle,
and, avoiding public thoroughfares,
hobbies up back streets to a corner
where he is likely to meet some of
cole Marse's kinship of clan"
"Howdy, boss2 You's lOokin' well to-
day, you sho' is! You favor ole marse
jest de same ez when you useter ride
hinte (behind) me on ole mule jimmy.
Hits a powerful cole day. Vas sub, too
cole fer me to wuk today. Vas. sub, de
roometiz done cotch me in de back. 1
hain't ez peart ez common today, boss.
1t is not begging. No one could look
at Uncle Ishe quantity respectable in
his rags and bows. and call it begging.
But the boss sticks his fingers in his
vest pocket for loose change. If he has
not seen the old man lately he asks
about his old wife or Shiftless son or
daughter. If he has seen him with
too much frequency he doesn't hesitate
to tell MIN so rOundly, knowing, how
ever, It will not have the least effect on
Uncle Ishe's temperance. According
to the old mans account, his poverty
is always a temporary accident.
Hard times? No, subj TIE he, he!
Hard times don't no more MS ketch me
by de foot, an OATS jas when I hab my
roometiz. You nebber see dis niger
long but what he's laugnin', boss" in
confidential Importance, L haul mo
trunks week TO las dan any udder man
in tOwn@cepin', in course, de transfer
men-but my ole hOrse-yas, sab; vas,
sub, de same one" Strengthening in
proud defense OF her-"des a grabble in
err foot, boss, an I hab to res her
OATS all She'll be all right. A cook,
boss? Vas, sub, knows plenty dat
wants to cook, an calls deyselves cooks,
an mighty peart ter take de money for
cOOkin', but dey'S not fifteen to cook for
you. Desc var good fOr-nothin', no
count young niggers dat lazes round
all day an trollops rOun' all night, a
jinin' de brudders er dis an sisters
tudder, ez fifteen fer muffin but de peni-
temsheary, er de bad place. Dey han
slip, boss. Vas, subj An you won't
be shore uf notin' in de house, from de
ice in de freezeratOr ter Mis- Nirginy s
new fine close. I like ter 'commodate
you, boss Ga flash of Chesterfieldian
courtesy. an I kin SEN 'em rOun' ter
you-an I will effin you say so-but
dey's not what you want"
But more frequent now than this
meeting is a sudden summons from
Uncle Ishe to the young doctor
among the descendants of cole
Marse." All is done that can be done,
but on the street corner. in the office,
store and courtroom there is a mo-
a oF
nouncement that Uncle Ishe, old
Uncle Ishe, faithful remnant of a de-
parted day, is dead. There is a big
funeral among the negroes, and all is
over but tender memory with his
old white friends.
Outside of Charleston the old negro
now is the only stubborn aristOcrat in
the south. His pride in his owners
family is the same as when he served
in the parlOr as a slave, ariStOcratic
by reelection The family may be
poor, the sons and daughters working
for daily bread, but the old servitor,
he is still de quality" and the store
or Office where he works is trans
formed in his mind into a sort of So
cial annex to the old souths elegance.
Nearly every southern family has
some such old negro to call round
yearly. If not the old man, the old
woman in her stout cape or starched
sunbOnnet, and whatever the weather
the inevitable umbrella her badge of
responsibility She refuses to take the
chair pressed upon her unless she is
so old that her feeble limbs accept it
as a necessity before she brings her
call to an end.
The visit formerly was cheerful.
greeting ole Miss and seeing who
the grand-babies favored: but "OIe
MISS chair has been empty many
years, her daughter is grandmother
now, on whom the ends of life have
come. The babies are grown and are
marrying, and death has chosen the
brightest and best. Lack of commu-
nication between the old negro's alley
and her white folks" often leaves the
old woman pitiably ignorant of great