Chapter XII: Jamaica as I Saw It (2)

One day Miss Maxwell Hall, riding among the hills, came upon, as she had done hundreds of times before, a pleasant little river which full to the brim, for the rains had been heavy, wandered along between plantations of sugar-cane. Presently she came to a gate, and as it had never occurred to her to do before, she opened it and rode in. The river widened, the hills closed in, and the trees grew denser, and she found herself riding along a dank, dark path overhung with rose-apple trees and mangoes, and as these trees do when it is very damp, all the leaves were turning black and covered with mildew, the river ended in a dark pool underneath, a pool of deep, black water that poured itself away underground. The ground was sodden and wet, and reeking of decay. The air was heavy and contaminated, and the black leaves of the rose-apple trees shut out the light and were themselves apparently lifeless, or perhaps rather they were reeking with a sinister, evil life. Had she found a pool where witches met, or where the Obeah men wove their ghastly spells? Her very horse's hoof-beats were muffled in the foul and rotten vegetation underfoot.

She made her way back into the brilliant tropical sunshine, which was but a little way off. Leaning against the gate was a man idly chewing a bit of sugar-cane.

“What place is that?” she asked.

He looked up at her.

“It belongs to de church,” he said.

“Belongs to the church!” she said. “Then, why on earth don't they clear away some of those mouldy old apple trees?”

“Huh!” said he, “dey likes it dat way. It be Baptism Hole!”

And so it was, the place used for one of the most important ceremonies of the Baptist church!

They fear still these people, I am afraid, some of them some unknown terrible power.

At Kempshot Pen there is an observatory built by the late Mr Maxwell Hall, who installed there a telescope, because he was an astronomer. Always his daughter used to help her father in his lifetime, and on one occasion there came to her no less a person than the schoolmaster from the nearest village, seeking information about the stars. She gave him a couple of elementary books, and suggested that he should come up some evening and look through the telescope. He came, a black man, immaculately clad in a neat tweed suit, a high starched collar, a silken tie and--a machete was concealed under his arm up his coat.

His hostess was very much astonished, but she said nothing, only suggested he should look at the full moon through the telescope. He assented, spent an instructive evening, and then over rum and water and cake opened his heart.

There were two opinions in the village, he said, and he himself had not known which to believe. One was that the squire opened the roof, and putting up the long tube drew down the stars and examined them, the other that he went up through the tube to the stars and moon! Now he knew.

But, mark you, what a step upward it means that this man should come to enquire, even with a machete under his arm.

They say that the last census gave half the people of marriageable age in Jamaica as married, but had I not been told that, I should have thought with Lady Nugent that the Jamaican woman did not think much of matrimony. What she does want is a child, and a child she very often has, no matter what teachers and preachers may say to the contrary. Sometimes a couple, when they have got over the flush and restlessness of youth, will live together peaceably and happily, either married or unmarried, but the average Jamaican peasant girl--I do not say all, but many certainly--will often have a child before she settles down. As in Africa, it is motherhood that counts first.

I discussed the matter with Christy, who presided over the forlorn stone-paved cavern called a kitchen when I first arrived in Jamaica. Christy was a wild-looking lady with her hair on end, bare feet of course, and a ragged skirt. She had been comely in her own way, but she was as dirty as she was unkempt, and decidedly as useless. She had, however, great dramatic powers and could tell a story. She had three children and she displayed them with pride.

No husband was in evidence, so I concluded rashly she was a widow.

“Oh no, missus. My husban' he get intelligence an' he leff me.”

I didn't wonder at his leaving her. I was only surprised that he did not “get intelligence” before she had three children.

“I got 'nother chile,” said she, as if fearing these three did not do her justice, “a white chile.”

I wasn't accustomed to Jamaican ways then and I was startled. The three before me could hardly have been blacker.

“Him's fader white colonel,” said she proudly, and she mentioned a well-known name in the island, “him's fader very good to me. Have him before I get married.”

I suppose I looked a little surprised.

“Not do that in England?” asked Christy, seeking information, and I mendaciously assured her that every woman in that favoured land waited till she went to church and wore a ring before she had a child.

I was introduced to the white son later on, a great hulking mulatto with rather a sullen air, and I noticed that the son born out of wedlock was treated with great respect by the sister and brothers who in England would be counted the more fortunate. They all called him “massa.” But he was good to his wild-looking mother, and brought her and her family many presents. I was not surprised that she was very proud of the colonel's son.

Then came Rebekah, who took her place when we could stand Christy and her brood no longer.

Rebekah had a child, and was openly proud of him. We always discussed him when she kneaded the bread, and I stood over her to see that she did it, because if I had not, she would have considered that kneading as done.

“Missus looking lovely,” said Rebekah, “in her pink dress.” Missus' dress wasn't pink and she didn't look lovely, but I suppose Rebekah considered it a good way to open the morning. Perhaps if I felt she considered me lovely, I might ease up on the bread kneading. I never did, but she never failed to try. Then she told me about her “chile.”

“Yes, missus, de fuss' chile I get he die.”

“Ah, that was sad. And what was his name?”

“Him name Lily. Den I pray to the Lard an' He give me anoder.”

“And your husband--” I began.

“Oh, missus, I get no husban'. He's fader, Amos Hussy, very good man he's fader, help me with de chile.”

“A white man?” I asked, remembering Christy's colonel.

“Oh, missus!”--she stopped kneading--“if he white I be rich woman. He a cultivator. Very good man.”

But Frances the laundry woman was franker still. She brought with her her son “Hedgar,” aged eight, and she explained--

“Hedgar's fader very proud of him, tink most of Hedgar, more'n all his sons. He want me to leave him an' he keep him, but I say 'no.' Hedgar de on'y chile I get, mus' keep him, an' I get no work in dat country,”

That far country was about twelve miles off.

But the other sons were a little mystifying; however, she kindly explained, being a talkative soul.

“He get four sons by four women, all about de same age, but he tink most of Hedgar.”

I really felt a little delicacy about pursuing enquiries any further, but Frances felt none. It was commonplace to her.

“He get married,” she chortled, “an' his wife give him no chilluns!”

Frances let me in for sanctioning immorality with a vengeance. She had a room in which she and Edgar slept, and she kept herself while I paid her the magnificent sum of 7s. a week. Too little, I admit. But what was I to do? It was higher than the wages around, and she certainly wasn't worth what she got. Still she apparently felt no lack, for when I saw a strange girl about the place, I was informed it was Frances' cousin come to stay with her in the country for a change! And when the cousin was gone, seeing I said nothing, she came to me and told me that the man she was going to marry wanted to come and see her.

“An' he say, missus, he want to come like a man an' not hidin'. Say, ask missus, let him come.”

I was struck with the nice feeling on the man's part, and cordially gave my permission, though I must say I was surprised at its being asked.

He came one night after I had gone to bed and next morning he was engaged in chopping wood for the cook. And then I found to my dismay that he and Frances and Edgar shared her room!

What was I to say? My leave had been asked. So I shut my eyes and said nothing, and the gentleman stayed a fortnight, and then sent in to know what present I was going to give him before he went away!

I suppose to the average stay-at-home middle-class English woman this state of things sounds shockingly immoral, but after all is it not that things are here done openly that in other places are done under the rose.

Up and down Jamaica have I been, and I can honestly say that the average Jamaican peasant woman looks happy. Nay, she looks more than happy, for happiness may be a passing condition, the majority of the Jamaican peasant women look entirely content. There is no unspoken longing in a peasant woman's face, she is quite satisfied.

“Missus,” said Leonie persuasively, “me kindly begging you leff me sleep home.” Now Leonie had sworn by all her gods that she would stay at her post all night, so enquiries were made and it was found “me cousin” was going to have a baby in six weeks, and as it was her first, very naturally she did not like being alone at night. But what about her husband? Oh, she hadn't a husband. Whatever made missus think that? The father? “Oh, he nice young man, he helping her a lot, but he too young, not worth marrying.”

“Missus, kindly begging--” insinuatingly.

Well, of course, Leonie spent her nights with the expectant young mother, and everybody was satisfied.

The real trouble is that these poor little children thus brought into the world are often not properly looked after. How can a young woman keep herself and her child on 7s. a week, and that is more than the majority of them get? And so often it ends in a pitiful little white coffin with a forlorn little wreath of fern upon it, carried on a man's shoulder to the graveyard. I have seen them often. There are no followers, though the Jamaican loves a funeral.

“Not worth while,” said Malvina when I asked why no one went to the poor little baby's funeral.

Not that the women do not help each other. The fat, smiling cook at Kempshot who could make most excellent omelettes, had not only her own child to keep, but two of her dead sister's. She was not married, neither had the sister been. But will any of the virtuous venture to cast a stone! Who amongst us who pride ourselves upon our decent lives would do as much. But again the difficulty crops up. Those children will grow more and more expensive. How can she start them in the world?

Sometimes these children are “lent out.” It is a curious custom in the country, the survival of the old slave days when there were numerous stable helpers and servants in the Great House, and a child was sent by his mother there and became the understudy of an understudy, and so learned about horses or gardening or housework. Now, of course, there are no white people whose houses are open in such fashion, but it is no uncommon thing for a child to be “lent out” by its mother to some small cultivator, either to do housework or to work in the fields for his or her food or clothes. The food is plain and, often like the clothes I am afraid, scanty.

Miss Maxwell Hall was called out one morning to interview a miserable-looking little boy, about as high as the table, who in a ragged shirt and pants stood in the chill of early morning at her gate, holding a still more miserable-looking little white dog on a string.

He had come to see missus, he said; he had waited all night to see her, waited in the cold and wet, poor child, for it is cold in the hills to these people. His mammy had lent him out to Mr----------” over on the hill yander,” and someone had given him the puppy, which he loved dearly. And every bone in that poor little dog was plainly visible, his master did not give the little boy much, but he provided nothing at all for the dog. So last night Mr---------- had set his dinner down and gone out for a moment, and while he was away the little starving dog had wolfed the lot and then wisely run away and hidden in the bush. Upon the small owner fell the dinner-less man's wrath and he beat him, beat him with a board with nails in it, and he displayed to the horrified girl the marks of that castigation. Then he had fled away, recovered his dog and come to her for protection. Poor little “lent out” child!

But all masters and mistresses are not so cruel. Many are kindly enough and share what they have with their dependents. The trouble is that they are ignorant, they do not know how to make the most of the opportunities that are theirs.

When I lived at the Hyde among the hills in Trelawny, the people used to come down to the Great House to see us and sell us eggs and fruit--often I am afraid our own eggs and our own fruit--and they used to beg a little. Retinella, whom I knew had fowls, and who was I think honest, used to bring a dozen eggs for sale, and then produce a very tiny bottle.

“Missus, I kindly begging you a little scent, going to a wedding”--or a funeral. Both these entertainments required perfuming, and there were more of them I am sure than the population could possibly stand.

But they did not always beg and they did not always sell. Sometimes they would bring a few heads of corn, a yam or a sour sop, and when payment was offered it would be, “Missus, I kindly giving it you. You give me things, you never let me give you things.” So then we would accept gratefully, and cast about to see what return could be made without it being too patent that we were giving something for value received.

The town man likes to see himself in print, and not only the letters in the _Gleaner_, the principal Jamaican paper, but the advertisements show his sentiments.

I think the first thing that struck me was the many advertisements for straightening the hair. I am accustomed in these northern latitudes to see many prescriptions offering a permanent wave that no damp will affect, and I have seen not only women but young men with their hair carefully “Marcelled” with the curling tongs, so why I should be amused at the man who wants the kink taken out of his locks I do not know. There are certainly many men and women who do desire it.

But where the coloured man really spreads himself out is in the matrimonial advertisements. They are a constant source of delight.

Sometimes a lady wants to be married. Here is one who is beginning early--

“To Marry,” the advertisement is headed. “A lady eighteen years of age wants a husband” (no beating about the bush, plain statement of fact); “must be from a respectable family. Fair or white preferred. Enclose photograph; please send name and address.--Apply Miss G., c/o _Gleaner_, Kingston.”

“Bride Wanted,” says another advertisement; but the gentleman who wants has an eye to the main chance. “To correspond with a lady of some independent means with the view of marriage; any colour except white, must be good at sewing; March born preferred.--Apply 'Businessman,' Williamsfield P.0.”

“Any colour except white” is, of course, sheer defiance.

But it is the advertisements of those who rather wish the knot had never been tied that are the most amusing.

“Notice.--My wife, Sophia Junor, having left my home from the 31st day of May in my sick bed, and up to this date having not returned, this is to warn the public that I do not hold myself responsible for any debt she might contract. Matthias Junor, Bath P.O., Knockands.”

Very often the complaining man warns the public that he intends to marry again, as “I cannot manage myself.” Sometimes he puts it in much more grandiloquent language.

“My wife, Mrs Henrietta Scott, has not been under my protection for the last twenty-one years, 1899 to 1920, and I am not aware of her existence outside of Jamaica. Unless I am put in possession of information as to whether she is living or not, I shall proceed to enter into contract of matrimony. Joseph Scott, Windward Boad, Kingston, 12th July 1920.”

On other occasions the lady has something to say on the subject.

“Notice.--I, Edith Phinn, hereby beg to notify the public that my chief cause to leave my husband was this: He has ill-treated me and threatened to shoot me with his revolver, and I am now residing at my families residence, 50 Cumberland Road, Spanish Town.”

I do like “my families residence.”

And yet another indignant lady--

“Notice.--I beg to inform the public that I have not left the care and protection of my husband as stated by him” (I do regret that I missed his advertisement), “and furthermore all his real and personal belongings are for myself and his four children. We are living in his home, I never left it even for a day. So I therefore warn the public not to transact any business with him without my consent.--(Mrs) M. E. Sibblies, Lewis Store, Clonmel, P.O.”

A lady who can take care of herself!

I suppose nobody quite realises what it is that appeals to a man in the woman he takes. Presumably there is usually some strong attraction, and yet there is a story told in Jamaica, a perfectly true story I believe, which makes me feel that some people are either easily satisfied or exceedingly accommodating.

There were brides and grooms and bridesmaids and ushers, and much excitement and confusion and giggling, but the parson went on gravely with the ceremony, trusting by his correct demeanour to bring these dark children of the church to a realisation of the solemnity of the sacrament in which they were taking part. But they would not calm down.

“I think--” he began severely, when the last words had been spoken, but an usher, who had been particularly objectionable, interrupted him, and he gave him the attention now he had denied him during the service.

“But sali, but minister,” stammered the excited gentleman in a high collar, “you's married de wrong woman on to de wrong man!”

Now I, being a common-sense heathen, should have been tempted to say, like the clergyman officiating at Easter-time marriages in the Potteries, when ten or twelve couples are married at once, “Now, sort yourselves.” It seems to me it is the intention that counts. But our clergyman was made of different stuff. He firmly believed he had bound indissolubly men and women who did not desire each other, and in much consternation he retired to his study and sat there with his head in his hands, wondering what on earth he should do.

Meanwhile, the wedding party also discussed the matter. And presently the much-troubled parson heard a tap at his door.

“Come in,” he said gloomily, and in came the wedding parties, all wreathed in smiles.

“Well, minister,” said the spokesman amiably, “we's been tarkin' an' tarkin' an' we's 'greed to mak' ta change!”

And the parson was mightily relieved. He did not understand how lightly matrimony sits upon the negro.

But that surely was nothing to the predicament of the lady who took her baby to be christened, and announced at the font in answer to the question, “How do you name this child?”

“Call de chile Beel-ze-bub.”

“Oh, but that's not a proper name for a child,” cried the horrified minister.

The proud mother looked at him doubtfully.

“But I get him outer de Bible.”

“But I tell you it's a wicked name,” asseverated the minister.

She sighed. All the trouble to be gone through again.

“Den, minister, what I call him?”

“Well, call him John if you want a Bible name. That's in the Bible.”

Still the woman felt vaguely there was something wrong.

“You sure dat good name for him, minister”--very earnestly.

“Oh yes, quite sure,” said the minister, anxious to put as far behind them as possible the dreadful scandal of Beelzebub.

So John the baby was christened, and the mother carried it outside and the minister came out and did the benevolent pastor to her and her friends.

“De chile's name am John,” announced the mother.

“Hoo! John!” snorted a neighbour with more knowledge, “but amn't de piccaninny a gal?” And sure enough she was.

Leonie, being sent on a message, returned nonchalantly and empty-handed.

“But, Leonie, where's the parcel?” Leonie smiled non-committally.

“But, surely, if they didn't give you a parcel they gave you a letter?”

“Oh yes, missus,” agreed Leonie readily, “dey give me a paper but he lose he's self on de way up.” And of course there was no more to be said.

My wrath was as nothing to the wrath of a lady who wanted a pergola made exactly like one she had already that had been up for three or four years and was nicely covered with roses.

She took the negro carpenter and showed him the pergola, measured it under his eyes, gave him the measurements and the lumber, and left him to make another on the other side of the house. Then, alas, she went away for the day. When she came back, to her horror and dismay she found her original pergola, all covered with its nicely-tended creepers--the work of years--had been taken down, stripped of its greenery, laid on the ground, and the thoughtful and careful carpenter was engaged in measuring it so as to make the new one exactly like it! What she said I don't know, but incidents like this help me to understand the punishments the slaves received of yore.

This same woman's husband happened to say casually to his carter that he would want him to go into Montego Bay, 16 miles away, the next day. Next day he found carter and team missing, and could only use bad language. They did not return till long after dark.

“Well, boss,” said the driver cheerfully, “I been to Kerr's, an' I been to Hart's, an' I been to--” and he mentioned half a dozen places--“an' I wait an' wait, an' I wait, an' I go back an' dey none get nothen' for yous.''

“Why, you fool,” said his angry master, “you ought to have come to me, I had something I wanted you to take into town.”

After all, the uneducated negro is not the only fool in the world, and though I laugh, I feel very kindly towards the sinners.

But, sometimes, their foolishness harmed themselves, though I am bound to say that was not their view of the case.

One of my neighbours, a very kindly American, being told by her boy that he wanted to go off early on Christmas Day, thoughtfully asked him if he would then rather have the money instead of the Christmas dinner. He considered a moment, and to her surprise elected to have the dinner.

On Christmas Day, immediately after the first breakfast, which is very early in the tropics--seldom after seven, often long before--she went into the kitchen to give her orders for the day, and there to her great surprise she saw her boy tucking into his Christmas dinner which the cook had cooked for him.

“Me eating it now, missus,” he explained with a grin.

“But, Howard!” cried the lady, “how can you possibly eat your dinner immediately after breakfast?”

“Wanting a long day,” he explained, and the explanation seemed to him perfectly natural.

His mistress knew that boy. There is a negro pudding made of grated coconut, coconut milk, corn-meal and sugar, baked. Not a bad pudding if a little is taken, but Howard one day got outside a large pie-dish full, and then came rubbing his stomach and groaning to his mistress.

“Why, Howard,” she said a little severely, “I should think you did have indigestion. Why didn't you put half that pudding away till to-morrow?”

“Ah, missus,” he said, “when he in dish, pudding hab two masters. Now------” No, words were unnecessary. He'd certainly got that pudding.

I suppose his case was on a par with that of the woman servant in the same place who, usually going barefoot, appeared on that same Christmas morning of 1920 in a pair of elaborate boots, very high-heeled and much too small for her. She could hardly totter when she came to wish her master and mistress a happy Christmas before setting out on her holiday. Her mistress said nothing. She had exhausted herself over Howard, but her husband, the old doctor, took it upon himself to remonstrate.

“Oh, Alice, how can you wear such boots!”

“Ony for to-day, doctor,” she said insinuatingly, “on'y jus' for to-day!” A long holiday meant for enjoyment, in boots too tight for her, with heels raised at least a couple of inches--imagine the agony of it.

But if the ignorant negro is foolish, his foolishness is as nothing sometimes to that of the white man who sets out to help and improve him.

Britain is not always wise in the Governors she chooses, though the Governor in a small community is a powerful means to good. There was one wellmeaning man in an island that shall be nameless, who was certainly most desirous to help the black people, therefore it occurred to him one day to send a telegram to a rich planter of his acquaintance, asking him to come and see him as he had something of importance to discuss with him. Now, a request from a Governor is almost a royal command, but our planter knew his Governor. He was busy, and he did not there and then dash off and travel the many miles that lay between him and Government House. Still, since his estate was a long way off, he came at some inconvenience to himself.

And the first greetings over:

“You have the welfare of your people at heart, Mr--------?”

“Surely, sir.”

“I wanted to know--would you be prepared to put up a picture show?”

“On my place, sir?”

“Why, yes, of course, for the benefit of your hands.”

“But--but----I'm at least five-and-twenty miles from the port, and the port is at least six days from New York, and----”

“Yes, of course, I know that.”

“And where am I to get fresh pictures?”

The Governor looked attentive.

“They would come to the first show,” explained the planter patiently, “and enjoy it, they would come to the second night, the third night they'd grumble, and after that they'd laugh at me for a fool.”

“H'm--ha--h'm. Well, what about dancing? They're fond of dancing?”

“Of course.”

“Would you put them up a dancing hall?”

“With a floor?”

“Of course.”

And the planter sighed again for his wasted time, for everyone--except this Governor apparently--knows that the West Indian negro dances every night of his life very happily on the bare earth by the light of the stars or the moon! And I agree with the planter such exercise is a great deal more wholesome taken in the fresh air as the plantation hands are content to take it.

That planter went home an angry man, and he was met by his still more angry head man, who had taken his boots to be mended.

“Massa--massa--” he stammered furiously, “dat man--dat tief--boots no mended--he wearing dem. Massa--massa, can I have him up for breach of promise?”

But if anyone is really interested in peasant life in Jamaica he should read the books of Herbert de Lisser, C.M.G., whose country will some day be deeply grateful to him that he has--among other things he has done for her--portrayed to the life a type that is rapidly passing away.

Mr Harrison, the Custos of Manchester, tells me that the negro is becoming proud. It is the first step upward. He will not always beg, however great his need. He will not if he can help it acknowledge his poverty. He told me how upon one of his sugar estates he found that for some time the cook he had engaged to cook for the working women, who were supposed to provide the material for breakfast, had nothing to do. The women had no food to be cooked. But they never complained, hungry they quietly went to work. He therefore instructed his “busha” to supply yams or plantains or cocos and coconut oil sufficient for a good breakfast for each woman. They accepted it gratefully, and they did a far better day's work afterwards. This same gentleman told me how the little children are like their parents, becoming proud and self-respecting. They are very poor in that parish where a former wasteful generation has denuded the mountains of trees to grow coffee, and so interfered with the rainfall--but do you think the children are going to acknowledge their poverty? Oh, they have taken their dinners to school, and if you doubt it, they hold up their little tin pails proudly. Not for worlds would they take off the cover and show that inside is that most uninteresting of all foods, cold boiled yam and not, I am afraid, sometimes enough of that.

No one will ever taunt such women and children with being servile. Never!

As I write this, I come across an extract from an old writer on the negro slave which is worth quoting, the contrast is so great.

“Negroes,” he says, “are crafty, artful, plausible, not often grateful for small services, deceitful, overreaching... they are avaricious and selfish, giving all the plague they can to their white rulers, little ashamed of falsehood and even strongly addicted to theft.” But still even he admits “he has some good qualities mingled with his unamiable ones. He is patient, cheerful and commonly submissive, capable at times of grateful attachments where uniformly well treated, and kind and affectionate towards his kindred and offspring.” And he goes on to say how tender are the negro mothers. In fact, even he had to acknowledge that the great bulk of the negroes were beyond the master's observation, and we of later date can see for ourselves that the faults he complains of are not peculiar to negroes, but are the common faults of the slave.

As yet, however, the man of African race is often something of a slavish imitator of things European. He struts and boasts of his progress exactly as children do. After all, he has had such a toilsome way to climb since Britain bestowed upon him freedom and poverty, is it to be wondered at if occasionally he has gone a little astray.

A little while ago the Hon. Marcus Garvey visited Jamaica, and black Jamaica celebrated his arrival by a full page advertisement in the _Gleaner_ with a very large picture--a little smeared in the printing--of the gentleman in question, the most noticeable feature of which was his large expanse of white waistcoat.

“Big Meetings & Concerts” (announced the advertisement in largest type) “Arranged All Over the Island to Hear Hon. Marcus Garvey. Elected Provisional President of Africa, President General of the Universal Negro Improvement Association and” (oh bathos!) “President of the Black Star Line Steamship Corporation.

“He will be in Jamaica nine days and will speak as follows------”

And then a list is given of the places at which he will speak, and the subjects on which he will speak, and it also announces that as President General of his Association he will appear on these nights in his robes of office.

At the bottom of the page it says in large type that Marcus Garvey was elected by twenty-five thousand delegates to the World Convention of Negroes in New York last summer as the First Provisional President of Africa.

This is delicious! I don't want to laugh at the black man, but I think it's a serious clog on his upward career to elect Presidents in this casual manner. I have seen the only attempt at modern civilised government in Africa by the black man, and I can only condemn it as a dismal failure, why, then, should the men of negro descent take upon themselves to elect for the negroes in Africa a President without a with or by your leave. It is really much as if the Americans in New York decided to elect a President General of Europe or Asia without reference to the feelings of the peoples of those continents. Of course, it may be merely a term of endearment--if so, I have nothing to say against it. Everybody to their taste. President of the Negro Improvement Association is quite another matter. We all wish that society well, so well we would not have it weakened by any comic opera blandishments, and President of the Black Star Line is quite legitimate, even though it is a little--well--just a little consequential, for the “Black Star Line” is composed as yet of but one steamer, the _Yarmouth_, under 1000 tons. The first time she came into Kingston harbour, black Kingston went hysterical with delight. That a ship should sail with a black captain, and manned by a black crew, seemed to it an amazing thing. When the dark man makes a fuss over a ship run by his own people, he is saying in effect--“We are children as yet, but you see we are growing up. We are coming into our own.”

It seems to me the negro's great fault is that he is bombastic and claims too much. Marcus Garvey and his crowd are I suppose the natural reaction from the years of ghastly slavery, when a black man could not even own himself. Of course we only notice those who come strutting ridiculously before the footlights. I know there is many and many a negro as decent, upright, and self-respecting a man as his white confrère, but the trouble is we do not notice him beside his more boastful brother.

That the negro does want his interests looking after I have not the slightest doubt. Our servants used to come to Eva who was clever with her needle to cut out their clothes for them, and it was wicked to see the stuff which those poor girls, whose pay was only 6s. and 7s. a week, used to buy at ridiculously high prices. I have seen 1s. 6d. and 1s. 9d. a yard paid for unbleached calico that could not possibly have cost the seller 1 1/2d. a yard. And it had been bought at a negro shop, they were, in fact, imposed upon by men of their race.

How these things are to be corrected I know not. Education I suppose, and education we must remember is not the mere teaching of reading and writing. I am sorry to say I doubt sometimes if the authorities in Jamaica are giving the Jamaican the best education that they can.

“Dear Mrs-------- is so good.” That is, good for the negroes. They wouldn't even ask her to dinner because she is not amusing. They would laugh very much at the idea of themselves subscribing to her standards of life.

No wonder we get inflated gentlemen proclaiming themselves “Provisional President of Africa!”

For the negro is capable of better things. It is a great shame that certain of his numbers should make him a laughing-stock.

When first the idea of contingents of West Indian soldiers for the World War was mooted, there was opposition. It would be such a bad thing for the negro, it would give him an extravagant idea of his own value, the country on the return of its soldiers might look forward to discontent in a certain section, might even fear outrage and rapine.

But I think the contrary has been the case. Exceptions of course there must have been. I should not like to set out to count the exceptions among the white returned soldiers, but the average Jamaican soldier settled down quietly to his work in his own country, worked all the better because he had been counted a citizen of the Empire, was proud that his thews and sinews had helped mightily in the great struggle, was glad to be received at last on equal terms by men of the colour that so long had held him in bondage.

I hold, and hold very strongly, that the very first step in the upraising of either a man or a people is the cultivation of proper pride.

Read this letter I received from a doctor in the Cameroons during the war--

“Certainly the wickedest three hours,” he wrote concerning a night attack up country, “I ever put in.” We could not guess the range in the cloudy moonlight. The Germans held a hill, we had not a scrap of cover, the breast-high grass prevented charging, and also made the men stand up to shoot. By 6.30 a.m. the Germans cleared out precipitately, leaving us in possession of a very good camp.

“The men were splendid. Tmoru Calfa, a sergeant-major, shot through the spine high up, lay down by his section and controlled their fire. He died next day. His was only one instance of their conduct.”

When the Great Roll is called, not among the least surely will be found the name of that sergeant, pagan from the north of the Gold Coast, who, being shot high up in the spine, lay down beside his men, controlled their firing and died next day. Not the Unknown Warrior buried in Westminster Abbey could have done more.

Which man will the negro race in future years think upon more gladly as its representative, Marcus Garvey or Tmoru Calfa?

The coming of the negro race to the New World marks a most extraordinary phase in the world's history. They came unwillingly as slaves, and as slaves they were held with all the ignominy inseparable from that condition. Of the race in America I know nothing save what little I have seen in the streets of New Orleans, where they seem as far apart from the ruling race as the mountain tops in Jamaica are from the river-beds. But in Jamaica, whatever there may have been in the old days, there is now no such cleft. There is, of course, a difference, but it is a difference that is passing, that will pass as the years go on and the dark man fits himself to take his place in the world as the social equal of the white.

Already he sits in the Legislature. He has come a long, long way up from the chained savage brought in the slave ships. I hope that if a dark man reads this book he will not think unkindly of me for writing as if there were a difference between black and white. There is, it would be foolish to ignore it, but it is only the difference of education and training. We must remember that in past ages the Anglo-Saxon stood in the market-place in Rome chained and in slavery, that blue eyes and flaxen hair marked the savage, and dark complexion and black eyes the civilised man. The time of servitude of the black man is a little closer. He has to come up the same stony path that the white man trod, and he will do it more easily and more quickly--he is doing it--because the white man has prepared the way.

And I say that deliberately, knowing all the hardships that the white man has inflicted, for when I talk of the time of servitude of the blacks in the West Indies, you, my readers, will do me the justice to own that I have by no means glossed over the crudities and the foolishness and the brutality of men of my own colour. But the world is changing, changing fast. It is a better place to live in in this twentieth century, it will be a better place still as the years roll on, and the black man like the white will come into his own.