SIGNS OF PROGRESS.
BY PRES. R.C. HITCHCOCK.
Every little while, some article giving ultra views of "The Problem," gets into the papers, sometimes painting a roseate-hued picture, and again some one, who does not find people of dusky hue all angels, writes that there is no hope; that all experiments leading to intellectual and especially to moral elevation are failures; and that she (as one wrote) is ready or almost ready, "to throw away the Bible and advise the negroes to be honestly heathen."
I will indicate a few plain signs of progress. The negroes are rapidly learning self-control. Six years ago, if a package was left in the hall over night, there would be signs in the morning that it had been meddled with. The contents might be all there—I have not found them greatly given to peculation, from the first—but they did not seem to have the power to resist the temptation to peep. Now, this is never done; a package of any kind may be left where it is freely accessible for weeks, and it will be untouched.
The first time a fire occurred in our neighborhood, what a panic there was! All were screaming and tearing about, trunks were dragged out of rooms, and one boy threw his out of a second story window. It was all we could possibly do to quiet them and restore order. Since then, there has been a fire so near as to scorch the rear fence and no panic, no screaming, hardly a student left his room. Formerly, on the receipt of bad news, as the intelligence of the death of a friend, it was not uncommon for one to have a fit of hysterics or something resembling it; now, such news is received with deep feeling indeed, and with tears, but no hysterics or fit of any kind.
There is, also, a grand growth in the sister virtue of gratitude. In this, they have more to overcome, probably, than in any other matter, for here they carry an inheritance of great weight, from the old slave days. Why should they be grateful? What chance to exercise the feeling! It became, like the eyes of the fish in the Styx of Mammoth Cave, useless, and to all appearances disappeared. But the germ is there, and with light it will again come to the surface.
I could cite scores of anecdotes. I will give but one, and I give this because it also illustrates a most loveable trait of character which abounds among these people—sympathy for suffering. Mrs. H. and myself started one day, to drive from New Iberia to the Avery salt mine, some ten miles distant. It was Monday following a hard Sunday's work speaking; it was as hot as days can be out in the Teche country, and when a little more than half way there, I was suffering from a terrific headache. We were too far to go back, and so drove on. Arrived at the "Island," we drove, as directed, to the boarding house, seeking a place where I could at least lie down, to find only a shed filled with tables, where the men ate, going elsewhere to sleep. I asked Mrs. H. to drive on and, holding on behind the carriage, was groping my way along, more dead than alive, when I heard a voice cry out, "Why, howdy, Professor, how ever came you here?" Glad was I to hear a friendly voice. It was that of a young girl who had been, some months before, a visitor at the University, and to whom I had given a little book and spoken some friendly words. My bread came back to me—a whole loaf for a crumb. All day long, she and her mother, who left her wash tub to attend to me, worked over my miserable head. A mile and more she ran in the burning sun for ice, and no herb that grew on "Petit Anse" from which a decoction could be made, was left untried, until ice, herbs, and a tough constitution prevailed, and I was able to ride home. I offered pay, but it was almost indignantly refused. I wish space would allow me to tell a hundred stories to illustrate their kind-heartedness, not only to each other, but to strangers, and even to their old masters and mistresses.
Their Christian faith is something wonderful. It has been my blessed privilege to be at the bedside of several young people as the death angel hovered near, and nowhere did I ever feel so near the pearly gates. Such pure faith and perfect confidence, such perfect resignation, one could almost hear the rustle of the wings as Azrael bent down to take the sweet spirit home.
They have gained much in stability of character. Frivolity and silly nonsense are not the rule. Our boys and girls who go out to teach, carry a load of responsibility with them. Some of the parishes have been almost entirely transformed by their work. Three of our boys last summer built the school houses in which they taught, the people contributing time, lumber and money, and they are the only school houses in the State, outside of the large towns, that were built for, or are fit for, the purpose. Two of them have halls above for meetings, are fitted up with blackboards, desks, etc. The stories our boys tell of their efforts to introduce modern appliances and methods, remind me of those I used to hear from the old veterans Barnard, Camp, and others, of their struggles in the early days in Connecticut.
They have grown in cleanliness and industry beyond expression. When I first came here, it was sometimes harder to get a bit of work done than to do it myself. Now, it is a pleasure to work with them.