The Strength of Gideon and Other Stories by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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"Look a-hyeah, Brothah Simon, whut's dis I been hyeahin' 'bout you,
huh?"

"Well, sis' Lize, I reckon you'll have to tell me dat yo' se'f, 'case
I do' know. Whut you been hyeahin'?"

"Brothah Simon, you's a ol' man, you's ol'."

"Well, sis' Lize, dah was Methusalem."

"I ain' jokin', Brothah Simon, I ain' jokin', I's a talkin' right
straightfo'wa'd. Yo' conduc' don' look right. Hit ain' becomin' to you
as de shepherd of a flock."

"But whut I been doin', sistah, whut I been doin'?"

"You know."

"I reckon I do, but I wan' see whethah you does er not."

"You been gwine ovah to de wes' plantation, dat's whut you been doin'.
You can' 'ny dat, you's been seed!"

"I do' wan' 'ny it. Is dat all?"

"Is dat all!" Lize stood aghast. Then she said slowly and wonderingly,
"Brothah Simon, is you losin' yo' senses er yo' grace?"

"I ain' losin' one ner 'tothah, but I do' see no ha'm in gwine ovah to
de wes' plantation."

"You do' see no ha'm in gwine ovah to de wes' plantation! You stan'
hyeah in sight o' Gawd an' say dat?"

"Don't git so 'cited, sis' Lize, you mus' membah dat dey's souls on de
wes' plantation, jes' same as dey is on de eas'."

"Yes, an' dey's souls in hell, too," the old woman fired back.

"Cose dey is, but dey's already damned; but dey's souls on de wes'
plantation to be saved."

"Oomph, uh, uh, uh!" grunted Lize.

"You done called me de shepherd, ain't you, sistah? Well, sayin' I is,
when dey's little lambs out in de col' an' dey ain' got sense 'nough
to come in, er dey do' know de way, whut do de shepherd do? Why, he go
out, an' he hunt up de po' shiverin', bleatin' lambs and brings 'em
into de fol'. Don't you bothah 'bout de wes' plantation, sis' Lize."
And Uncle Simon hobbled off down the road with surprising alacrity,
leaving his interlocutor standing with mouth and eyes wide open.

"Well, I nevah!" she exclaimed when she could get her lips together,
"I do believe de day of jedgmen' is at han'."

Of course this conversation was duly reported to the master and
mistress, and called forth some strictures from Mrs. Marston on Lize's
attempted interference with the old man's good work.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Eliza, that you ought. After the
estrangement of all this time if Uncle Simon can effect a
reconciliation between the west and the east plantations, you ought
not to lay a straw in his way. I am sure there is more of a real
Christian spirit in that than in shouting and singing for hours, and
then coming out with your heart full of malice. You need not laugh,
Mr. Marston, you need not laugh at all. I am very much in earnest, and
I do hope that Uncle Simon will continue his ministrations on the
other side. If he wants to, he can have a room built in which to lead
their worship."

"But you do' want him to leave us altogethah?"

"If you do not care to share your meeting-house with them, they can
have one of their own."

"But, look hyeah, Missy, dem Lousiany people, dey bad--an' dey hoodoo
folks, an' dey Cath'lics--"

"Eliza!"

"'Scuse me, Missy, chile, bless yo' hea't, you know I do' mean no ha'm
to you. But somehow I do' feel right in my hea't 'bout Brothah Simon."

"Never mind, Eliza, it is only evil that needs to be watched, the good
will take care of itself."

It was not one, nor two, nor three Sundays that Brother Simon was away
from his congregation, but six passed before he was there again. He
was seen to be very busy tinkering around during the week, and then
one Sunday he appeared suddenly in his pulpit. The church nodded and
smiled a welcome to him. There was no change in him. If anything he
was more fiery than ever. But, there was a change. Lize, who was
news-gatherer and carrier extraordinary, bore the tidings to her
owners. She burst into the big house with the cry of "Whut I tell you!
Whut I tell you!"

"Well, what now," exclaimed both Mr. and Mrs. Marston.

"Didn' I tell you ol' Simon was up to some'p'n?"

"Out with it," exclaimed her master, "out with it, I knew he was up to
something, too."

"George, try to remember who you are."

"Brothah Simon come in chu'ch dis mo'nin' an' he 'scended up de
pulpit--"

"Well, what of that, are you not glad he is back?"

"Hol' on, lemme tell you--he 'scended up de pu'pit, an' 'menced his
disco'se. Well, he hadn't no sooner got sta'ted when in walked one o'
dem brazen Lousiany wenches--"

"Eliza!"

"Hol' on, Miss M'ree, she walked in lak she owned de place, an'
flopped huhse'f down on de front seat."

"Well, what if she did," burst in Mrs. Marston, "she had a right. I
want you to understand, you and the rest of your kind, that that
meeting-house is for any of the hands that care to attend it. The
woman did right. I hope she'll come again."

"I hadn' got done yit, Missy. Jes' ez soon ez de sehmont was ovah,
whut mus' Brothah Simon, de 'zortah, min' you, whut mus' he do but
come hoppin' down f'om de pu'pit, an' beau dat wench home! 'Scorted
huh clah 'crost de plantation befo' evahbody's face. Now whut you call
dat?"

"I call it politeness, that is what I call it. What are you laughing
at, Mr. Marston? I have no doubt that the old man was merely trying to
set an example of courtesy to some of the younger men, or to protect
the woman from the insults that the other members of the congregation
would heap upon her. Mr. Marston, I do wish you would keep your face
serious. There is nothing to laugh at in this matter. A worthy old man
tries to do a worthy work, his fellow-servants cavil at him, and his
master, who should encourage him, laughs at him for his pains."

"I assure you, my dear, I'm not laughing at Uncle Simon."

"Then at me, perhaps; that is infinitely better."

"And not at you, either; I'm amused at the situation."

"Well, Manette ca'ied him off dis mo'nin'," resumed Eliza.

"Manette!" exclaimed Mrs. Marston.

"It was Manette he was a beauin'. Evahbody say he likin' huh moughty
well, an' dat he look at huh all th'oo preachin'."

"Oh my! Manette's one of the nicest girls I brought from St. Pierre. I
hope--oh, but then she is a young woman, she would not think of being
foolish over an old man."

"I do' know, Miss M'ree. De ol' men is de wuss kin'. De young oomans
knows how to tek de young mans, 'case dey de same age, an' dey been
lu'nin' dey tricks right along wif dem'; but de ol' men, dey got sich
a long sta't ahaid, dey been lu'nin' so long. Ef I had a darter, I
wouldn' be afeard to let huh tek keer o' huhse'f wif a young man, but
ef a ol' man come a cou'tin' huh, I'd keep my own two eyes open."

"Eliza, you're a philosopher," said Mr. Marston. "You're one of the
few reasoners of your sex."

"It is all nonsense," said his wife. "Why Uncle Simon is old enough to
be Manette's grandfather."

"Love laughs at years."

"And you laugh at everything."

"That's the difference between love and me, my dear Mrs. Marston."

"Do not pay any attention to your master, Eliza, and do not be so
suspicious of every one. It is all right. Uncle Simon had Manette
over, because he thought the service would do her good."

"Yes'm, I 'low she's one o' de young lambs dat he gone out in de col'
to fotch in. Well, he tek'n' moughty good keer o' dat lamb."

Mrs. Marston was compelled to laugh in spite of herself. But when
Eliza was gone, she turned to her husband, and said:

"George, dear, do you really think there is anything in it?"

"I thoroughly agree with you, Mrs. Marston, in the opinion that Uncle
Simon needed rest, and I may add on my own behalf, recreation."

"Pshaw! I do not believe it."

All doubts, however, were soon dispelled. The afternoon sun drove Mr.
Marston to the back veranda where he was sitting when Uncle Simon
again approached and greeted him.

"Well, Uncle Simon, I hear that you're back in your pulpit again?"

"Yes, suh, I's done 'sumed my labohs in de Mastah's vineya'd."'

"Have you had a good rest of it?"

"Well, I ain' ezzackly been restin'," said the aged man, scratching
his head. "I's been pu'su'in' othah 'ployments."

"Oh, yes, but change of work is rest. And how's the rheumatism, now,
any better?"

"Bettah? Why, Mawse Gawge, I ain' got a smidgeon of hit. I's jes'
limpin' a leetle bit on 'count o' habit."

"Well, it's good if one can get well, even if his days are nearly
spent."

"Heish, Mas' Gawge. I ain' t'inkin' 'bout dyin'."

"Aren't you ready yet, in all these years?"

"I hope I's ready, but I hope to be spaihed a good many yeahs yit."

"To do good, I suppose?"

"Yes, suh; yes, suh. Fac' is, Mawse Gawge, I jes' hop up to ax you
some'p'n."

"Well, here I am."

"I want to ax you--I want to ax you--er--er--I want--"

"Oh, speak out. I haven't time to be bothering here all day."

"Well, you know, Mawse Gawge, some o' us ain' nigh ez ol' ez dey
looks."

"That's true. A person, now, would take you for ninety, and to my
positive knowledge, you're not more than eighty-five."

"Oh, Lawd. Mastah, do heish."

"I'm not flattering you, that's the truth."

"Well, now, Mawse Gawge, couldn' you mek me' look lak eighty-fo', an'
be a little youngah?"

"Why, what do you want to be younger for?"

"You see, hit's jes' lak dis, Mawse Gawge. I come up hyeah to ax
you--I want--dat is--me an' Manette, we wants to git ma'ied."

"Get married!" thundered Marston. "What you, you old scarecrow, with
one foot in the grave!"

"Heish, Mastah, 'buse me kin' o' low. Don't th'ow yo' words 'roun' so
keerless."

"This is what you wanted your Sundays off for, to go sparking
around--you an exhorter, too."

"But I's been missin' my po' ol' wife so much hyeah lately."

"You've been missing her, oh, yes, and so you want to get a woman
young enough to be your granddaughter to fill her place."

"Well, Mas' Gawge, you know, ef I is ol' an' feeble, ez you say, I
need a strong young han' to he'p me down de hill, an' ef Manette don'
min' spa'in' a few mont's er yeahs--"

"That'll do, I'll see what your mistress says. Come back in an hour."

A little touched, and a good deal amused, Marston went to see his
wife. He kept his face straight as he addressed her. "Mrs. Marston,
Manette's hand has been proposed for."

"George!"

"The Rev. Simon Marston has this moment come and solemnly laid his
heart at my feet as proxy for Manette."

"He shall not have her, he shall not have her!" exclaimed the lady,
rising angrily.

"But remember, Mrs. Marston, it will keep her coming to meeting."

"I do not care; he is an old hypocrite, that is what he is."

"Think, too, of what a noble work he is doing. It brings about a
reconciliation between the east and west plantations, for which we
have been hoping for years. You really oughtn't to lay a straw in his
way."

"He's a sneaking, insidious, old scoundrel."

"Such poor encouragement from his mistress for a worthy old man, who
only needs rest!"

"George!" cried Mrs. Marston, and she sank down in tears, which turned
to convulsive laughter as her husband put his arm about her and
whispered, "He is showing the true Christian spirit. Don't you think
we'd better call Manette and see if she consents? She is one of his
lambs, you know."

"Oh, George, George, do as you please. If the horrid girl consents, I
wash my hands of the whole affair."

"You know these old men have been learning such a long while."

By this time Mrs. Marston was as much amused as her husband. Manette
was accordingly called and questioned. The information was elicited
from her that she loved "Brothah Simon" and wished to marry him.

"'Love laughs at age,'" quoted Mr. Marston again when the girl had
been dismissed. Mrs. Marston was laughingly angry, but speechless for
a moment. Finally she said: "Well, Manette seems willing, so there is
nothing for us to do but to consent, although, mind you, I do not
approve of this foolish marriage, do you hear?"

After a while the old man returned for his verdict. He took it calmly.
He had expected it. The disparity in the years of him and his
betrothed did not seem to strike his consciousness at all. He only
grinned.

"Now look here, Uncle Simon," said his master, "I want you to tell me
how you, an old, bad-looking, half-dead darky won that likely young
girl."

The old man closed one eye and smiled.

"Mastah, I don' b'lieve you looks erroun' you," he said. "Now, 'mongst
white folks, you knows a preachah 'mongst de ladies is mos' nigh
i'sistible, but 'mongst col'ed dey ain't no pos'ble way to git erroun'
de gospel man w'en he go ahuntin' fu' anything."

MR. CORNELIUS JOHNSON, OFFICE-SEEKER

It was a beautiful day in balmy May and the sun shone pleasantly on
Mr. Cornelius Johnson's very spruce Prince Albert suit of grey as he
alighted from the train in Washington. He cast his eyes about him, and
then gave a sigh of relief and satisfaction as he took his bag from
the porter and started for the gate. As he went along, he looked with
splendid complacency upon the less fortunate mortals who were
streaming out of the day coaches. It was a Pullman sleeper on which he
had come in. Out on the pavement he hailed a cab, and giving the
driver the address of a hotel, stepped in and was rolled away. Be it
said that he had cautiously inquired about the hotel first and found
that he could be accommodated there.

As he leaned back in the vehicle and allowed his eyes to roam over the
streets, there was an air of distinct prosperity about him. It was in
evidence from the tips of his ample patent-leather shoes to the crown
of the soft felt hat that sat rakishly upon his head. His entrance
into Washington had been long premeditated, and he had got himself up
accordingly.

It was not such an imposing structure as he had fondly imagined,
before which the cab stopped and set Mr. Johnson down. But then he
reflected that it was about the only house where he could find
accommodation at all, and he was content. In Alabama one learns to be
philosophical. It is good to be philosophical in a place where the
proprietor of a cafe fumbles vaguely around in the region of his hip
pocket and insinuates that he doesn't want one's custom. But the
visitor's ardor was not cooled for all that. He signed the register
with a flourish, and bestowed a liberal fee upon the shabby boy who
carried his bag to his room.

"Look here, boy," he said, "I am expecting some callers soon. If they
come, just send them right up to my room. You take good care of me and
look sharp when I ring and you'll not lose anything."

Mr. Cornelius Johnson always spoke in a large and important tone. He
said the simplest thing with an air so impressive as to give it the
character of a pronouncement. Indeed, his voice naturally was round,
mellifluous and persuasive. He carried himself always as if he were
passing under his own triumphal arch. Perhaps, more than anything
else, it was these qualities of speech and bearing that had made him
invaluable on the stump in the recent campaign in Alabama. Whatever it
was that held the secret of his power, the man and principles for
which he had labored triumphed, and he had come to Washington to reap
his reward. He had been assured that his services would not be
forgotten, and it was no intention of his that they should be.

After a while he left his room and went out, returning later with
several gentlemen from the South and a Washington man. There is some
freemasonry among these office-seekers in Washington that throws them
inevitably together. The men with whom he returned were such
characters as the press would designate as "old wheel-horses" or
"pillars of the party." They all adjourned to the bar, where they had
something at their host's expense. Then they repaired to his room,
whence for the ensuing two hours the bell and the bell-boy were kept
briskly going.

The gentleman from Alabama was in his glory. His gestures as he held
forth were those of a gracious and condescending prince. It was his
first visit to the city, and he said to the Washington man: "I tell
you, sir, you've got a mighty fine town here. Of course, there's no
opportunity for anything like local pride, because it's the outsiders,
or the whole country, rather, that makes it what it is, but that's
nothing. It's a fine town, and I'm right sorry that I can't stay
longer."

"How long do you expect to be with us, Professor?" inquired Col.
Mason, the horse who had bent his force to the party wheel in the
Georgia ruts.

"Oh, about ten days, I reckon, at the furthest. I want to spend some
time sight-seeing. I'll drop in on the Congressman from my district
to-morrow, and call a little later on the President."

"Uh, huh!" said Col. Mason. He had been in the city for some time.

"Yes, sir, I want to get through with my little matter and get back
home. I'm not asking for much, and I don't anticipate any trouble in
securing what I desire. You see, it's just like this, there's no way
for them to refuse us. And if any one deserves the good things at the
hands of the administration, who more than we old campaigners, who
have been helping the party through its fights from the time that we
had our first votes?"

"Who, indeed?" said the Washington man.

"I tell you, gentlemen, the administration is no fool. It knows that
we hold the colored vote down there in our vest pockets and it ain't
going to turn us down."

"No, of course not, but sometimes there are delays--"

"Delays, to be sure, where a man doesn't know how to go about the
matter. The thing to do, is to go right to the centre of authority at
once. Don't you see?"

"Certainly, certainly," chorused the other gentlemen.

Before going, the Washington man suggested that the newcomer join them
that evening and see something of society at the capital. "You know,"
he said, "that outside of New Orleans, Washington is the only town in
the country that has any colored society to speak of, and I feel that
you distinguished men from different sections of the country owe it to
our people that they should be allowed to see you. It would be an
inspiration to them."

So the matter was settled, and promptly at 8:30 o'clock Mr. Cornelius
Johnson joined his friends at the door of his hotel. The grey Prince
Albert was scrupulously buttoned about his form, and a shiny top hat
replaced the felt of the afternoon. Thus clad, he went forth into
society, where he need be followed only long enough to note the
magnificence of his manners and the enthusiasm of his reception when
he was introduced as Prof. Cornelius Johnson, of Alabama, in a tone
which insinuated that he was the only really great man his state had
produced.

It might also be stated as an effect of this excursion into Vanity
Fair, that when he woke the next morning he was in some doubt as to
whether he should visit his Congressman or send for that individual to
call upon him. He had felt the subtle flattery of attention from that
section of colored society which imitates--only imitates, it is true,
but better than any other, copies--the kindnesses and cruelties, the
niceties and deceits, of its white prototype. And for the time, like a
man in a fog, he had lost his sense of proportion and perspective. But
habit finally triumphed, and he called upon the Congressman, only to
be met by an under-secretary who told him that his superior was too
busy to see him that morning.

"But--"

"Too busy," repeated the secretary.

Mr. Johnson drew himself up and said: "Tell Congressman Barker that
Mr. Johnson, Mr. Cornelius Johnson, of Alabama, desires to see him. I
think he will see me."

"Well, I can take your message," said the clerk, doggedly, "but I tell
you now it won't do you any good. He won't see any one."

But, in a few moments an inner door opened, and the young man came out
followed by the desired one. Mr. Johnson couldn't resist the
temptation to let his eyes rest on the underling in a momentary glance
of triumph as Congressman Barker hurried up to him, saying: "Why, why,
Cornelius, how'do? how'do? Ah, you came about that little matter,
didn't you? Well, well, I haven't forgotten you; I haven't forgotten
you."

The colored man opened his mouth to speak, but the other checked him
and went on: "I'm sorry, but I'm in a great hurry now. I'm compelled
to leave town to-day, much against my will, but I shall be back in a
week; come around and see me then. Always glad to see you, you know.
Sorry I'm so busy now; good-morning, good-morning."

Mr. Johnson allowed himself to be guided politely, but decidedly, to
the door. The triumph died out of his face as the reluctant
good-morning fell from his lips. As he walked away, he tried to look
upon the matter philosophically. He tried to reason with himself--to
prove to his own consciousness that the Congressman was very busy and
could not give the time that morning. He wanted to make himself
believe that he had not been slighted or treated with scant ceremony.
But, try as he would, he continued to feel an obstinate, nasty sting
that would not let him rest, nor forget his reception. His pride was
hurt. The thought came to him to go at once to the President, but he
had experience enough to know that such a visit would be vain until he
had seen the dispenser of patronage for his district. Thus, there was
nothing for him to do but to wait the necessary week. A whole week!
His brow knitted as he thought of it.

In the course of these cogitations, his walk brought him to his hotel,
where he found his friends of the night before awaiting him. He tried
to put on a cheerful face. But his disappointment and humiliation
showed through his smile, as the hollows and bones through the skin of
a cadaver.

"Well, what luck?" asked Col. Mason, cheerfully.

"Are we to congratulate you?" put in Mr. Perry.

"Not yet, not yet, gentlemen. I have not seen the President yet. The
fact is--ahem--my Congressman is out of town."

He was not used to evasions of this kind, and he stammered slightly
and his yellow face turned brick-red with shame.

"It is most annoying," he went on, "most annoying. Mr. Barker won't be
back for a week, and I don't want to call on the President until I
have had a talk with him."

"Certainly not," said Col. Mason, blandly. "There will be delays."
This was not his first pilgrimage to Mecca.

Mr. Johnson looked at him gratefully. "Oh, yes; of course, delays," he
assented; "most natural. Have something."

At the end of the appointed time, the office-seeker went again to see
the Congressman. This time he was admitted without question, and got
the chance to state his wants. But somehow, there seemed to be
innumerable obstacles in the way. There were certain other men whose
wishes had to be consulted; the leader of one of the party factions,
who, for the sake of harmony, had to be appeased. Of course, Mr.
Johnson's worth was fully recognized, and he would be rewarded
according to his deserts. His interests would be looked after. He
should drop in again in a day or two. It took time, of course, it took
time.

Mr. Johnson left the office unnerved by his disappointment. He had
thought it would be easy to come up to Washington, claim and get what
he wanted, and, after a glance at the town, hurry back to his home and
his honors. It had all seemed so easy--before election; but now--

A vague doubt began to creep into his mind that turned him sick at
heart. He knew how they had treated Davis, of Louisiana. He had heard
how they had once kept Brotherton, of Texas--a man who had spent all
his life in the service of his party--waiting clear through a whole
administration, at the end of which the opposite party had come into
power. All the stories of disappointment and disaster that he had ever
heard came back to him, and he began to wonder if some one of these
things was going to happen to him.

Every other day for the next two weeks, he called upon Barker, but
always with the same result. Nothing was clear yet, until one day the
bland legislator told him that considerations of expediency had
compelled them to give the place he was asking for to another man.

"But what am I to do?" asked the helpless man.

"Oh, you just bide your time. I'll look out for you. Never fear."

Until now, Johnson had ignored the gentle hints of his friend, Col.
Mason, about a boarding-house being more convenient than a hotel. Now,
he asked him if there was a room vacant where he was staying, and
finding that there was, he had his things moved thither at once. He
felt the change keenly, and although no one really paid any attention
to it, he believed that all Washington must have seen it, and hailed
it as the first step in his degradation.

For a while the two together made occasional excursions to a
glittering palace down the street, but when the money had grown lower
and lower Col. Mason had the knack of bringing "a little something" to
their rooms without a loss of dignity. In fact, it was in these hours
with the old man, over a pipe and a bit of something, that Johnson was
most nearly cheerful. Hitch after hitch had occurred in his plans, and
day after day he had come home unsuccessful and discouraged. The
crowning disappointment, though, came when, after a long session that
lasted even up into the hot days of summer, Congress adjourned and his
one hope went away. Johnson saw him just before his departure, and
listened ruefully as he said: "I tell you, Cornelius, now, you'd
better go on home, get back to your business and come again next year.
The clouds of battle will be somewhat dispelled by then and we can see
clearer what to do. It was too early this year. We were too near the
fight still, and there were party wounds to be bound up and little
factional sores that had to be healed. But next year, Cornelius, next
year we'll see what we can do for you."

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