I wish that I could at all times praise as much the literature ofan author who speaks for another colored race, not so far from usas the Japanese, but of as much claim upon our conscience, if notour interest.Mr. Chesnutt, it seems to me, has lost literaryquality in acquiring literary quantity, and though his book, "TheMarrow of Tradition," is of the same strong material as hisearlier books, it is less simple throughout, and therefore lessexcellent in manner.At his worst, he is no worse than thehigher average of the ordinary novelist, but he ought always tobe very much better, for he began better, and he is of that racewhich has, first of all, to get rid of the cakewalk, if it willnot suffer from a smile far more blighting than any frown.He isfighting a battle, and it is not for him to pick up the cheapgraces and poses of the jouster.He does, indeed, cast them allfrom him when he gets down to his work, and in the dramaticclimaxes and closes of his story he shortens his weapons anddeals his blows so absolutely without flourish that I havenothing but admiration for him."The Marrow of Tradition," likeeverything else he has written, has to do with the relations ofthe blacks and whites, and in that republic of letters where allmen are free and equal he stands up for his own people with acourage which has more justice than mercy in it.The book is, infact, bitter, bitter.There is no reason in history why itshould not be so, if wrong is to be repaid with hate, and yet itwould be better if it was not so bitter.I am not saying that heis so inartistic as to play the advocate; whatever his minorfoibles may be, he is an artist whom his stepbrother Americansmay well be proud of; but while he recognizes pretty well all thefacts in the case, he is too clearly of a judgment that is madeup.One cannot blame him for that; what would one be one's self?
If the tables could once be turned, and it could be that it wasthe black race which violently and lastingly triumphed in thebloody revolution at Wilmington, North Carolina, a few years ago,what would not we excuse to the white man who made the atrocitythe argument of his fiction?
Mr. Chesnutt goes far back of the historic event in his novel,and shows us the sources of the cataclysm which swept away alegal government and perpetuated an insurrection, but he does notpaint the blacks all good, or the whites all bad.He paints themas slavery made them on both sides, and if in the very end hegives the moral victory to the blacks--if he suffers the daughterof the black wife to have pity on her father's daughter by hiswhite wife, and while her own child lies dead from a shot firedin the revolt, gives her husband's skill to save the life of hersister's child--it cannot be said that either his aesthetics orethics are false.Those who would question either must allow, atleast, that the negroes have had the greater practice inforgiveness, and that there are many probabilities to favor hisinterpretation of the fact.No one who reads the book can denythat the case is presented with great power, or fail to recognizein the writer a portent of the sort of negro equality againstwhich no series of hangings and burnings will finally avail.
