Curses come in every sound,And wars spread gloom and woe around.The cannon belch forth death and doom,But still the lilies wave and bloom.Man fills the earth with grief and wrong,But cannot hush the bluebird’s song.My stars are dancing on the sea,The waves fling kisses up at me.Each night my gladsome moon doth rise;A rainbow spans my evening skies;The robin’s song is full and fine;And roses lift their lips to mine.The jonquils ope their petals sweet,The poppies dance around my feet;In spite of winter and of death,The Spring is in the zephyr’s breath.
Curses come in every sound,And wars spread gloom and woe around.The cannon belch forth death and doom,But still the lilies wave and bloom.Man fills the earth with grief and wrong,But cannot hush the bluebird’s song.My stars are dancing on the sea,The waves fling kisses up at me.Each night my gladsome moon doth rise;A rainbow spans my evening skies;The robin’s song is full and fine;And roses lift their lips to mine.The jonquils ope their petals sweet,The poppies dance around my feet;In spite of winter and of death,The Spring is in the zephyr’s breath.
Curses come in every sound,And wars spread gloom and woe around.The cannon belch forth death and doom,But still the lilies wave and bloom.Man fills the earth with grief and wrong,But cannot hush the bluebird’s song.My stars are dancing on the sea,The waves fling kisses up at me.Each night my gladsome moon doth rise;A rainbow spans my evening skies;The robin’s song is full and fine;And roses lift their lips to mine.
The jonquils ope their petals sweet,The poppies dance around my feet;In spite of winter and of death,The Spring is in the zephyr’s breath.
This poetry but re-affirms the essential identity of human nature under black and white skins. But it will remind most of the white race of how ignorant they have been of that black race nextdoor that is acquiring wealth and culture and is expressing in art and literature the spirit of an aspiring people—how ignorant of their real life, their very thoughts, their completely human joys and griefs. One of their poets was cognizant of this unhappy ignorance—the source of so much harshness of treatment—when he wrote:
My people laugh and singAnd dance to death—None imaginingThe heartbreak under breath.Charles Bertram Johnson.
My people laugh and singAnd dance to death—None imaginingThe heartbreak under breath.Charles Bertram Johnson.
My people laugh and singAnd dance to death—None imaginingThe heartbreak under breath.Charles Bertram Johnson.
Nothing weighs more heavily upon the soul of this race to-day than this everywhere self-betraying crass ignorance, made the more grievous to endure by the vain boast accompanying it, that “I know the Negro better than he knows himself.” This poetry in every line of it is a convincing contradiction of this insulting arrogancy. Essential identity, that is the message of these poets.
This kinship of souls and essential oneness of human nature, which Shylock, speaking for a similarly oppressed and outrageously treated people, pressed home upon the Christian merchants of Venice, finds typical expression in the following lines:
We travel a common road, Brother,—We walk and we talk much the same;We breathe the same sweet air of heaven—Strive alike for fortune and fame;We laugh when our hearts fill with gladness,We weep when we’re smothered in woe;We strive, we endure, we seek wisdom;We sin—and we reap what we sow.Yes, all who would know it can see thatWhen everything’s put to the test,In spite of our color and features,The Negro’s the same as the rest.Leon R. Harris.
We travel a common road, Brother,—We walk and we talk much the same;We breathe the same sweet air of heaven—Strive alike for fortune and fame;We laugh when our hearts fill with gladness,We weep when we’re smothered in woe;We strive, we endure, we seek wisdom;We sin—and we reap what we sow.Yes, all who would know it can see thatWhen everything’s put to the test,In spite of our color and features,The Negro’s the same as the rest.Leon R. Harris.
We travel a common road, Brother,—We walk and we talk much the same;We breathe the same sweet air of heaven—Strive alike for fortune and fame;We laugh when our hearts fill with gladness,We weep when we’re smothered in woe;We strive, we endure, we seek wisdom;We sin—and we reap what we sow.Yes, all who would know it can see thatWhen everything’s put to the test,In spite of our color and features,The Negro’s the same as the rest.Leon R. Harris.
It is to be expected that, notwithstanding the Anglo-Saxon culture of the producers of this poetry, the white reader will yet demand therein what he regards as the African traits. Perhaps it will be crude, artless, repetitious songs like the Spirituals. The quality of the Spirituals is indeed not wanting in some of the most noteworthy contemporary Negro verse. From Fenton Johnson’s three volumes of verse I could select many pieces that exhibit this quality united with disciplined art. For example, here is one:
I PLAYED ON DAVID’S HARP
(A Negro Spiritual)
Last night I played on David’s harp,I played on little David’s harpThe gospel tunes of Israel;And all the angels came to hearMe play those gospel tunes,As the Jordan rolled away.The angels shouted all the nightTheir “Glory, Hallelujah” shout;Old Gabriel threw his trumpet downTo hear the songs of Israel,On mighty David’s harp,As the Jordan rolled away.When death has closed my weary eyesI’ll play again on David’s harpThe last great song in life’s brief book;And all you children born of GodCan stop awhile and hear me play,As the Jordan rolls away.
Last night I played on David’s harp,I played on little David’s harpThe gospel tunes of Israel;And all the angels came to hearMe play those gospel tunes,As the Jordan rolled away.The angels shouted all the nightTheir “Glory, Hallelujah” shout;Old Gabriel threw his trumpet downTo hear the songs of Israel,On mighty David’s harp,As the Jordan rolled away.When death has closed my weary eyesI’ll play again on David’s harpThe last great song in life’s brief book;And all you children born of GodCan stop awhile and hear me play,As the Jordan rolls away.
Last night I played on David’s harp,I played on little David’s harpThe gospel tunes of Israel;And all the angels came to hearMe play those gospel tunes,As the Jordan rolled away.
The angels shouted all the nightTheir “Glory, Hallelujah” shout;Old Gabriel threw his trumpet downTo hear the songs of Israel,On mighty David’s harp,As the Jordan rolled away.
When death has closed my weary eyesI’ll play again on David’s harpThe last great song in life’s brief book;And all you children born of GodCan stop awhile and hear me play,As the Jordan rolls away.
No less certain it is that many a reader will demand something more crude, more obscure, more mystical. Something, perhaps, at once ridiculous and wise—with big and strangely compounded words, ludicrously applied, yet striving at the expression of some peculiarly African idea. Of such verse I can produce no example. The nearest I can come to meeting such impossible demand is by submitting the following from William Edgar Bailey:
THE SLUMP
Mr. Self at the bat!Well, we’re all at the bat—For one thing or other,For this or for that.The ball may be hurled, in the form of this plea:“Will you please help the poor?God, have mercy on me!”Mr. Self stops to think;But the ball cuts the plate—He’s aware that he slumped,Grasps the bat,—but too late.What you say, Mr. Ump?Can it be? Yes, ’tis done!“Well, I’ve said what I’ve said!”Mr. Self,Strike One!Mr. Self’s face is grim.’Tis the critical test—For his heart, conscience-sick,Heaves stern at his breast.The Truth must be hurled, ’tis the law of the game;If in life or in death,If in falsehood or shame.Mr. Self, strike the ball—There’s a Tramp at your Gate!Mr. Self still amazed—And the ball cuts the plate.Mr. Self murmured not;The decision he knew,“Well, you’ve done that before.”Sighed the Ump.Strike Two!There’s the Beggar and Gate—But his silver and gold,Is amix with his blood;A part of his soul.The Nazarene stooped—as all Umpires will do,With His eye on a line,That his verdict be true—Just a shift of the Truth,Stern, the Nazarene tried,But he tho’t of the Cross,And the blood from His side.“Your decision is false;Oh, have mercy on me.”But a voice from the sky,Whispered low.Strike three.
Mr. Self at the bat!Well, we’re all at the bat—For one thing or other,For this or for that.The ball may be hurled, in the form of this plea:“Will you please help the poor?God, have mercy on me!”Mr. Self stops to think;But the ball cuts the plate—He’s aware that he slumped,Grasps the bat,—but too late.What you say, Mr. Ump?Can it be? Yes, ’tis done!“Well, I’ve said what I’ve said!”Mr. Self,Strike One!Mr. Self’s face is grim.’Tis the critical test—For his heart, conscience-sick,Heaves stern at his breast.The Truth must be hurled, ’tis the law of the game;If in life or in death,If in falsehood or shame.Mr. Self, strike the ball—There’s a Tramp at your Gate!Mr. Self still amazed—And the ball cuts the plate.Mr. Self murmured not;The decision he knew,“Well, you’ve done that before.”Sighed the Ump.Strike Two!There’s the Beggar and Gate—But his silver and gold,Is amix with his blood;A part of his soul.The Nazarene stooped—as all Umpires will do,With His eye on a line,That his verdict be true—Just a shift of the Truth,Stern, the Nazarene tried,But he tho’t of the Cross,And the blood from His side.“Your decision is false;Oh, have mercy on me.”But a voice from the sky,Whispered low.Strike three.
Mr. Self at the bat!Well, we’re all at the bat—For one thing or other,For this or for that.The ball may be hurled, in the form of this plea:“Will you please help the poor?God, have mercy on me!”Mr. Self stops to think;But the ball cuts the plate—He’s aware that he slumped,Grasps the bat,—but too late.What you say, Mr. Ump?Can it be? Yes, ’tis done!“Well, I’ve said what I’ve said!”Mr. Self,Strike One!
Mr. Self’s face is grim.’Tis the critical test—For his heart, conscience-sick,Heaves stern at his breast.The Truth must be hurled, ’tis the law of the game;If in life or in death,If in falsehood or shame.Mr. Self, strike the ball—There’s a Tramp at your Gate!Mr. Self still amazed—And the ball cuts the plate.Mr. Self murmured not;The decision he knew,“Well, you’ve done that before.”Sighed the Ump.Strike Two!
There’s the Beggar and Gate—But his silver and gold,Is amix with his blood;A part of his soul.The Nazarene stooped—as all Umpires will do,With His eye on a line,That his verdict be true—Just a shift of the Truth,Stern, the Nazarene tried,But he tho’t of the Cross,And the blood from His side.“Your decision is false;Oh, have mercy on me.”But a voice from the sky,Whispered low.Strike three.
Of humorous verse there is very little produced by the Negro writers of these times. They take their vocation seriously. When their singing robes are on it is to the plaintive notes of the flute or the dolorous blasts of the trumpet they tune their songs.
These voices, and others like them, have but lately been lifted in song, they are still youthful voices, and they are but preluding the more perfect songs they are yet to sing. One voice that is now still, silenced lately in death, at the age of twenty-three years, has sung for them all what all feel:
THE MULATTO TO HIS CRITICS
Ashamed of my race?And of what race am I?I am many in one.Through my veins there flows the bloodOf Red Man, Black Man, Briton, Celt, and Scot,In warring clash and tumultuous riot.I welcome all,But love the blood of the kindly raceThat swarths my skin, crinkles my hair,And puts sweet music into my soul.Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.
Ashamed of my race?And of what race am I?I am many in one.Through my veins there flows the bloodOf Red Man, Black Man, Briton, Celt, and Scot,In warring clash and tumultuous riot.I welcome all,But love the blood of the kindly raceThat swarths my skin, crinkles my hair,And puts sweet music into my soul.Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.
Ashamed of my race?And of what race am I?I am many in one.Through my veins there flows the bloodOf Red Man, Black Man, Briton, Celt, and Scot,In warring clash and tumultuous riot.I welcome all,But love the blood of the kindly raceThat swarths my skin, crinkles my hair,And puts sweet music into my soul.Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.
“Sweet music in the soul”—that is heaven’s kind gift to this people, music of sorrow and of faith; music, low and plaintive, of hope almost failing; music, clear and strong, born of vision triumphant; music, alas, sometimes marred by the strident notes of hatred and revenge. Verily, poets learn in suffering what they teach in song.
In concluding this preliminary survey it should be reiterated that, if one meets here but with the rhythms and forms, as he may think, which are familiar to him in the poetry of the white race, he should reflect that only in that poetry has the Negro had an opportunity to be educated. He has been educated away from his own heritage and his own endowments. The Negro’s native wisdom should lead him back to his natural founts of song. Our educational system should allow of and provide for this. His own literature in his schools is a reasonable policy for the Negro.
As regards the essential significance of this poetry, one of its makers, Miss Eva A. Jessye, has said in a beautiful way almost what I wish to say. Her poem shall therefore conclude this presentation:
THE SINGER
Because his speech was blunt and manner plainUntaught in subtle phrases of the wise,Because the years of slavery and painNe’er dimmed the light of faith within his eyes;Because of ebon skin and humble pride,The world with hatred thrust the youth aside.But fragrance wafts from every trodden flower,And through our grief we rise to nobler things,Within the heart in sorrow’s darkest hourA well of sweetness there unbidden springs;Despised of men, discarded and alone—The world of nature claimed him as her own.She taught him truths that liberate the soulFrom bonds more galling than the slaver’s chain—That manly natures, lily-wise, unfoldAmid the mire of hatred void of stain;Thus in his manhood, clean, superbly strong,To him was born the priceless gift of song.The glory of the sun, the hush of morn,Whisperings of tree-top faintly stirred,The desert silence, wilderness forlorn,Far ocean depths, the tender lilt of bird;Of hope, despair, he sang, his melodyThe endless theme of life’s brief symphony.And nations marveled at the minstrel lad,Who swayed emotions as his fancy led;With him they wept, were melancholy, sad;“’Tis but a cunning jest of Fate,” they said;They did not dream in selfish sphere apartThat song is but the essence of the heart.
Because his speech was blunt and manner plainUntaught in subtle phrases of the wise,Because the years of slavery and painNe’er dimmed the light of faith within his eyes;Because of ebon skin and humble pride,The world with hatred thrust the youth aside.But fragrance wafts from every trodden flower,And through our grief we rise to nobler things,Within the heart in sorrow’s darkest hourA well of sweetness there unbidden springs;Despised of men, discarded and alone—The world of nature claimed him as her own.She taught him truths that liberate the soulFrom bonds more galling than the slaver’s chain—That manly natures, lily-wise, unfoldAmid the mire of hatred void of stain;Thus in his manhood, clean, superbly strong,To him was born the priceless gift of song.The glory of the sun, the hush of morn,Whisperings of tree-top faintly stirred,The desert silence, wilderness forlorn,Far ocean depths, the tender lilt of bird;Of hope, despair, he sang, his melodyThe endless theme of life’s brief symphony.And nations marveled at the minstrel lad,Who swayed emotions as his fancy led;With him they wept, were melancholy, sad;“’Tis but a cunning jest of Fate,” they said;They did not dream in selfish sphere apartThat song is but the essence of the heart.
Because his speech was blunt and manner plainUntaught in subtle phrases of the wise,Because the years of slavery and painNe’er dimmed the light of faith within his eyes;Because of ebon skin and humble pride,The world with hatred thrust the youth aside.
But fragrance wafts from every trodden flower,And through our grief we rise to nobler things,Within the heart in sorrow’s darkest hourA well of sweetness there unbidden springs;Despised of men, discarded and alone—The world of nature claimed him as her own.
She taught him truths that liberate the soulFrom bonds more galling than the slaver’s chain—That manly natures, lily-wise, unfoldAmid the mire of hatred void of stain;Thus in his manhood, clean, superbly strong,To him was born the priceless gift of song.
The glory of the sun, the hush of morn,Whisperings of tree-top faintly stirred,The desert silence, wilderness forlorn,Far ocean depths, the tender lilt of bird;Of hope, despair, he sang, his melodyThe endless theme of life’s brief symphony.
And nations marveled at the minstrel lad,Who swayed emotions as his fancy led;With him they wept, were melancholy, sad;“’Tis but a cunning jest of Fate,” they said;They did not dream in selfish sphere apartThat song is but the essence of the heart.
Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.
Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.
Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.
On the Kentucky plantation where Stephen Collins Foster one June morning, when the mocking birds were singing and “the darkies were gay,” composed and his sister sang, “My Old Kentucky Home,” there was among those first delighted listeners who paused in their tasks to hear the immortal song at its birth a slave girl in whose soul were strange melodies of her own. Born of free people of color, she was bonded to the owner of this plantation, yet her soul was such as must be free. Faithful in her work, respectful and obedient, she was yet a dangerous character among slaves, being too spirited. Hence her master ordered her to leave, fearing she would demoralize discipline in the quarters. She demanded to be taken away as she had been brought—in a wagon; and it was so done. It seems that one-half of her blood was African and the other half was divided between Indian and English, though it is impossible to be sure of the exact proportion. An account of her in those days by one who knew her reveals her as one of nature’s poets—a Phillis Wheatley of the wash-tubs. “She was very fervent in her religious devotions”—so runs this account—“and a very hard worker. She would sometimes wash nearly all night and then have periods of prayer and exaltation. Then again during the day she would draw from her bosom a favorite book and pause to read over the wash-tub. She had a strong dramatic instinct and would frequently make up little plays of her own and represent each character vividly.” Of such mothers are seers and poets born. And so in this instance it proved to be.
At the age of twenty, while yet a slave, she was married, under the common law—though marriage it was not called—to a Scotch-Irishman, a prominent citizen of Louisville, her employer at the time, who was distinguished by a notably handsome physique and a great fondness for books. Of this union was born, at Bardstown, a son, Joseph, so named for the dreamer of biblical story.
The vision-seeing slave mother, her mind running on the bondage of her people, named her son Joseph in the hope of his becoming great in theservice of his people, like the Hebrew Joseph. She lived to see her hope fulfilled. The boy’s earliest education was in song and story invented and sung or told by his mother. He got a few terms of school, reaching the third grade. At ten years of age he went to work in a brickyard of Louisville to help support his mother. Even there the faculty that afterwards distinguished him appears in action, to his relief in time of trouble. Bigger boys, white and black, working in the same yard, hazed and harried him. Fighting to victory was out of the question, against such odds. Brains won where brawn was wanting. He observed that the men at their noon rest-hour, the time of his distress, told stories and laughed. He couldn’t join them, but he tried story-telling in the boy group. It worked. The men, hearing the laughter, came over and joined them. The persecuted boy became the entertainer of both groups. He had won mastery by wit, the proudest mastery in the world.
Then, until he was twenty-two years of age, he was a teamster on the levee. At this time the desire for an education mastered him and he entered a night school—the primary grade. Hard toil and the struggle to get on had not killed his soul but had wiped out his acquisitions of book-knowledge. In two terms he was qualified to teach. He is now the principal of the Samuel Coleridge-Taylor High School in Louisville, the author of several books, a maker of songs and teller ofstories, and a man upright in conduct and wise in counsel.
It was at Bardstown, February 2, 1861, that Joseph Seamon Cotter was born. Let Bardstown be put on the literary map of America, not because Stephen Collins Foster wrote “My Old Kentucky Home” there, but because one was born there the latchet of whose poetic shoes he was not worthy to unloose. “A poet, a bard, to be born in Bardstown—how odd, and how appropriate!” one exclaims. Andbardseems exactly the right appellation for this song-maker and story-man. But it is not altogether so. In character bardlike, but not in appearance. Bards have long, unkempt, white hair, which mingles with beards that rest on their bosoms. Cotter’s square-cut chin is clean-shaven, and his large brain-dome shows like a harvest moon. But he makes poems and invents and discovers stories, and, bard-like, recites or relates them to whatever audience may call for them—in schools, in churches, at firesides. Minus the hairy habiliments he is a bard.
Some of Cotter’s stories come out of Africa and are “different,” as the word goes. Some are “current among the colored folks of Louisville.” These, too, are different. Some are tragedies and some are comedies and some are tragi-comedies of everyday life among the Negroes. I will give one entire tale here, selecting this particular one because of its brevity, not its pre-eminence:
THE BOY AND THE IDEAL
Once upon a time a Mule, a Hog, a Snake, and a Boy met. Said the Mule: “I eat and labor that I may grow strong in the heels. It is fine to have heels so gifted. My heels make people cultivate distance.”Said the Hog: “I eat and labor that I may grow strong in the snout. It is fine to have a fine snout. I keep people watching for my snout.”“No exchanging heels for snouts,” broke in the Mule.“No,” answered the Hog; “snouts are naturally above heels.”Said the Snake: “I eat to live, and live to cultivate my sting. The way people shun me shows my greatness. Beget stings, comrades, and stings will beget glory.”Said the Boy: “There is a star in my life like unto a star in the sky. I eat and labor that I may think aright and feel aright. These rounds will conduct me to my star. Oh, inviting star!”“I am not so certain of that,” said the Mule. “I have noticed your kind and ever see some of myself in them. Your star is in the distance.”The Boy answered by smelling a flower and listening to the song of a bird. The Mule looked at him and said: “He is all tenderness and care. The true and the beautiful have robbed me of a kinsman. His star is near.”Said the Boy: “I approach my star.”“I am not so certain of that,” interrupted the Hog. “I have noticed your kind and I ever see some of myself in them. Your star is a delusion.”The Boy answered by painting the flower and setting the notes of the bird’s song to music.The Hog looked at the boy and said: “His soul is attuned by nature. The meddler in him is slain.”“I can all but touch my star,” cried the Boy.“I am not so certain of that,” remarked the Snake. “I have watched your kind and ever see some of myself in them. Stings are nearer than stars.”The Boy answered by meditating upon the picture and music. The Snake departed, saying that stings and stars cannot keep company.The Boy journeyed on, ever led by the star. Some distance away the Mule was bemoaning the presence of his heels and trying to rid himself of them by kicking a tree. The Hog was dividing his time between looking into a brook and rubbing his snout on a rock to shorten it. The Snake lay dead of its own bite. The Boy journeyed on, led by an ever inviting star.(Negro Tales.—Joseph S. Cotter, The Cosmopolitan Press, New York, 1912.)
Once upon a time a Mule, a Hog, a Snake, and a Boy met. Said the Mule: “I eat and labor that I may grow strong in the heels. It is fine to have heels so gifted. My heels make people cultivate distance.”
Said the Hog: “I eat and labor that I may grow strong in the snout. It is fine to have a fine snout. I keep people watching for my snout.”
“No exchanging heels for snouts,” broke in the Mule.
“No,” answered the Hog; “snouts are naturally above heels.”
Said the Snake: “I eat to live, and live to cultivate my sting. The way people shun me shows my greatness. Beget stings, comrades, and stings will beget glory.”
Said the Boy: “There is a star in my life like unto a star in the sky. I eat and labor that I may think aright and feel aright. These rounds will conduct me to my star. Oh, inviting star!”
“I am not so certain of that,” said the Mule. “I have noticed your kind and ever see some of myself in them. Your star is in the distance.”
The Boy answered by smelling a flower and listening to the song of a bird. The Mule looked at him and said: “He is all tenderness and care. The true and the beautiful have robbed me of a kinsman. His star is near.”
Said the Boy: “I approach my star.”
“I am not so certain of that,” interrupted the Hog. “I have noticed your kind and I ever see some of myself in them. Your star is a delusion.”
The Boy answered by painting the flower and setting the notes of the bird’s song to music.
The Hog looked at the boy and said: “His soul is attuned by nature. The meddler in him is slain.”
“I can all but touch my star,” cried the Boy.
“I am not so certain of that,” remarked the Snake. “I have watched your kind and ever see some of myself in them. Stings are nearer than stars.”
The Boy answered by meditating upon the picture and music. The Snake departed, saying that stings and stars cannot keep company.
The Boy journeyed on, ever led by the star. Some distance away the Mule was bemoaning the presence of his heels and trying to rid himself of them by kicking a tree. The Hog was dividing his time between looking into a brook and rubbing his snout on a rock to shorten it. The Snake lay dead of its own bite. The Boy journeyed on, led by an ever inviting star.
(Negro Tales.—Joseph S. Cotter, The Cosmopolitan Press, New York, 1912.)
Yes—Uncle Remus, in reality—and not exactly so. No copy. Not every like is the same. An Uncle Remus with culture and conscious art, yet unspoilt, the native qualities strong. And how poetic those qualities are!
Well might one expect a teacher, if he writes verse, to write didactic verse. But I think you will pronounce him to be an extraordinary teacher and verse-writer who writes as Mr. Cotter does, for example, in:
THE THRESHING FLOOR
Thrice blessed he who wields the flailUpon this century’s threshing floor;A few slight strokes by him availMore than a hundred would of yore.Around him lies the ripened grainFrom every land and every age;The weakest thresher should attainUnto the wisdom of the sage.Ambitious youth, this is the wealthThe ages have bequeathed to thee.Thou canst not take thy share by stealthNor by mere ingenuity.Thy better self must spur thee onTo win what time has made thy own;No hand but labor’s yet has drawnThe sweets that labor’s hand has sown.
Thrice blessed he who wields the flailUpon this century’s threshing floor;A few slight strokes by him availMore than a hundred would of yore.Around him lies the ripened grainFrom every land and every age;The weakest thresher should attainUnto the wisdom of the sage.Ambitious youth, this is the wealthThe ages have bequeathed to thee.Thou canst not take thy share by stealthNor by mere ingenuity.Thy better self must spur thee onTo win what time has made thy own;No hand but labor’s yet has drawnThe sweets that labor’s hand has sown.
Thrice blessed he who wields the flailUpon this century’s threshing floor;A few slight strokes by him availMore than a hundred would of yore.
Around him lies the ripened grainFrom every land and every age;The weakest thresher should attainUnto the wisdom of the sage.
Ambitious youth, this is the wealthThe ages have bequeathed to thee.Thou canst not take thy share by stealthNor by mere ingenuity.
Thy better self must spur thee onTo win what time has made thy own;No hand but labor’s yet has drawnThe sweets that labor’s hand has sown.
In verse presuming to be lyrical we hearken for the lyrical cry. That cry is in his lines, melodiously uttered, and poignant. For example:
The flowers take the tearsOf the weeping nightAnd give them to the sunFor the day’s delight.My passion takes the joysOf the laughing dayAnd melts them into tearsFor my heart’s decay.
The flowers take the tearsOf the weeping nightAnd give them to the sunFor the day’s delight.My passion takes the joysOf the laughing dayAnd melts them into tearsFor my heart’s decay.
The flowers take the tearsOf the weeping nightAnd give them to the sunFor the day’s delight.
My passion takes the joysOf the laughing dayAnd melts them into tearsFor my heart’s decay.
The sweet sadness of those stanzas lingers with one. A stanza from a poem entitled “The Nation’s Neglected Child” may help us to their secret:
I am not thy pampered steed,I am not thy welcome dog;I am of a lower breedEven than thy Berkshire hog;I am thy neglected child—Make me grow, but keep me wild.
I am not thy pampered steed,I am not thy welcome dog;I am of a lower breedEven than thy Berkshire hog;I am thy neglected child—Make me grow, but keep me wild.
I am not thy pampered steed,I am not thy welcome dog;I am of a lower breedEven than thy Berkshire hog;I am thy neglected child—Make me grow, but keep me wild.
In many of Cotter’s verses there is a sonorous flow which is evidence of poetic power made creative by passion. Didacticism and philosophy do not destroy the lyrical quality. InThe Book’s Creedthis teacher-poet makes an appeal to his generation to be as much alive and as creative as the creed makers of other days were. The slaves of the letter, the mummers of mere formulas, he thus addresses:
You are dead to all the Then,You are dead to all the Now,If you hold that former menWore the garland for your brow.Time and tide were theirs to brave,Time and tide are yours to stem.Bow not o’er their open graveTill you drop your diadem.Honor all who strove and wrought,Even to their tears and groans;But slay not your honest thoughtThrough your reverence for their bones.
You are dead to all the Then,You are dead to all the Now,If you hold that former menWore the garland for your brow.Time and tide were theirs to brave,Time and tide are yours to stem.Bow not o’er their open graveTill you drop your diadem.Honor all who strove and wrought,Even to their tears and groans;But slay not your honest thoughtThrough your reverence for their bones.
You are dead to all the Then,You are dead to all the Now,If you hold that former menWore the garland for your brow.
Time and tide were theirs to brave,Time and tide are yours to stem.Bow not o’er their open graveTill you drop your diadem.
Honor all who strove and wrought,Even to their tears and groans;But slay not your honest thoughtThrough your reverence for their bones.
Cotter is a wizard at rhyming. His “Sequel to the Pied Piper of Hamelin” surpasses the original—Browning’s—in technique—that is, in rushing rhythms and ingenious rhymes. It is an incredible success, with no hint of a tour-de-force performance. Its content, too, is worthy of the metrical achievement. I will lay the proof before the competent reader in an extract or two from this remarkable accomplishment:
The last sweet notes the piper blewWere heard by the people far and wide;And one by one and two by twoThey flocked to the mountain-side.Some came, of course, intensely sad,And some came looking fiercely mad,And some came singing solemn hymns,And some came showing shapely limbs,And some came bearing the tops of yews,And some came wearing wooden shoes,And some came saying what they would do,And some came praying (and loudly too),And all for what? Can you not infer?A-searching and lurching for the Pied Piper,And the boys and girls he had taken away.And all were ready now to payAny amount that he should say.
The last sweet notes the piper blewWere heard by the people far and wide;And one by one and two by twoThey flocked to the mountain-side.Some came, of course, intensely sad,And some came looking fiercely mad,And some came singing solemn hymns,And some came showing shapely limbs,And some came bearing the tops of yews,And some came wearing wooden shoes,And some came saying what they would do,And some came praying (and loudly too),And all for what? Can you not infer?A-searching and lurching for the Pied Piper,And the boys and girls he had taken away.And all were ready now to payAny amount that he should say.
The last sweet notes the piper blewWere heard by the people far and wide;And one by one and two by twoThey flocked to the mountain-side.
Some came, of course, intensely sad,And some came looking fiercely mad,And some came singing solemn hymns,And some came showing shapely limbs,And some came bearing the tops of yews,And some came wearing wooden shoes,And some came saying what they would do,And some came praying (and loudly too),And all for what? Can you not infer?A-searching and lurching for the Pied Piper,And the boys and girls he had taken away.And all were ready now to payAny amount that he should say.
So begins theSequel. Another passage, near the end, will indicate the trend of the story:
The years passed by, as years will do,When trouble is the master,And always strives to bring to viewA new and worse disaster;And sorrow, like a sorcerer,Spread out her melancholy pall,So that its folds enveloped all,And each became her worshipper.And not a single child was bornThrough all the years thereafter;If words sprang from the lips of scornNone came from those of laughter.
The years passed by, as years will do,When trouble is the master,And always strives to bring to viewA new and worse disaster;And sorrow, like a sorcerer,Spread out her melancholy pall,So that its folds enveloped all,And each became her worshipper.And not a single child was bornThrough all the years thereafter;If words sprang from the lips of scornNone came from those of laughter.
The years passed by, as years will do,When trouble is the master,And always strives to bring to viewA new and worse disaster;And sorrow, like a sorcerer,Spread out her melancholy pall,So that its folds enveloped all,And each became her worshipper.And not a single child was bornThrough all the years thereafter;If words sprang from the lips of scornNone came from those of laughter.
Finally, the inhabitants of Hamelin are passing through death’s portal, and when all had departed:
—a message went to Rat-land******And lo! a race of rats was at hand******They swarmed into the highest towers,And loitered in the fairest bowers,And sat down where the mayor sat,And also in his Sunday hat;And gnawed revengefully thereat.With rats for mayor and rats for people,With rats in the cellar and rats in the steeple,With rats without and rats within,Stood poor, deserted Hamelin.
—a message went to Rat-land******And lo! a race of rats was at hand******They swarmed into the highest towers,And loitered in the fairest bowers,And sat down where the mayor sat,And also in his Sunday hat;And gnawed revengefully thereat.With rats for mayor and rats for people,With rats in the cellar and rats in the steeple,With rats without and rats within,Stood poor, deserted Hamelin.
—a message went to Rat-land******And lo! a race of rats was at hand******They swarmed into the highest towers,And loitered in the fairest bowers,And sat down where the mayor sat,And also in his Sunday hat;And gnawed revengefully thereat.With rats for mayor and rats for people,With rats in the cellar and rats in the steeple,With rats without and rats within,Stood poor, deserted Hamelin.
Like Dunbar, Cotter is a satirist of his people—or certain types of his people—a gentle, humorous, affectionate satirist. His medium for satire is dialect, inevitably. Sententious wisdom, irradiated with humor, appears in these pieces inhomely garb. In standard English, without satire or humor that wisdom thus appears:
What deeds have sprung from plow and pick!What bank-rolls from tomatoes!No dainty crop of rhetoricCan match one of potatoes.
What deeds have sprung from plow and pick!What bank-rolls from tomatoes!No dainty crop of rhetoricCan match one of potatoes.
What deeds have sprung from plow and pick!What bank-rolls from tomatoes!No dainty crop of rhetoricCan match one of potatoes.
The gospel of work has been set forth by our poet in a four-act poetic drama entitledCaleb, the Degenerate. All the characters are Negroes. The form is blank verse—blank verse of a very high order, too. The language, like Shakespeare’s—though Browning rather than Shakespeare is suggested—is always that of a poet. The wisdom is that of a man who has observed closely and pondered deeply. Idealistic, philosophical, poetical—such it is. It bears witness to no ordinary dramatic ability.
“Best bard, because the wisest,” says our Israfel. Verily. “Sage” you may call this man as well as “bard.” The proof is in poems and tales, apologues and apothegms. Joseph Seamon Cotter is now sixty years of age. Yet the best of him, according to good omens, is yet to be given forth, in song, story, precept, and drama. His nature is opulent—the cultivation began late and the harvest grows richer.
The chief event of his life, I doubt not, remains to be mentioned—a very sad one. This was the untimely death of his poet-son, Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. Born of this sorrow was the following lyric:
Oh, my way and thy way,And life’s joy and wonder,And thy day and my dayAre cloven asunder.Oh, my trust and thy trust,And fair April weather,And thy dust and my dustShall mingle together.
Oh, my way and thy way,And life’s joy and wonder,And thy day and my dayAre cloven asunder.Oh, my trust and thy trust,And fair April weather,And thy dust and my dustShall mingle together.
Oh, my way and thy way,And life’s joy and wonder,And thy day and my dayAre cloven asunder.
Oh, my trust and thy trust,And fair April weather,And thy dust and my dustShall mingle together.
Dead at the age of twenty-three years, Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., left behind a thin volume of lyrics, entitledThe Band of Gideon, and about twenty sonnets of an unfinished sequence, and a little book of one-act plays. I will presently place the remarkable title-poem of his book of lyrics before the reader, but first I will give two minor pieces, without comment:
Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.
Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.
Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.
RAIN MUSIC
On the dusty earth-drumBeats the falling rain;Now a whispered murmur,Now a louder strain.Slender silvery drumsticks,On the ancient drum,Beat the mellow music,Bidding life to come.Chords of earth awakened,Notes of greening spring,Rise and fall triumphantOver everything.Slender silvery drumsticksBeat the long tattoo—God the Great MusicianCalling life anew.
On the dusty earth-drumBeats the falling rain;Now a whispered murmur,Now a louder strain.Slender silvery drumsticks,On the ancient drum,Beat the mellow music,Bidding life to come.Chords of earth awakened,Notes of greening spring,Rise and fall triumphantOver everything.Slender silvery drumsticksBeat the long tattoo—God the Great MusicianCalling life anew.
On the dusty earth-drumBeats the falling rain;Now a whispered murmur,Now a louder strain.
Slender silvery drumsticks,On the ancient drum,Beat the mellow music,Bidding life to come.
Chords of earth awakened,Notes of greening spring,Rise and fall triumphantOver everything.
Slender silvery drumsticksBeat the long tattoo—God the Great MusicianCalling life anew.
COMPENSATION
I plucked a rose from out a bower fair,That overhung my garden seat;And wondered I if, e’er before, bloomed thereA rose so sweet.Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thornThat pricked me as I pulled the bud;Till I beheld the rose, that summer morn,Stained with my blood.I sang a song that thrilled the evening air,With beauty somewhat kin to love,And all men knew that lyric song so rareCame from above.And men rejoiced to hear the golden strain;But no man knew the price I paid,Nor cared that out of my soul’s deathless painThe song was made.
I plucked a rose from out a bower fair,That overhung my garden seat;And wondered I if, e’er before, bloomed thereA rose so sweet.Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thornThat pricked me as I pulled the bud;Till I beheld the rose, that summer morn,Stained with my blood.I sang a song that thrilled the evening air,With beauty somewhat kin to love,And all men knew that lyric song so rareCame from above.And men rejoiced to hear the golden strain;But no man knew the price I paid,Nor cared that out of my soul’s deathless painThe song was made.
I plucked a rose from out a bower fair,That overhung my garden seat;And wondered I if, e’er before, bloomed thereA rose so sweet.
Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thornThat pricked me as I pulled the bud;Till I beheld the rose, that summer morn,Stained with my blood.
I sang a song that thrilled the evening air,With beauty somewhat kin to love,And all men knew that lyric song so rareCame from above.
And men rejoiced to hear the golden strain;But no man knew the price I paid,Nor cared that out of my soul’s deathless painThe song was made.
The lyrical faculty is evinced by such poems. But other singers of our day might have produced them—singers of the white race. Not so, I think, of “The Band of Gideon.” Upon that poem is the stamp, not of genius only, but of Negro genius. In it is re-incarnated, by a cultured, creative mind, the very spirit of the old plantation songs and sermons. The reader who has in his possession that background will respond to the unique and powerful appeal of this poem.
THE BAND OF GIDEON
The band of Gideon roam the sky,The howling wind is their war-cry,The thunder’s roll is their trumpet’s pealAnd the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”And men below rear temples highAnd mock their God with reasons why,And live in arrogance, sin, and shame,And rape their souls for the world’s good name.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”The band of Gideon roam the skyAnd view the earth with baleful eye;In holy wrath they scourge the landWith earthquake, storm, and burning brand.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”The lightnings flash and the thunders roll,And “Lord have mercy on my soul,”Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod,In agony searching for their God.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”And men repent and then forgetThat heavenly wrath they ever met.The band of Gideon yet will comeAnd strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
The band of Gideon roam the sky,The howling wind is their war-cry,The thunder’s roll is their trumpet’s pealAnd the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”And men below rear temples highAnd mock their God with reasons why,And live in arrogance, sin, and shame,And rape their souls for the world’s good name.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”The band of Gideon roam the skyAnd view the earth with baleful eye;In holy wrath they scourge the landWith earthquake, storm, and burning brand.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”The lightnings flash and the thunders roll,And “Lord have mercy on my soul,”Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod,In agony searching for their God.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”And men repent and then forgetThat heavenly wrath they ever met.The band of Gideon yet will comeAnd strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
The band of Gideon roam the sky,The howling wind is their war-cry,The thunder’s roll is their trumpet’s pealAnd the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
And men below rear temples highAnd mock their God with reasons why,And live in arrogance, sin, and shame,And rape their souls for the world’s good name.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
The band of Gideon roam the skyAnd view the earth with baleful eye;In holy wrath they scourge the landWith earthquake, storm, and burning brand.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
The lightnings flash and the thunders roll,And “Lord have mercy on my soul,”Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod,In agony searching for their God.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
And men repent and then forgetThat heavenly wrath they ever met.The band of Gideon yet will comeAnd strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
The reader, I predict, will be drawn again and again to this mysterious poem. It will continue to haunt his imagination, and tease his thought. The stamp of the African mind is upon it. Closelyallied, on the one hand by its august refrain to the Spirituals, on the other hand it touches the most refined and perfected art; such, for example, as Rossetti’s ballads or Vachel Lindsay’s cantatas. It can scarcely be wondered at that the people of his race should call this untimely dead singer their Negro Lycidas.
THE DREAM AND THE SONG
So oft our hearts, beloved lute,In blossomy haunts of song are mute;So long we pore, ’mid murmurings dull,O’er loveliness unutterable;So vain is all our passion strong!The dream is lovelier than the song.The rose thought, touched by words, doth turnWan ashes. Still, from memory’s urn,The lingering blossoms tenderlyRefute our wilding minstrelsy.Alas! we work but beauty’s wrong!The dream is lovelier than the song.Yearned Shelley o’er the golden flame?Left Keats, for beauty’s lure, a nameBut “writ in water”? Woe is me!To grieve o’er floral faëry.My Phasian doves are flown so long—The dream is lovelier than the song!Ah, though we build a bower of dawn,The golden-winged bird is gone,And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves,Only the swallow-twittering eaves.What art may house or gold prolongA dream far lovelier than a song?The lilting witchery, the unrestOf wingèd dreams, is in our breast;But ever dear Fulfilment’s eyesGaze otherward. The long-sought prize,My lute, must to the gods belong.The dream is lovelier than the song.
So oft our hearts, beloved lute,In blossomy haunts of song are mute;So long we pore, ’mid murmurings dull,O’er loveliness unutterable;So vain is all our passion strong!The dream is lovelier than the song.The rose thought, touched by words, doth turnWan ashes. Still, from memory’s urn,The lingering blossoms tenderlyRefute our wilding minstrelsy.Alas! we work but beauty’s wrong!The dream is lovelier than the song.Yearned Shelley o’er the golden flame?Left Keats, for beauty’s lure, a nameBut “writ in water”? Woe is me!To grieve o’er floral faëry.My Phasian doves are flown so long—The dream is lovelier than the song!Ah, though we build a bower of dawn,The golden-winged bird is gone,And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves,Only the swallow-twittering eaves.What art may house or gold prolongA dream far lovelier than a song?The lilting witchery, the unrestOf wingèd dreams, is in our breast;But ever dear Fulfilment’s eyesGaze otherward. The long-sought prize,My lute, must to the gods belong.The dream is lovelier than the song.
So oft our hearts, beloved lute,In blossomy haunts of song are mute;So long we pore, ’mid murmurings dull,O’er loveliness unutterable;So vain is all our passion strong!The dream is lovelier than the song.
The rose thought, touched by words, doth turnWan ashes. Still, from memory’s urn,The lingering blossoms tenderlyRefute our wilding minstrelsy.Alas! we work but beauty’s wrong!The dream is lovelier than the song.
Yearned Shelley o’er the golden flame?Left Keats, for beauty’s lure, a nameBut “writ in water”? Woe is me!To grieve o’er floral faëry.My Phasian doves are flown so long—The dream is lovelier than the song!
Ah, though we build a bower of dawn,The golden-winged bird is gone,And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves,Only the swallow-twittering eaves.What art may house or gold prolongA dream far lovelier than a song?
The lilting witchery, the unrestOf wingèd dreams, is in our breast;But ever dear Fulfilment’s eyesGaze otherward. The long-sought prize,My lute, must to the gods belong.The dream is lovelier than the song.
Cherokee-Indian, Scotch-Irish, French, and African blood in James David Corrothers, the author of this poem, makes his complexion, he supposed, “about that of the original man.” The reader has already had, at the beginning of the discussion of Dunbar, a sonnet from this poet. The sonnet, the above poem, and the others given here were published inThe Century Magazine. Not unworthy ofThe Century’sstandards, the reader must say.
J. D. Corrothers
J. D. Corrothers
J. D. Corrothers
James David Corrothers was born in Michigan, July 2, 1869. His mother in giving him life surrendered her own. His father never cared for him. Sheltered for a few years by maternal relatives, he was out on the world in early boyhood, dependent on his own resources. Soon, because he was a Negro, he was a wanderer for work through several states. Often without money, friends, or food, he slept out of doors, sometimes in zero weather. At nineteen years of age, as before stated, he was shining shoes in a Chicago barber shop. There he was “discovered.”
Henry D. Lloyd was having his boots shined by young Corrothers when the two fell into book talk. The distinguished writer was astonished at the knowledge possessed by one engaged in such a menial occupation. Out of this circumstance, it seems, the Negro boot-black became a student in Northwestern University at Evanston, Illinois. By mowing lawns and doing whatever odd jobs he could find he worked his way for three years in the university. Then, by the kindness of Frances E. Willard, he had a year in Bennett College, Greensboro, North Carolina. Prior to his entrance at Northwestern there had been but one brief opportunity in his life for attending school. But the wandering youth, battling against the adverse fates, or, concretely stated, the disadvantage of being a Negro, had managed somehow to make great books his companions. Hence, he had entered what Carlyle calls “the true modern university.” Hence, his literary conversation with Mr. Lloyd.
Out of those early struggles, and perhaps also out of later bitter experiences, came such poems as the following:
AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE
To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow,Betrayed, like him whose woe-dimmed eyes gave bliss,Still must one succor those who brought one low,To be a Negro in a day like this.To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands rare patience—patience that can waitIn utter darkness. ’Tis the path to miss,And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate,To be a Negro in a day like this.To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands strange loyalty. We serve a flagWhich is to us white freedom’s emphasis.Ah! one must love when truth and justice lag,To be a Negro in a day like this.To be a Negro in a day like this—Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done?Still shines the gate, all gold and amethystBut I pass by, the glorious goal unwon,“Merely a Negro”—in a day likethis!
To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow,Betrayed, like him whose woe-dimmed eyes gave bliss,Still must one succor those who brought one low,To be a Negro in a day like this.To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands rare patience—patience that can waitIn utter darkness. ’Tis the path to miss,And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate,To be a Negro in a day like this.To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands strange loyalty. We serve a flagWhich is to us white freedom’s emphasis.Ah! one must love when truth and justice lag,To be a Negro in a day like this.To be a Negro in a day like this—Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done?Still shines the gate, all gold and amethystBut I pass by, the glorious goal unwon,“Merely a Negro”—in a day likethis!
To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow,Betrayed, like him whose woe-dimmed eyes gave bliss,Still must one succor those who brought one low,To be a Negro in a day like this.
To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands rare patience—patience that can waitIn utter darkness. ’Tis the path to miss,And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate,To be a Negro in a day like this.
To be a Negro in a day like thisDemands strange loyalty. We serve a flagWhich is to us white freedom’s emphasis.Ah! one must love when truth and justice lag,To be a Negro in a day like this.
To be a Negro in a day like this—Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done?Still shines the gate, all gold and amethystBut I pass by, the glorious goal unwon,“Merely a Negro”—in a day likethis!
Even though his face be “red like Adam’s,” and even though his art be noble like that of the masters of song, yet had Mr. Corrothers, even in the republic of letters, felt the handicap of his complexion, as this sonnet bears witness:
THE NEGRO SINGER