Caroling dusk — Themes and Context

Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[3] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[4] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[5] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[6] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[7] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[8] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR.

“I was born in Nelson County, Ky., February 2nd, 1861, on a farm owned by my great grandfather, Daniel Stapp, a tanner. In 1829 he bought himself and a part of his master’s farm. Later he bought his daughter, Lucinda, my mother’s mother.

Martha, my mother, was born on a nearby farm owned by her English-Indian father, Fleming Vaughan. Prior to my birth she lived in Bardstown and was a servant at “My Old Kentucky Home.” She took me to Bardstown soon after my birth and brought me to Louisville in my fourth week, and here I have lived ever since.

I attended a private school and could read before my fourth year. Conditions were such that my attendance at school was very irregular. I quit school in my eighth year, having completed the third grade, and did not return until my twenty-second year.

During this time I picked up rags in the streets and worked in tobacco factories and brick-yards. My nineteenth year found me a distiller in one of the largest distilleries in Kentucky. A turn of fortune made me a teamster. I hauled cotton and tobacco and made up my mind to enter the prize ring. Another turn of fortune put me into a Louisville public night school. Here I began in the third grade where I left off in my eighth year.

At the end of two school sessions of five months each I was promoted to the high school. I keep this diploma under lock and key, for it is the only one I have ever received.

The man who turned my attention from prize-fighting to night school and then to school teaching, and who discovered my knack for writing verses, was Dr. W. T. Peyton of Louisville. He was my greatest benefactor.

My talent of whatever kind comes from Martha, my mother. She was poet, story-teller, dramatist and musician. My published works are: _A Rhyming_, _Links of Friendship_, _Caleb, the Degenerate_, a poetic drama, _A White Song And A Black One_ and _Negro Tales_. My unpublished works are: _Life’s Dawn And Dusk_, poems, _Caesar Driftwood and Other One Act Plays_ and _My Mother And Her Family_.”

There was a man Whose name was Pete, And he was a buck From his head to his feet.

He loved a dollar, But hated a dime; And so was poor Nine-tenths of the time.

The Judge said “Pete, What of your wife?” And Pete replied “She lost her life.”

“Pete,” said the Judge, “Was it lost in a row? Tell me quick, And tell me how.”

Pete straightened up With a hic and a sigh, Then looked the Judge Full in the eye.

“O, Judge, my wife Would never go To a Sunday dance Or a movie show.

“But I went, Judge, Both day and night, And came home broke And also tight.

“The moon was up, My purse was down, And I was the bully Of the bootleg town.

“I was crooning a lilt To corn and rye For the loop in my legs And the fight in my eye.

“I met my wife; She was wearing a frown, And catechising Her Sunday gown.

‘O Pete, O Pete’ She cried aloud, ‘The Devil is falling Right out of a cloud.’

“I looked straight up And fell flat down And a Ford machine Pinned my head to the ground.

“The Ford moved on, And my wife was in it; And I was sober, That very minute.

“For my head was bleeding, My heart was a-flutter; And the moonshine within me Was tipping the gutter.

“The Ford, it faster And faster sped Till it dipped and swerved And my wife was dead.

“Two bruised men lay In a hospital ward-- One seeking vengeance, The other the Lord.

“He said to me: ‘Your wife was drunk, You are crazy, And my Ford is junk.’

“I raised my knife And drove it in At the top of his head And the point of his chin.

“O Judge, O Judge, If the State has a chair, Please bind me in it And roast me there.”

There was a man Whose name was Pete, And he welcomed death From his head to his feet.

A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well. It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish. It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile’s end beckons me on. It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary when a heart at the mile’s end keeps time with their tread? It is not to muse, for the heart at the mile’s end is food for my being. I will question the well for my secret by dropping a pebble into it. Ah, it is dry. Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for hearts are like wells. You may not know they are dry ’til you question their depths. Fancies clog the way to Heaven, and saints miss their crown.

James Weldon Johnson was born in Jacksonville, Fla. He graduated from Atlanta University with the degree of A. B., and he received the degree of A. M. from the same University in 1904. He spent three years in graduate work at Columbia University in the City of New York. The honorary degree of Litt.D. was conferred upon him by Talladega College, Talladega, Ala., in 1917, and by Howard University in 1923.

For several years Mr. Johnson was principal of the colored high school at Jacksonville. He was admitted to the Florida bar in 1897, and practiced law in Jacksonville, until 1901, when he moved to New York to collaborate with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, in writing for the light opera stage.

In 1906, he was appointed United States Consul at Puerto Cabello, Venezuela, being transferred as Consul to Corinto, Nicaragua, in 1909. While in Corinto, he looked after the interests of his country during the stormy days of revolution which resulted in the downfall of Zelaya, and through the abortive revolution against Diaz.

His knowledge of Spanish has been put to use in the translation of a number of Spanish plays. He was the translator for the English libretto of _Goyescas_, the Spanish grand opera produced by the Metropolitan Opera Company in 1915.

Mr. Johnson was for ten years the Contributing Editor of the New York _Age_. He added to his distinction as a newspaper writer by winning in an editorial contest one of three prizes offered by the Philadelphia _Public Ledger_ in 1916. His poems have appeared in the _Century_, the _Independent_, the _Crisis_ and other publications.

In the spring of 1920, Mr. Johnson was sent by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People to the black republic of Haiti, where he made an investigation of U. S. misrule. The charges which Mr. Johnson published in _The Nation_, of New York, upon his return were taken up by Senator Harding, and as a consequence a Naval Board of Inquiry was sent to Haiti and a Congressional Investigation promised. The articles published in _The Nation_ have since been republished in a pamphlet entitled, “Self-Determining Haiti.”

Mr. Johnson is Secretary of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, a member of the Board of Directors of the American Fund for Public Service (The Garland Fund), and a trustee of Atlanta University.

Mr. Johnson’s works include:

_The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man_ _Fifty Years and Other Poems_ _English Libretto of “Goyescas”_ _The Book of American Negro Poetry_ _The Book of American Negro Spirituals_ _Second Book of Negro Spirituals_ _God’s Trombones (Seven Negro Sermons in Verse)_

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND

Three students once tarried over the Rhine, And into Frau Wirthin’s turned to dine.

“Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine? And where is that pretty daughter of thine?”

“My beer and wine is fresh and clear. My daughter lies on her funeral bier.”

They softly tipped into the room; She lay there in the silent gloom.

The first the white cloth gently raised, And tearfully upon her gazed.

“If thou wert alive, O, lovely maid, My heart at thy feet would to-day be laid!”

The second covered her face again. And turned away with grief and pain.

“Ah, thou upon thy snow-white bier! And I have loved thee so many a year.”

The third drew back again the veil, And kissed the lips so cold and pale.

“I’ve loved thee always, I love thee to-day, And will love thee, yes, forever and aye!”

THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE

The glory of the day was in her face, The beauty of the night was in her eyes. And over all her loveliness, the grace Of Morning blushing in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove; Like music of a sweet, melodious part. And in her smile, the breaking light of love; And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And now the glorious day, the beauteous night, The birds that signal to their mates at dawn, To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.

And God stepped out on space, And he looked around and said, “_I’m lonely-- I’ll make me a world_.”

And far as the eye of God could see Darkness covered everything, Blacker than a hundred midnights Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said, “_That’s good!_”

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, And God rolled the light around in His hands Until He made the sun; And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. And the light that was left from making the sun God gathered it up in a shining ball And flung it against the darkness, Spangling the night with the moon and stars. Then down between The darkness and the light He hurled the world; And God said, “_That’s good!_”

Then God himself stepped down-- And the sun was on His right hand, And the moon was on His left; The stars were clustered about His head, And the earth was under His feet. And God walked, and where He trod His footsteps hollowed the valleys out And bulged the mountains up.

Then He stopped and looked and saw That the earth was hot and barren. So God stepped over to the edge of the world And He spat out the seven seas; He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; And the waters above the earth came down, The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted, And the little red flowers blossomed, The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, And the oak spread out his arms, The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, And the rivers ran down to the sea; And God smiled again, And the rainbow appeared, And curled itself around His shoulder.

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand Over the sea and over the land, And He said, “_Bring forth! Bring forth!_” And quicker than God could drop His hand, Fishes and fowls And beasts and birds Swam the rivers and the seas, Roamed the forests and the woods, And split the air with their wings. And God said, “_That’s good!_”

Then God walked around, And God looked around On all that He had made. He looked at His sun, And He looked at His moon, And He looked at His little stars; He looked on His world With all its living things, And God said, “_I’m lonely still._”

Then God sat down On the side of a hill where He could think; By a deep, wide river He sat down; With His head in His hands, God thought and thought, Till He thought, “_I’ll make me a man!_”

Up from the bed of the river God scooped the clay; And by the bank of the river He kneeled Him down; And there the great God Almighty Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; This Great God, Like a mammy bending over her baby, Kneeled down in the dust Toiling over a lump of clay Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen.

O brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night. Trust not your prowess nor your strength, Your only safety lies in flight; For in her glance is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.

The great white witch you have not seen? Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, Like nursery children you have looked For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; But no, not so; the witch appears In all the glowing charms of youth.

Her lips are like carnations, red, Her face like new-born lilies, fair, Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, She moves with subtle grace and air, And all about her head there floats The golden glory of her hair.

But though she always thus appears In form of youth and mood of mirth, Unnumbered centuries are hers, The infant planets saw her birth; The child of throbbing Life is she, Twin sister to the greedy earth.

And back behind those smiling lips, And down within those laughing eyes, And underneath the soft caress Of hand and voice and purring sighs, The shadow of the panther lurks, The spirit of the vampire lies.

For I have seen the great white witch, And she has led me to her lair, And I have kissed her red, red lips And cruel face so white and fair; Around me she has twined her arms, And bound me with her yellow hair.

I felt those red lips burn and sear My body like a living coal; Obeyed the power of those eyes As the needle trembles to the pole; And did not care although I felt The strength go ebbing from my soul.

Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, And heard your laughter loud and gay, And in your voices she has caught The echo of a far-off day, When man was closer to the earth; And she has marked you for her prey.

She feels the old Antaean strength In you, the great dynamic beat Of primal passions, and she sees In you the last besieged retreat Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.

O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night. O, younger brothers mine, beware; Look not upon her beauty bright; For in her glance there is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.

When I come down to sleep death’s endless night, The threshold of the unknown dark to cross, What to me then will be the keenest loss, When this bright world blurs on my fading sight? Will it be that no more I shall see the trees Or smell the flowers or hear the singing birds Or watch the flashing streams or patient herds? No, I am sure it will be none of these.

But, ah! Manhattan’s sights and sounds, her smells, Her crowds, her throbbing force, the thrill that comes From being of her a part, her subtile spells, Her shining towers, her avenues, her slums-- O God! the stark, unutterable pity, To be dead, and never again behold my city!

WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT DU BOIS

I was born in Massachusetts and educated in her schools, at Fisk University, at Harvard and Berlin. My first published writings were news notes in _The New York Age_. Then I had an article in _The Atlantic Monthly_, and in 1896 my doctor’s thesis on the slave trade was published as my first book. _The Souls of Black Folk_ appeared in 1903 and one or two other books thereafter. I taught at Wilberforce, Pennsylvania and Atlanta and became editor of _The Crisis_ in 1910.

A LITANY OF ATLANTA[9]

Done at Atlanta, in the Day of Death, 1906.

O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our ears an-hungered in these fearful days--

_Hear us, good Lord!_

Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a mockery in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy heaven, O God crying:

_We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_

We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but weak and human men. When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed: curse them as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have done to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home.

_Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!_

And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who nursed them in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched their mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime, and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity?

_Thou knowest, good God!_

Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence, and the innocent crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty?

_Justice, O Judge of men!_

Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the fathers dead? Have not seers seen in Heaven’s halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms of endless dead?

_Awake, Thou that sleepest!_

Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, thru blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men, of women strong and free--far from the cozenage, black hypocrisy and chaste prostitution of this shameful speck of dust!

_Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin!_

From lust of body and lust of blood _Great God, deliver us!_

From lust of power and lust of gold, _Great God, deliver us!_

From the leagued lying of despot and of brute, _Great God, deliver us!_

A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin Murder and Black Hate. Red was the midnight; clang, crack and cry of death and fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars when church spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of vengeance!

_Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!_

In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our ears and held our leaping hands, but they--did they not wag their heads and leer and cry with bloody jaws: _Cease from Crime!_ The word was mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one.

_Turn again our captivity, O Lord!_

Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was an humble black man who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They told him: _Work and Rise_. He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but some one told how some one said another did--one whom he had never seen nor known. Yet for that man’s crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife naked to shame, his children, to poverty and evil.

_Hear us, O Heavenly Father!_

Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long shall the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes who do such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn it in hell forever and forever!

_Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!_

Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the madness of a mobbed and mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy Throne, we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: _What meaneth this?_ Tell us the Plan; give us the Sign!

_Keep not Thou silence, O God!_

Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb suffering. Surely, Thou too art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, heartless thing?

_Ah! Christ of all the Pities!_