Many times during their short engagement something almost compelled John
Le Strange to paint a word picture of himself as he really was, not as he
knew she believed him to be; but, after all, is it necessary? She loved
him, and, God knows, he loved her! She would never look upon his face;
always to her he would be beautiful. So far as utter affection could,
he would keep all sorrow from her, surround her with every comfort. She
was more helpless than most women; would need all her life more care and
cherishing.
More than once he asked Mrs. Desmond if it would not be better to
undeceive the girl. She, however, was emphatic in her negative.
“You’ll just spoil her life and her happiness if you do,” she answered.
“What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve for; as every one
knows, the blind in their hearts and souls worship at the shrine of beauty
more ardently than those who see. To her you are all that is desirable in
every way; let that content you.”
And so, with the truth still untold, the two married, and in the whole
wide world there was no happier wife than Nora Le Strange. Never once
did he let her feel her blindness; never did he tire of telling her of
beautiful things, describing every place he took her to so vividly, with
such care, that always she smiled and nodded as she pressed the hands she
held.
“I see—I see it all quite plainly!” she would say. “Oh, John, what a
beautiful place this world is! And what a pair of seeing eyes you lend to
me!”
It was not until her little son was born that Nora craved passionately
to see, if only for a moment. Time after time, as she held the little
creature, as she passed her fingers ever so gently across his downy head,
his tiny features, over and over again, John described just what the
little one was like—the most beautiful baby in the world. But for once,
she seemed hardly satisfied.
“Oh, if I could only see him!” she said; “just once. John, I’ve wanted
terribly sometimes to see you, though I know just what you are like. I
want even more to see him, because he’s you and me, and our dear love all
rolled up in this sweet, warm bundle.”
It was just about this time that a stranger, meeting John, Nora and the
beautiful child in a public conveyance, looked at the girl’s eyes with an
interested, professional glance. A day later, having discovered where they
lived, he called upon John Le Strange.
“Your wife is blind,” he said, after a preliminary word or two. “I think,
however, she was not blind from birth?”
“No,” he answered, “she was not blind until her fourth year. Her blindness
is the outcome of some juvenile complaint.”
“And can, I believe, be cured,” the doctor said, gently.
John’s heart gave a great leap. Nora’s blindness cured! That would mean
that she would see him; look upon the man she had believed beautiful—see
how he had deceived her—perhaps hate him!
“Cured!” he repeated, and Dr. Winter wondered why the man’s scarred face
grew so pale.
“Will you allow me to examine your wife’s eyes?” the oculist said. “From
what I have observed, I have little doubt that your wife may yet see.”
There was a struggle for a moment in John’s heart. The happiness of his
life, the dear, utter happiness, seemed slipping away. Then the beauty of
the man’s nature conquered; he fetched his wife.
Trembling, he stood by while the beautiful eyes were examined; slowly he
sat down as the doctor gave his verdict.
“The operation would be painful,” he said, “but I have no doubt whatever
of its success.”
With a laugh of excitement, Nora spoke:
“Painful, John? That won’t matter; I can bear pain. Think of it, dear! I
shall see the sky, the flowers—see you, and the baby! Oh, John—John, it’s
too good to be true! No, no—I won’t say that. John, how quiet you are!”
As the days passed on, and certain preparations for the operation were
made, John grew more quiet than ever; a silent tragedy had come into his
happy life. Within another week his wife would see—would look at him,
perhaps with aversion!
“Will you tell her,” he said to Mrs. Desmond, “before she sees—will you
tell her? Directly the bandages are removed, she will turn to me, and she
won’t know me. Will you prepare her?”
“It’s most unfortunate,” she said, slowly. “Yes, I mean it; I look upon
this hope for Nora’s sight as a great misfortune. She was perfectly happy,
perfectly content, I know”—neither of them heard a soft step coming along
the passage—“she longed to see the child, but, after all, her sense of
touch is so delicate, she knows as well as I know what he is like. This
interfering doctor had better have left things alone.”
The soft steps stopped outside the door. The blind girl stood and
listened, her heart beating strangely. Sight a misfortune for her!
Why—why? She could not understand.
“After all,” Mrs. Desmond went on, slowly, “she loves you dearly; she will
grow used to your looks in time; even if she is shocked at first, it will
wear off, and any one can see that it’s your misfortune that you’re not a
handsome man; your features, as I have told Nora often, are beautiful. You
ought to be a handsome man, and but for the smallpox marks you certainly
would have been.”
The blind girl, standing so motionless outside the door, shivered a little.
“I shan’t be able to bear it,” John said. “Blind as she is, she worships
beauty. What will she feel when she sees she is bound for life to me! I
ought not to have married her; but when a man loves”—he made a hopeless
gesture—“and I wanted to take care of her.”
Mrs. Desmond rose, and walked about the room.
“You’re her husband,” she said; “you have the remedy in your own
hands—forbid the operation!”
“And rob her of one of life’s greatest blessings?” he answered. “No, I’m
not so selfish as that, and she wants to see the little one. Ah, well; he,
at all events, is perfectly beautiful; she will turn from me, perhaps; but
she can feast her eyes on our little son.”
As quietly as she had come, the blind girl stole away, up the stairs to
her little one’s nursery, where he lay crooning in his cot. With a half
sob, she bent over him, kissed him—touched the tiny face.
A little later, with a quick, light step, she ran down the stairs, her
hand just touching the banisters; listened an instant, then went straight
to the room in which John sat. He glanced up, and she went to him, kissed
him softly.
“John,” she said, a tremble in her voice, “dear John, don’t be angry
with me—I know you’ve been put to trouble—trouble and expense, but—I’m a
coward, dear—the doctor said it would be painful; I can’t”—she almost
sobbed now—“I can’t face the operation!”
He held her from him for a minute; no inkling of the truth entered his
mind. Then he snatched her to his heart. Was he wicked, selfish, to be so
glad?
“Not to face it!” he returned. “But think, Nora, just a little pain, or
even a great deal, and then to see! To see,” he said the words bravely,
“to see baby!”
She trembled from head to foot. Oh, to see—to see!
“Yes, I know,” she answered. “I have wanted to, but after all, you have
been my eyes—such good eyes, John—and I’m not brave at bearing pain.
You’re not vexed with me?”
“No, darling—no; but think, think again.”
“I have thought;” she answered, “and I can’t risk it. You must thank the
doctor, and tell him I’m afraid. John, I don’t seem selfish to you because
I won’t bear pain—because I must be your blind wife, and baby’s blind
mother always?”
“No,” he whispered. Was he selfish, wicked, that so great a glow of joy
pervaded his whole being? “But, dearest, to be blind all your life, when
you might see!”
She lifted her lips and kissed him—kissed the scarred cheek, the beautiful
eyes.
“I don’t mind,” she answered. “Why should I, John, when the most beautiful
thing in the world is blind?”
“The most beautiful thing?”
[Illustration]
A BRAVE WOMAN’S DEVOTION
A WEIRD STORY FULL OF PATHOS SETTING FORTH THE DEVOTION OF A NATIVE HEROINE
BY A NATIVE HAWAIIAN
WRITTEN FOR ALEXANDER’S MAGAZINE
Three riders came out of the woods, and, turning into the road leading
from Napoopoo to the uplands, slowly began the ascent. As they went up,
the long plains, reaching from the forest covered heights of Mauna Loa
to the ocean, seemed to grow broader, and the sea rose higher, till
the far away horizon almost touched the sinking sun. Lanes of glassy
water stretched from the shore into illimitable distance. A ship lying
motionless looked as if hanging in mid-air. Under the cliff the delicate
lines of cocoanut and palm trees were silhouetted against the ocean
mirror. Far to the south ran the black and frowning coast, relieved here
and there by white lines or foam creeping lazily in from the ocean,
only to look darker as the surf melted from sight. On the plain, little
clusters of trees, or a house, or a thin curl of smoke, indicated
the presence of men; and back of all rose the forest, vast, dim and
mysterious, stretching away for miles till lost in the clouds resting
softly on the bosom of the mountain.
Such a scene could not fail to arrest attention, and, though our riders
were tired, they reined in their horses to enjoy its quiet beauty.
“What a wonderful scene! I have been through Europe, feasted my eyes on
the Alps, and have seen the finest that America can produce, but I never
saw its equal,” said the tourist.
“It looks as if such a picture might be the theatre of thrilling romance
and history,” said the Coffee Planter. “Is it not here that Captain
Cook was killed? And I think I have heard that a famous battle was
fought somewhere near: the last struggle of the past against advancing
Christianity.”
“Yes,” replied the Native, slowly, with a lingering look in his eyes, as
he turned from the inspiring view to his companions. “Yes, this is all
historic ground. Over there under the setting sun, at Kuamoo, was fought
the battle of Kekuaokalani, and there a heroic woman braved and met death
with her husband, a rebel chief. On these plains below and on yonder
heights there have been many thrilling scenes in Hawaii’s history. But all
of the romance is not in the past. Do you see those houses away down the
coast, this side of the high lands of Honokua? See how they glow in the
setting sunlight. That is Hookena, and only a few years ago it witnessed
the last act in a simple drama, which can hardly be excelled in all the
tales of heroism in the past. It was told me in part by the woman who
was or is the heroine, for she yet lives. And I looked at her in wonder,
because she was so unconscious of it all.”
“Let us hear the story,” said the planter. “We will sit on that high
point and watch this glorious scene fade into moonlight, while we rest
and listen.” They dismounted and stepped from the road to a projecting
rock and, throwing themselves on the grass where none of the wonderful
vision could be missed, listened. The native looked a little embarrassed
at his sudden transformation from guide to story-teller, but accepted the
position and began.
“Many years ago a native family lived a few miles above Hookena, on land
which had been occupied by their ancestors for generations, for they
belonged to the race of chiefs. The house was hidden from the road, in the
midst of a grove of orange, breadfruit, mango, banana and other trees.
It is on storied ground, for many stirring events in the past history of
Hawaii had occurred here. A son and three daughters were the children.
They received more than the usual care and attention given to Hawaiian
children, and had grown to man and womanhood serious and reflective. The
young man, Keawe, was filled with a desire to do something noble for his
dying race. Though he had travelled over the Islands and had been well
received everywhere, yet he was heart-free and said he would never marry,
but wait untrammelled till his time for action should come. With eagerness
he watched political developments at the capital. His heart beat wildly
when the last Kamehameha died, and Kalakaua was elected King.
Such a method of King-making did not suit his chivalric ideas. The records
of personal prowess, of brave chiefs and noble women were his delight. He
mourned that such records belonged to the well-nigh forgotten past. His
ambition was not ignoble. He wanted the Hawaiians to be worthy of the best
civilization, to maintain a Hawaiian Kingdom, because that the native was
equal to it. While he mourned, he condemned the frequent failures, under
which the native was forfeiting the confidence of his white friends. He
was one of the overwhelming majority who regarded Kalakaua’s accession
unworthy, and as the beginning of the end of Hawaiian supremacy.
One day, while fishing at the beach where he was doing more dreaming than
fishing; sometimes idly watching a laughing company of girls who were
bathing and surf-riding; he was startled by a cry of terror. Springing
to his feet, he saw that one of the girls was desperately struggling
to swim ashore, where her affrighted companions were running wildly
about crying for help. Looking towards the sea he saw a large fin on
the surface rapidly following the swimmer. Accustomed to every athletic
sport; perfectly at home in the water; always cool and self possessed, he
saw, that to overtake her, the shark must pass a low rocky headland, and
in an instant he was there with a long knife in his hand. He remembered
seeing the face of the girl as she struggled desperately to escape. There
was a single terrified glance, but he saw a beautiful woman, with a face
indicating a higher type than usual. There was no time for admiration. The
shark was turning and, with a horrid open mouth, was about to rush upon
its victim. Ho gave a loud shout, jumped full upon the huge beast, and
in an instant had plunged his knife to the hilt again and again into its
body. Then he was hurled into the seething brine, as the frightened animal
with frantic plunges rushed seaward. Coming to the surface and looking
about he saw the body of the girl near by. He thought her dead. She was
indeed stunned and hurt, for the shark gave her a fearful blow in turning.
It was the work of only a minute to drag her out. There for a moment
he saw the full measure of her youth and beauty, but did not wait for
returning consciousness. Seeing that she was recovering he walked swiftly
away.
But he was wounded, and, denounce and reproach himself as he would, the
sweet face ever and anon came before his eyes, and sent the blood tingling
and dancing through his veins. He tried to crush out the image, and
determined to enter into active life; to cease dreaming, and begin then
and at once to accomplish his high aims.
The political campaign, culminating in the election of 1886, had
commenced. Kalakaua had announced the aim of his reign: to increase and
develop the Hawaiian people. “Hawaii for the Hawaiians” made an inspiring
war cry. Keawe entered with energy and hope into the conflict. Yet it
troubled him, and it seemed as if there was something wrong in opposing
the noble Philipo, who had so long faithfully represented the people of
Kona in the National Legislature. But Kalakaua declared that Philipo
must be replaced by another man, and was himself coming to assist in the
conflict. With the ancient faith and confidence in the chief, Keawe put
aside his doubts and worked day and night for the success of the holy
cause. It was holy to him and as the day of election drew near, his belief
grew stronger, that at last a deliverer had come and Hawaii was to be
redeemed. Already he saw, in a bright future, a government by Hawaiians
with full friendship for all nations, and cordial relations with those
who had helped his people into the best light of civilization. The King
came, and with him a troop of palace guards from Honolulu. When all of
these were, by the royal will, duly registered as voters, and means,
other than argument and persuasion, were used to help on the good cause,
a chilly sense of something wrong cooled Keawe’s ardor. He met the King
and was cordially received. His heart bounded with pleasure at words of
praise for his work. An invitation to a feast and dance was accepted, and
only when he went and saw, did he realize the mockery and sham behind the
fine words. Heart sick, dizzy with a sore disappointment, early the next
morning, when all were sleeping, he mounted his horse and stole away
alone. The cold mountain air relieved the pain in his head, but his heart
was weary and the future looked dark. He saw that if there was momentary
triumph, all the sooner disaster must come; and he longed to know how
to avert the danger. He grew weary thinking and trying to hope, and his
thoughts went to other things. Again he was in the water, struggling to
save her life. Again the sweet face appeared before him, so fair and
gentle. The sun was hot now; he had ridden for hours, and, alighting,
threw himself on the grass and looked up through the leafy bower at the
bright sky. Perhaps he slept; at any rate be dreamed that a sweet voice
was singing “Aloha oe.” He sat up and listened. It was not a dream, and a
strong desire to see the face of the singer possessed him. The voice drew
nearer, then she passed near by carrying a pitcher, and went to a spring.
It was the girl he had saved from the shark! She wore a loose flowing gown
of white and a maile branch twisted about her head hardly confined the
silky hair which floated down her back. A coral pin held the gown about
her neck. Short sleeves only partly hid her graceful and shapely arms.
Keawe arose and stood watching. His heart beat tumultuously. No other
woman had so strongly moved him, and now he would speak and not run again.
A movement startled her, and rising with the dripping pitcher in her hand,
she turned and saw him. That she knew him was instantly evident; but her
eyes modestly dropped and she moved as if to go. But he was in the path,
and seeing that, she hesitated and turned to go through the woods, but
could not and stood again, looking at her feet which just peeped from the
gown. Keawe stepped towards her and said, “Do you remember the shark?”
“Yes, I know you,” she replied. Her eyes said more and he saw it again. As
he stepped nearer she said. “Why did you not let me thank you? I thought
you might come.” It flashed through his mind that he wasted two months
pursuing an ignis fatuus, only to have nothing but bitterness at the end,
when it might have been——! “I was afraid to come,” he replied. “I wanted
to work for Hawaii and our people.” “Yes, I know,” she said. “You have
spoken bravely. All Kona trusts in your words!” “Did you believe them?”
he quickly asked. “Do you believe in me?” A look was her reply. “Will you
believe in me if I say that I am done with ‘Hawaii for the Hawaiians,’
under such leadership?” “I will always believe in you. But come, you are
tired. My father will be glad to meet you,” she said quickly. “May I
drink?” he said, and held out his hand. She gave him the pitcher, which he
held and looked at the pretty figure standing near the spring. “You are
Rebecca at the well.” “And are you Abraham’s servant?” “No, I am Isaac
himself,” he replied and tried to take her hand. “Oh! but Isaac did not
meet Rebecca at the well!” And, laughing merrily, she ran down the path
towards her home. He followed but though he wanted, the opportunity for
other words did not come; she was so very coy. But that was not the only
visit. Very often business calls took him along that lovely mountain road
and there was always a welcome at the home of Lilia. He told her of his
love, and in April they were married.
They built a little cottage which nestled snugly in a quiet valley on the
mountain side, and there they passed a few months of perfect happiness.
All loved them. He was regarded as the wise adviser and friend of the
country-side. She became the gentle sister of those who were ill, or
suffering or wayward, and their home was the center of an influence which
helped and lifted.
But a shadow came into their lives. He grew silent, reserved, almost
afraid of beautiful Lilia. She watched with eager anxiety and entreated
his confidence, but his lips were sealed. Only his tremulous voice and
shaking hand betrayed suffering. Sometimes she fancied that his hands grew
palsied and his bright eye was dim, but repelled the fancy with terror.
One day he came home with such a look that her heart stood still, and
words died upon her lips. He gazed into her eyes with passionate agony
and, taking her hands, said “Will you still believe in me if I say we must
part; that I must leave you and go away, and you must stay here and live
out your life—your precious life, so dear to me—all, all alone?” Then her
courage came, and she said, “No, I will never leave you. You are mine. I
must go too, wherever you go!” “But,” said he, “I have seen the examining
surgeon today, and he says I must go by the next trip of the steamer to
Honolulu.” And then the full measure of her woe dawned upon the stricken
wife. With unutterable anguish she threw her arms about his body and
clasped him tightly to her breast. “I was allowed to come here and prepare
to go, and to bid a last farewell to all I hold so dear. I shall never see
these trees, the flowers, this house, my friends, nor you, my precious
wife, again.” But her face had grown hard and stern, and, relaxing the
hold, she told her plan. It was to take him into a far off deep recess
in the woods. There was up the mountain side a deep crater, overgrown
with trees, ferns, vines and a wild luxurious growth, which kindly nature
had draped so softly that its hideousness was lost. It was considered
inaccessible, and only the family knew of an ancient lava cavern which
entered its deepest recess. One of several mouths of the cavern was near
the house. “But the law says that I must go” he urged. “There is no law
higher than my love for you,” and he yielded to her imperious urgency.
Quickly and stealthily she carried such articles as the simplest life
might require, and a few days later, when the officers of the law came,
Keawe was not to be found and no one knew where they had gone.
With untiring love the wife watched and aided her husband. Together they
built a little bower out of view from the upper edges of the crater, under
the spreading branches of a kukui tree. A little pool, fed by the constant
drip from the over-hanging wall, supplied them with pure water. Near at
hand, under a mass of ferns, maile and ieie, was the mouth of the cavern.
She grew familiar with its turns and windings, till she almost dared to
brave its black recesses without a torch. In one of its dry and sheltered
windings, she stored articles of food and clothing thinking that sometime
a watch might be stationed at the home on the hill-side and she could not
venture out. But days melted into weeks; weeks became months: two years
passed, and their hiding place was not discovered. No one came, though
Keawe often longed to see the faces of friends. But they were afraid to
venture near and the cavern echoed only to her feet, and the silence of
the deep pit was only broken by their voices and the music of the birds.
At times a sudden gust rushed down the steep sides and every tree waved
and bowed and quivered. The sunlight only touched the bottom in summer
and then for a few minutes only. But it was not gloomy, the glorious sky
was always there and the brilliant light, and the bloom and fragrance
filled the air. No, it was not always bright, sometimes tempests whirled
far over their heads; trees in the world above tossed their branches
over the abyss, leaves and twigs fell gently, or branches, and once, a
tree, were hurled down with deafening noise. The roar of thunder, and
vast sheets and torrents of rain filled the pit. Once, in a still night,
they were startled and terrified by a sudden boom far below their feet
and the earth shook, stones rattled down the rocky sides of the abyss,
and they remembered the dread power of the volcano. “It is Pele! she is
angry with us!” cried Lilia. “No,” replied her husband, “we have thrown
ourselves into the protecting bosom of the Goddess! We are safe in her
arms.” They were safe from human sight and interference, and Lilia’s soul
feasted in the presence of him she loved. She poured out upon him such a
wealth of devotion, that a miser might have envied. But alas, though safe
from man, he was under the fell power of disease, and slowly yielded. Day
after day he grew weaker and less able to help himself, until the fond
wife performed the most menial tasks. But they were not menial to her.
Everything for him was a glory and a joy. “I cannot last long” he said one
day, “and I want you to have my lands. Get your mother’s young husband,
the lawyer, to come, that it may be settled.” He came, and, looking
wonderingly about, prepared a deed which he said would accomplish the
object. Keawe was not satisfied. “It sounds wrong—why should the name of
your wife appear?” he asked. “She’s your wife’s mother,” was the reply,
“and you cannot convey to your wife direct. When this deed is recorded my
wife can then convey to your wife. You must hurry or it will be too late,”
said the coming man. With some doubt still, but trusting to his friend’s
good faith, knowing he was alone, cut off from all the world, Keawe
signed, and the deed was taken away. Patiently they waited for weeks to
finish the business, “and then,” said Keawe, “you will have a home.” But
the lawyer did not come, and evaded Lilia’s eager questions.
One day when returning to the cavern, her heart stood still as she saw
slowly emerging from its mouth, several police officers, bearing on a
rough litter the helpless form of her beloved Keawe. At a glance she saw
the whole base deception. Her stepfather had betrayed their secret hiding
place, and the end had come! With a frantic wail of despair, she flung
herself at their feet and begged and implored. But her entreaties were
vain, and the sick man was taken to Hookena where the steamer was waiting.
At the landing, as the boat drew near the shore, she learned that he was
to go alone and then her grief knew no bounds. As he was put on board and
turned his imploring eyes on her she made a desperate attempt to go too,
and in her struggle her clothing was almost torn away. The officers of
the law thought they were doing their duty, but their eyes were full of
pity. “Keawe! Oh Keawe, my beloved husband!” she cried, “let me go with
you!” But no answer came. The steamer turned her head towards the sea,
and he was gone. She fell to the earth, and lay with buried face for many
minutes. It seemed to her that nothing was left and bitterly she mourned
her loss. But suddenly starting, she asked eagerly for a horse, which was
furnished at once by a sympathetic friend. Mounting, she went without
stopping for rest or food until, on the second day, Kawaihae was reached.
Soon a steamer came, and she went to Honolulu, only to hear on landing
that Keawe had died on the trip down. Giving way to despair, she dejected,
sought the house of an aunt, where she was kindly received, and there she
remained for several months.
“And that is the story,” said the Native.
“It is rather sad, but she was a heroine sure enough,” said the Planter.
The pale light of the crescent moon served only to render the landscape
shadowy. All nature rested. An owl fluttered slowly by and a soft murmur
from far below told that the restless sea alone moved. There was no other
sound. The riders mounted and silently stole away.
SAMUEL COLERIDGE-TAYLOR, COMPOSER
_A Sketch_
_By Booker T. Washington_
FROM THE MUSICIAN
It is given to but few men in so short a time to create for themselves
a position of such prominence on two continents as has fallen to the
lot of Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. Born in London, August 15, 1875, Mr.
Coleridge-Taylor is not yet thirty. His father, an African and a native
of Sierra Leone, was educated at King’s college, London, and his medical
practice was divided between London and Sierra Leone.
As a child of four Coleridge-Taylor could read music before he could read
a book. His first musical instruction was on the violin. The piano he
would not touch, and did not for some years. As one of the singing boys
in St. George’s church, Croydon, he received an early training in choral
work. At fifteen he entered the Royal College of Music as a student of the
violin. Afterwards winning a scholarship in composition he entered, in
1893, the classes of Sir Charles Villiers Stanford, with whom he studied
four years or more.
Mr. Coleridge-Taylor early gave evidence of creative powers of a higher
order, and today he ranks as one of the most interesting and remarkable
of British composers and conductors. Aside from his creative work, he is
actively engaged as a teacher in Trinity college, London, and as conductor
of the Handel society, London, and the Rochester Choral society. At the
Gloucester festival of 1898 he attracted general notice by the performance
of his =Ballade in A minor=, for orchestra, Op. 33, which he had been
invited to conduct. His remarkable sympathetic setting in cantata form of
portions of Longfellow’s =Hiawatha=, Op. 30, has done much to make him
known in England and America. This triple choral work, with its haunting,
melodic phrases, bold harmonic scheme, and vivid orchestration, was
produced one part or scene at a time. The work was not planned as a whole,
for the composer’s original intention was to set =Hiawatha’s Wedding
Feast= only. This section was first performed at a concert of the Royal
College of Music under the conductorship of Stanford, November 11, 1898.
In response to an invitation from the committee of the North Staffordshire
Musical Festival =The Death of Minnehaha=, Op. 30, No. 2, was written,
and given under the composer’s direction at Hanley, October 26, 1899. The
overture to =The Song of Hiawatha=, for full orchestra, Op. 30, No. 3,
a distinct work, was composed for and performed at the Norwich musical
festival of 1899. The entire work, with the added third part—=Hiawatha’s
Departure=, Op. 30, No. 4—was first given by the Royal Choral society in
Royal Albert hall, London, March 22, 1900, the composer conducting.
The first performance of the entire work in America was given under the
direction of Mr. Charles E. Knauss by the Orpheus Oratorio society in
Easton, Penn., May 5, 1903. The Cecilia society of Boston, under Mr. B. J.
Lang, gave the first performance of =Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast= on March
14, 1900; of =Hiawatha’s Departure= on December 5, 1900; and on December
2, 1902, =The Death of Minnehaha=, together with =Hiawatha’s Departure=.
In 1902 Mr. Coleridge-Taylor was invited to conduct at the Sheffield
musical festival his orchestral and choral rhapsody =Meg Blane=, Op.
48. The fact that this work was given on the same program with a Bach
cantata, Dvorak’s =Stabat Mater= and Tschaikowsky’s =Symphonie Pathetique=
indicates the high esteem in which the composer is held.
A sacred cantata of the dimensions and style of a modern oratorio. =The
Atonement=, Op. 53, was first given at the Hereford festival, September 9,
1903, under the composer’s baton, and its success was even greater at the
first London performance in the Royal Albert hall on Ash Wednesday, 1904,
the composer conducting. The first performance of =The Atonement= in this
country was by the Church Choral society under Richard Henry Warren at St.
Thomas’s church, New York, February 24 and 25, 1904. Worthy of special
mention are the =Quintet for Clarinet and Strings=, Op. 6 (1897), which
Joachim has given, and the =Sorrow Songs=, Op. 57 (1904), a setting of six
of Christina Rossetti’s exquisite poems.
Beside the work already mentioned are =a Nonet for Piano, Strings and
Wind=, Op. 3 (1894), =Symphony in A minor=, Op. 7 (1895), =Solemn Prelude
for Orchestra=, Op. 40, (1899), between thirty and forty songs, various
piano solos, anthems, and part songs, and part works in both large and
small form for the violin with orchestra or piano.
Mr. Coleridge-Taylor has written much, has achieved much. His work,
moreover, possesses not only charm and power, but distinction, the
individual note. The genuineness, depth and intensity of his feeling,
coupled with his mastery of technique, spontaneity, and ability to
think in his own way, explain the force of the appeal his compositions
make. Another element in the persuasiveness of his music lies in its
naturalness, the directness of its appeal, the use of simple and
expressive melodic themes, a happy freedom from the artificial. These
traits, employed in the freedom of modern musical speech, coupled with
emotional power and supported by ample technical resource, beget an
utterance quick to evoke response.
The paternity of Mr. Coleridge-Taylor and his love for what is elemental
and racial found rich expression in the choral work by which he is best
known and more obviously in his =African Romances=, Op. 17, a set of
seven songs; the =African Suite= for the piano, Op. 35; and =Five Choral
Ballads=, for baritone, solo, quartet, chorus and orchestra, Op. 54, being
a setting of five of Longfellow’s =Poems on Slavery=. The transcription
of Negro melodies recently published is, however, the most complete
expression of Mr. Coleridge-Taylor’s native bent and power. Using some of
the native songs of Africa and the West Indies with songs that came into
being in America during the slavery =regime=, he has, in handling these
melodies, preserved their distinctive traits and individuality, at the
same time giving them an art from fully imbued with their essential spirit.
It is especially gratifying that at this time, when interest in the
plantation songs seems to be dying out with the generation that gave them
birth, when the Negro song is in too many minds associated with “rag”
music and the more reprehensible “coon” song, that the most cultivated
musician of his race, a man of the highest esthetic ideals, should seek
to give permanence to the folk songs of his people by giving them a new
interpretation and an added dignity.
_Outwitting the Devil_
A STORY
BY KELT-NOR
What you want to press upon your brethren of African descent is (1) hard
work, (2) the earnest use in that work of all the brains with which the
Almighty has blessed them, (3) the acquirement of knowledge whereby that
work may become better paid, and (4) chiefest of all the highest possible
standard of morality, higher therefore than has been reached by any people
in the old or new world, in this first decade of the 20th century.
Now the most bigoted citizen north or south, of European or Asiatic
extraction, has always been only too glad to concede to your people the
first mentioned of these blessings; but, in the southern part of our
country at least, he is very apt to do all in his power to prevent his
fellow citizens, with African blood in their veins, from acquiring the
last three.
As I sat pondering on this melancholy fact and on how best to enforce the
precepts of which I have spoken, my eyes fell on the theme which my little
girl had just written for humble submission to her school ma’am. It seemed
to me to the point, and I straightway copied it out for you, just as
written. Here it is:
The Students’ Adventure.
Two German students, Dietrich and Hans, wished to get for
their Botany Professor a specimen of a particular kind of rare
pine which grew only on the Hartz mountains. They were natives
of a district near there; so, when they went home for their
Christmas vacation, they went on a snowshoeing trip, to get
some.
They gave, on their way, in return for food and lodging,
such songs and stories as they knew; and so they traveled
on pleasantly enough until, on the third day, they found
themselves near the lonely tract on which grew the pines. As
there were no more farmhouses at which they could stop, they
hurried forward, hoping to get to the trees and back before
nightfall.
The snow was deep, but as they were young and strong, and more
than that had on snow shoes, they had no difficulty. But alas!
about half a mile from the pines, the strap of one of Hans’
snowshoes broke. He took his snowshoes off and carried them,
but found doing so hard work, and when they reached the pines
the sun had almost set, and Hans was tired. “You rest old boy,”
said Dietrich (in German of course) “and I’ll get the boughs.”
It was easier said than done, for when he got to the trees
he had to take off his snowshoes and shin up. The huge trunk
was hard to grapple, but he managed it, and after about 20
minutes had two fine specimens. But when Dietrich was safe on
the ground again the sun had set, there were only a few golden
clouds floating on the horizon, and the light was waning fast.
“Oh, beloved Heaven! We must hasten wind-fast” (literal
translation), exclaimed he, and, when he reached Hans, “Get up,
old fellow!”
Hans got up, and they started home by moonlight.
Now there happened to be a devil on that mountain—the devil of
ignorance—and, of all that he hated, professor and students he
abhorred most; for did not they forward learning more than any
one? Hearing these students talking he gathered—being a German
devil, and so understanding them—that they were students, and
that they were going to forward his enemy, Learning, by giving
some pine-boughs off his mountain to a hated professor.
“This must not be!” he stormed; so he took hold of the heels of
Dietrich’s snow shoes, and putting his tail round Hans’ waist,
for every step they took he pulled them back three; so they
went backwards towards his cave.
Now Hans wore spectacles, and he saw what the devil was doing,
reflected in them. He told Dietrich, in Latin, what went on,
and the devil, being very ignorant did not understand. So they
figured out by geometry that if they turned round and walked
the other way they would get shelter even sooner than before.
They carried out this plan so scientifically that the devil,
being also very unperceptive, did not find out how they were
fooling him, until he saw the farmhouse lights. Then, being
very much frightened he let go of the students and fled
shrieking and howling up the mountain. That was the last they
ever saw of him—which they did not regret.
When the students went back to the university, they
triumphantly gave the pine-boughs to the professor.
Goodness knows how the young person who wrote that story got it into her
head that one is justified in tricking even the good old-fashioned Nick
with his horns and hoofs, for any purpose whatever. Myself I disclaim any
responsibility for the morality involved. But this I will say that if
trickery and “lying low” of any kind is ever justified, or (I may rather
say) not much noticed by the recording angel, it must be when they are
brought to bear on the very Evil Spirit which grudges to any race the
attainment of more knowledge and a higher civilization than that to which
their ancestors, near or remote had arrived.
KELT-NOR.
HIS LESSON IN ARITHMETIC.
(By Carolyn Schlesinger.)
Orville Wright, the flying machine man, told a reporter this story:
“A little boy bustled into a grocery one day with a memorandum in his hand.
“‘Hello, Mr. Smith,’ he said, ‘I want 13 pounds of coffee at 32 cents.’
“‘Very good,’ said the grocer, and he noted down the sale, and set his
clerk to packing the coffee. ‘Anything else, Charlie?’
“‘Yes, 27 pounds of sugar at 9 cents.’
“‘The loaf, eh? And what else?’
“‘Seven and a half pounds of bacon at 20 cents.’
“‘That’s the Arrow brand. Go on.’
“‘Five pounds of tea at 90 cents, 11½ quarts of molasses at 8 cents a
pint, two eight-pound hams at 21¼ cents and five dozen jars of pickled
walnuts at 24 cents a jar.’
“The clerk bustled about and the grocer made out the bill.
“‘It’s a big order,’ he said. ‘Did your mother tell you to pay for it, or
is it to be charged?’
“‘My mother,’ said the boy, as he pocketed the neat and accurate bill,
‘has nothing to do with this business. It is my arithmetic lesson, and I
had to get it done somehow.’”—In the Boston Herald.
* * * * *
“Oh, dey’s times fu’ bein’ pleasant an’ fu’ goin’ smilin’ roun’,
’Cause I don’t believe in people allus totin’ roun’ a frown,
But it’s easy ’nough to titter w’en de stew is smokin’ hot,
But hit’s mighty ha’d to giggle w’en dey’s nuffin’ in de pot.”
—Paul Laurence Dunbar.
_An Artist of Rare Culture_
BY S. E. WILSON
“I have no genius; it is only patient, concentrated toil that
gives me success.”—Sir Isaac Newton.
It is with the deepest sense of pride that we introduce our readers to
one of the most gifted artists of the Afro-American race, Mme. Estelle
Pinckney Clough, of Worcester, Mass. Two years ago, on the 11th day of
this month, Mme. Clough made her debut in grand opera. She achieved a
great triumph in interpreting the soprano role of “Aida,” a production
which was presented by the Theodore Drury Opera company in the Lexington
Opera House, New York City. Relative to this appearance, the critic of the
“Musical Leader” says:
“A performance of remarkable excellence was given by Theodore Drury and
his associates, who revealed in a manner most astonishing what talent is
to be found among the Colored people. “Aida” was sung and admirably sung
by Mme. Estelle Clough of Worcester, Mass. She has a voice of wonderful
range, and her high notes are so exquisitely sung that Melba herself need
have no shame were she the possessor. The performance was a credit to all
and a revelation to many who, like myself, had never seen anything of the
sort before. The audience was very large and thoroughly appreciative.”
Last year the Drury Opera company gave a performance of Mascagni’s
“Cavalleria Rusticana” and Leoncavallo’s “Pagliacci” at the Lexington
Opera House for the benefit of the Home for Colored Musicians. Mme.
Clough’s magnificent conception of the character of “Nedda” in the opera
“Pagliacci” won immediate recognition. Her rendition of this role was
marked by the display of intense emotional power, coupled with telling
vocal capacity and expression.
Mme. Clough recalls with interest the singing tour recently made in
Baltimore and Washington with the S. Coleridge-Taylor Choral society of
Washington. Our artist sang the soprano roles in S. Coleridge-Taylor’s
“Hiawatha.” There were 200 voices in the chorus and the music was rendered
by the United States Marine band, under the direction of the composer of
“Hiawatha.”
We have taken a rather extensive review of work far and near, but now we
come home to ask the question whether or not a “prophet hath honor in his
own country?” The proof in the affirmative is a matter of so recent date
that hundreds of Worcester people are still discussing the marvellous
ability of our accomplished musician. Concert by Mme. Estelle Clough.
Mechanics’ hall, Worcester, Mass., Thursday evening, May 4, 1905, assisted
by a number of talented artists: Mr. Paul C. W. Dufault, tenor, New York;
Miss Marion Ward, violinist, Nashua, N. H.; Mr. Ernest S. Valva, flutist;
Miss Blanche Kenerson, pianist and accompanist Miss Gertrude Gallagher,
pianist; Mrs. Emma La Bonte, alto; Mr. C. Sharp, tenor; Mr. W. Ryan,
basso, and a chorus of 40 ladies.
[Illustration: MME. ESTELLE PINKNEY CLOUGH]
More than 1500 persons listened with pleasure to the program so well
arranged and including some of the most ambitious numbers which are
included in the repertoire of a soprano.
In referring to this concert, the Worcester Post says: “Mme. Clough
achieved a distinct success. Her high and resonant tones, flexible and
sweet, were heard to advantage in every part of the hall. Her selections
were: “Ocean, Thou Mighty Monster,” from “Oberon,” Weber; “Indian Bell
Song,” from “Lakme,” Delibes; “The Nightingale,” from “Les Noces de
Jeannette,” Masse, and “The Sea Maiden,” Smart.
Her handsome stage presence, her stunning gown of black velvet cut
decollete and en train, with necklace of rare pearls and crimson roses in
her hair, made a most attractive picture as she stood and received the
prolonged applause that is seldom accorded even to a festival singer. She
was presented many beautiful bouquets and was forced to return again and
again.
The Ocean aria calls for careful management of the vocal organs and this
was not lacking. The Indian bell song showed the flexibility and staccato
power of her tones which imitated the sounds of the bell at even. The
Masse aria, with flute obligato by Ernest Valva, was a number few sopranos
would dare to attempt for the contrast between flute and voice would be
only too noticeable if the voice should fail to be of the pure quality
demanded by the writing. Mme. Clough sang like the nightingale and the
hall resounded with applause.
In the “Sea Maiden,” she was assisted by the chorus. This song has been
given in Worcester before only by festival artists. The Masse aria has
been sung here but once before, by Mrs. Tryphosa Bates Batcheller. The
remarkable high tones of the singer last night were noteworthy. Few are
ever heard that can so easily reach and sustain high E flat. Altogether,
Mme. Clough and her teacher, Mme. Maria Peterson, were fully deserving of
the congratulations bestowed upon them by numerous friends and musical
people after the concert.
Mme. Clough says that her success is due in no small degree to the
inspiration and encouragement given by her most devoted friend and
teacher, Mme. Maria Dorothy Peterson, of Worcester, Mass. Mme. Peterson is
one of the great European vocal instructors and uses the real old Italian
method, having imbibed it from no less an authority than Jenny Lind. Mme.
Peterson is a most noble-hearted woman and she impressed me deeply when
she said, “I have much in store for Mme. Clough, but it would necessarily
mean a European tour. What I do in her interest is for the race. When one
rises, others must unwittingly do the same.”
Madame Clough’s thorough knowledge of elocution and dramatic action was
gained from the well known, conscientious instructor, Mr. Joseph M.
Bergin, also of Worcester.
For a number of years Mme. Clough was a successful teacher on the
pianoforte. Thus, being a thoroughly trained musician, she not only
has a large number of pupils in vocal culture but also in instrumental
instruction.
My dear readers, do you not realize that it is the accomplishment which
demands recognition? The world is seeking for the person who can do
something to uplift or elevate humanity. If you have a talent, cultivate
it. Work hard and work faithfully. The quotation from Sir Isaac Newton
which precedes this article is Mme. Clough’s favorite motto and she has a
copy of it in a conspicuous place in her studio, where she may often read
it and likewise her pupils:
“I have no genius; it is only patient, concentrated toil that gives me
success.”
* * * * *
The progress of civilization, the moral and intellectual improvement of
society, as well as the psychological enlightenment of the world at large
attests increasingly to the value, the justice and the worth of common
education for all members of the body politic in whatever station or of
whatever condition they may be found or to whatever race they may belong.
* * * * *
Governor W. D. Jelks of Alabama last week appointed Herschel V. Cashin, a
Colored lawyer of Decatur, Alabama, notary public. He, Warren Logan of the
Tuskegee Institute, and possibly one other, are the only Colored notaries
public in the state.
Alexander’s Magazine
_CHARLES ALEXANDER EDITOR & PUBLISHER_
PUBLISHED ON THE FIFTEENTH OF EACH MONTH AT 714 SHAWMUT AVENUE IN THE CITY
OF BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, ONE DOLLAR A YEAR, TEN CENTS
FOR A SINGLE COPY
_EDITORIAL_
MRS. CARRIE W. CLIFFORD
There are very few women in this country who are accomplishing larger
purposes for the uplift of mankind, or who are expending more mental
and moral energy in unselfish endeavors, or who have achieved greater
distinction on account of a liberal show of exceptional elocutionary
talent and rare literary gifts, or greater forcefulness of personality
as an organizer and leader of her sex than Mrs. Carrie W. Clifford of
Cleveland, Ohio.
Mrs. Clifford was born in Columbus, Ohio, where she distinguished herself
in the high school as a student of unusual brilliancy. Mrs. Clifford
organized the Minerva Reading club for the study of literature and of
course this brought her in connection with the National Association of
Colored Women. Being an enthusiastic worker and having devoted her best
energies to the development of the Cleveland organization, her ability was
soon recognized and when the call for a state organization was issued, she
took first place among those who brought about the Ohio State Federation
in 1901. In 1903 in connection with her duties as president of the Ohio
State Federation she launched “Queen’s Gardens” and later compiled
a magnificent little booklet entitled “Sowing for Others to Reap,”
containing some of the best thought of the Colored women of Ohio.
Of the 16 federated states belonging to the National Federation of Colored
Women’s clubs, the Ohio Federation stands second to none. At the last
convention of this organization Mrs. Clifford, having had her full share
of the honors of the work, had determined to decline a re-election; but
she could not realize how firmly planted in the hearts of Ohio women she
had become on account of her faithful service to their noble cause than
when the time for re-election came. The women in convention would consider
no other candidate because they had learned to love and honor a worthy
leader and could not easily be persuaded to try the uninitiated.
[Illustration: MRS. CARRIE W. CLIFFORD]
Mrs. Clifford is in great demand both as a dramatic reader and lecturer
but must decline many engagements because of her devotion to her home.
She has been the chief promoter of nearly every good work conducted in
the interest of Colored people in Cleveland. It was through her efforts
that Dr. Du Bois delivered his lecture in that city not long since, and
she was largely instrumental in planning and carrying out the magnificent
program on the occasion of the Dr. Booker T. Washington banquet. Because
she is interested in literary matters she was selected by the publishers
of the Cleveland Journal as editor-in-chief of the Woman’s edition
and achieved notable success of the enterprise. We consider ourselves
fortunate in being able to secure the service of such an able woman on our
magazine.—The Editor.
THE LATE JOSEPH JEFFERSON
In the death of Joseph Jefferson the theatrical profession loses the most
renowned, the most respected, the most highly esteemed and perhaps the
most skillful actor that has played upon the American stage for a great
number of years. The chief characteristics of this man’s career points
to his simplicity of home life and his ideals, with a view to dignifying
his profession in the eyes of the public. It may be that the day of great
actors has faded away into the past and that we may never have another who
will interpret the vital literature of the past so admirably and with such
technique and vividness as did Joseph Jefferson. Where is the man or woman
who pretends to know anything about the history of the American stage
who is not familiar with Joseph Jefferson in the role of Rip Van Winkle,
and what school boy or school girl has not read Washington Irving’s
magnificent production in the course of his or her daily studies. The
manner in which Joseph Jefferson delineated the character of a vagabond,
who was simplicity itself and the pathos of whose life is a tradition in
our history, and at once places him in the front rank of the finest and
best artists of his day and generation. There was a charm in the portrayal
of Rip that never failed to hold the attention of theatregoers wherever
exhibited. In the truest sense Joseph Jefferson was an adornment to his
profession, and the sweet and delightful memory of his activities will be
cherished by generations yet unborn.
[Illustration: THE LATE JOSEPH JEFFERSON]
* * * * *
In the recent death of Mr. Patrick J. Healy, head of the firm of Lyon
& Healy of Chicago, Ill., removes from the musical world one of the
most successful and widely known business men of this generation. He
was a skilled, sympathetic, hard working business man and his unusual
attainments were due to his rectitude, love and tolerance—splendid
qualities of head and heart—as well as his incessant application to the
business in which he was engaged. His honesty, integrity, faithfulness
and splendid devotion to his friends and to all who came in contact with
him either in a business or social way stamped him as a man of fine
quality and a model for young men. As Mr. Haynes, head of the firm of
Oliver Ditson company, says, in his splendid tribute: “His memory will
be a blessed heritage to his friends and all with whom he has ever been
associated.”
* * * * *
The collection of Negro Melodies recently issued by Oliver Ditson
company, being transcriptions of Negro and African Folk Songs by Samuel
Coleridge-Taylor, form a remarkable contribution to the Musicians’
Library, issued by this deservedly popular house, and the article
concerning the work of Mr. Taylor which appears in this issue of
Alexander’s Magazine contributed to The Musician by Dr. Booker T.
Washington, principal of the Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute,
is informing and helpful. It must be an exalted position to be rightly
credited as the first great composer of a race, and such is the position
of Mr. S. Coleridge-Taylor of London, England. His compositions are
brilliant and carry with them evidence of scientific research and
careful character delineations. The recent rendition of a number of
these compositions by Mr. Samuel W. Jamieson of this city, in Steinert
hall, evidences the fact that his work is extraordinary and ranks with
the best classics of modern times. We reproduce from The Musician the
splendid copyright portrait of Mr. S. Coleridge-Taylor by special written
permission of the Oliver Ditson company.
CHARLES ALEXANDER
THE NEED OF A MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY J. M. HENDERSON
As a rule the first news of various happenings is presented in the papers
hastily. People want the news and read what is presented as news quickly
and pass it along without much thought. This is about all of the attention
that a large part of news items are worth but there are constantly taking
place events that bear such important relations to questions of great
interest that it is essential for the student of events to have the aid of
a monthly review.
Alexander’s Magazine will meet an existing need if it takes up important
events and questions of vital and present day interest and gives to its
readers the outcome of calm, deliberate, and critical thought. The weekly
paper has its place, but the race now needs strong monthly journals.
Such men as Judge Straker and many of his class who are seldom heard from
of late years would find in a strong monthly publication a means of saying
many very valuable things to the race. The earnest men and women now at
the zenith of activity would not hesitate to speak through a calm monthly
periodical.
The white people who desire to learn something of the Colored citizens
beyond what can be seen on the surface or gleaned from the hurried reports
of daily happenings would find in a well edited monthly a great aid.
Such a periodical should become a powerful advocate of the welfare of the
race. It should review the sayings of the weekly papers of the race and
present the rational conclusions that are to be drawn from scattered news
that has been hurriedly presented.
A Conference in the South End House, Boston
BY JOHN DANIELS
On the evening of April 27 there was held at the South End House, 20 Union
Park street, Boston, an important conference on the position of the Negro
in the city. Present were Butler R. Wilson, Esq., Charles Alexander, Hon.
William H. Dupree, Dr. L. M. Holmes, Rev. Henry J. Callis, Mrs. Olivia
Ward Bush and Mrs. Joseph Lee, R. A. Woods, Prof. T. N. Carver, Rev.
Charles N. Field, W. I. Cole, John Daniels, F. W. Leace, Mr. and Mrs.
Baker, Mrs. Woods and Miss Mary W. Ovington.
The program consisted of a number of short reports on special topics, and
afterwards a general discussion. Mr. Cole, secretary of the South End
House association and head of the Men’s Residence, where the conference
was held, announced, in calling the meeting to order, that it seemed
advisable to certain people interested in the situation of the Negro in
Boston to call together a number of those well acquainted with the subject
for the purpose of finding out the true situation and to determine
whether it called for special effort, and if so, how this effort should be
directed.
Dr. L. M. Holmes was the first speaker. His subject was “Negro Immigration
into Boston from the South.” Dr. Holmes has charge of the Young Men’s
Educational Aid association, and is well informed on this particular
subject. He said that the majority of the Colored immigrants come from
Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia.
John Daniels, who, as holder of the Harvard Fellowship of the South
End House, is making a special study of the Negro population of Boston,
spoke on “The Economic Situation of the Boston Negroes.” “There are
in Boston today,” he said, “probably [Transcriber’s Note: the number
is illegible. It’s five figures, and the first is a 1.] Negroes. The
percentage of employment among them is larger than that for the white
population as a whole, or for any element of it. This statement, however,
is not to be regarded altogether optimistically. But turning to the kinds
of work the Negroes are engaged in, we find the majority of them engaged
in the meaner sorts of labor, unskilled labor for the most part, and
commanding only the pay of unskilled labor. We find very few of them
in the handicrafts and the trades. The problem, then, is not so much
to get more work as to get better work.”
Charles Alexander spoke on “The Negro in the Professions in Boston.” He
confined himself to the professions of law and medicine. “Boston has ten
Negro physicians, and about 15 Negro lawyers,” he said, “a larger number
in proportion to the size of the Negro population than in any other
northern city. The color line is not so strictly drawn in the professions.
Negroes here get white patronage.” He then went on to name the most
prominent Negro lawyers and physicians of the city. He made special
mention of Dr. Geo. F. Grant, who in dentistry has won international fame,
and Dr. Thomas W. Patrick, head of a most successful school of pharmacy,
all the students of which are white. Mr. Alexander expressed himself as
optimistic regarding the future success of the Negro professional man in
Boston.
Mrs. O. W. Bush, well known as a lecturer and club woman, spoke on “The
Negro Woman in Boston.” She mentioned the considerable interest our women
are taking in mothers’ meetings, temperance work and literary association.
“The most important question,” she said, “is whether the women feel their
responsibilities as wives and mothers.” She thought their responsibility
is felt in proportion as the women share in the economic stress of
supporting the family. “Oftentimes, however, too much of this economic
stress falls upon the women. They have to work too much, and the home is
neglected.”
Rev. Henry J. Callis spoke on “The Negro Church and Moral Conditions.”
He said: “The condition of the Negro church in Boston has been far from
satisfactory. At present not a single Negro church building is owned by
its congregation. The church, moreover, is not supported by the most
prosperous and intelligent Negroes, but by the less intelligent, who,
from false pride, hold the church to too high an intellectual standard,
one which cannot healthfully be lived up to. The great evil is, though,
that the leadership of the Negro churches has not been carefully enough
guarded. The leaders have not been the men they should be.” He then
referred to the great growth in attendance and in financial support which
has in the past year taken place at his church, the Zion A. M. E., at the
corner of Columbus avenue and Northampton street.
Mr. Butler R. Wilson spoke on “Social Betterment Work Among the Negroes.”
He said that the best sort of social betterment comes about from the
unorganized mingling of Negroes and whites to understand each other. This
mingling results in much individual social betterment.
Prof. T. N. Carver expressed himself on the general question of
recognition of race. He thought the Negro should not try to unrace himself
in name or in fact, but should endeavor to make his race one to be proud
of. He should not “kick against the pricks” and waste his efforts, but
should recognize facts as they are and make the best of them.
Mrs. Mary W. Ovington, who is working among the Negroes in New York,
spoke briefly of conditions there. She referred to the question of race
recognition, segregation or commingling, as one of the most present
importance.
Mr. Robert W. Woods, head of the South End House, closed the conference
by briefly summarizing the discussion. The two questions which stood out
were, he said, that of the economic situation of the Boston Negro and that
of the attitude of the races toward each other. Economically, the object
to be attained is the extension of the field of labor, the conquest of
higher grades of employment. As regards the racial question it is a most
vexed one, the outcome of which cannot be predicted.
The South End House is this year undertaking to study the situation of
the Negroes in Boston and to apply some efforts toward their social
betterment. The conference above described was, it is hoped, only the
first of a series of similar conferences designed to effect a better
understanding and a more efficacious treatment of the problem.
“WISE AND OTHERWISE.”
Selected by George Henry Biddle.
A Colored man by the name of Berry was working for a farmer (who was
somewhat of a wag), addressing him one morning he said, “Go gather the
straw, Berry, and tell the young boys to pick the goose, Berry, the older
ones the elder, Berry, the girls the black, Berry, and don’t look so blue,
Berry.”
* * * * *
Teacher—Define the word tunnel. Boy—To hollow out. Teacher—Give me a
sentence in which the word is used. Boy—When my teacher whips me, I
commence to tunnel.
* * * * *
Where did you get that hair on your coat? From the head of the bed.
Levy, I thought your wife was sick? “Today I saw her at the window
sewing.” “Yes, she is on the mend.”
* * * * *
Who killed the Dead sea? What is home without a mother? An incubator.
Of Interest to Women
CONDUCTED BY
CARRIE W. CLIFFORD
Cleveland, Ohio
Heavy Loads.
There are those famous weight-carriers, known to all travellers, the
Swiss mountain women, who walk up the steepest slopes with pack baskets
of manure on their backs, and the porters of Constantinople, one of whom
will hike a small piano on the curious saddle he wears. Now Mr. Perceval
Landon, London Times correspondent in Thibet, speaks of hill-country
carrying that is most extraordinary.
On the Indian plains porters carry eighty to one hundred pounds, but hill
men when working by the job take three times as much up frightfully bad
paths. “I have myself seen a man carry into camp three telegraph poles
on his back,” writes Mr. Landon, “each weighing a trifle under ninety
pounds.” Further East the tea porters of Sechuan are notorious, and loads
of 350 pounds are not unknown. Setting aside the story of a Bhutia lady
who carried a piano on her head up from the plains to Darjeeling as too
well known to be likely to be exact, the record seems to be held by a
certain Chinese coolie, who undertook in his own time to transport a
certain casting, needed for heavy machinery, inland to its owner. The
casting weighed 570 pounds, and the carriage was slowly but successfully
accomplished.
“An English bricklayer,” adds Mr. Landon, “is forbidden by the rules
of his union to carry more than fourteen pounds.” And in New York the
carrying of a few schoolbooks by children without knapsacks is said to
make them lopsided.
Latest Styles in Side Combs.
Combs are vieing for popularity with the many handsome flower and feather
decorations and the feminine heart should be content with the splendid
assortment which is now for sale. All fashionable combs are flat and only
the real shell is worn by smart women. Side combs of amber and tortoise
shell are the best selection. Shun those dreadful white rubber affairs
that look extremely unbecoming and clumsy in a woman’s hair. As nearly as
possible the ornaments should match the color of the hair, and for day
and general wear they should be plain. The more elaborate effects are for
evening, and nothing makes a woman look so dowdy as to see her wearing
enameled or stone-mounted back combs shopping or to business.
For the woman who possesses heavy hair the big pins are a luxury and keep
her coils in place, while they lend a decorative feature to the coiffure.
But the woman with thin locks cannot wear these. Not only does the tiny
barette at the nape of the neck add an attractive touch to the coiffure,
but it is invaluable for keeping the short hair in place. All sizes are
used, but the best taste will select those which are rather small.
For Black Footgear.
By treating all “dry stocks known as chrome tanned black leathers” as
follows they will give satisfaction. These leathers include such skins as
the new gun-metal calf, box calf and chrome wax calf, and are best treated
by giving them an occasional application of olive oil.
In case one cannot get this vaseline will do.
For blackening, the usual patent paste serves, after which comes the
polishing.
The same holds good for patent leather, while a liquid dressing should be
substituted for the paste for glazed kid shoes.
This same expert cautions one against too frequent applications of paste
or liquid dressing for any and all shoes. These are hard on the shoes,
which often require no more than a rub with a strip of flannel.
An old-fashioned wax calf requires the old-fashioned paste and a good
brushing.
As for patent leather shoes, they are more reliable than ever in the
history of leather tanning. The mere fact that surface cracks appear at
first need not cause alarm, since these are hardly noticed after a little
wear, and a few applications of the paste dressing prepared for this
handsome leather.
Fashion Hints.
Colored umbrellas are carried with tailor-made dresses.
In colors we shall have spots and ombre of shaded effects.
Colored spangles are all the rage for evening dresses.
Maize and all shades of purple and a tender gray-green will be popular.
Tartans will be introduced as trimmings in the form of piping or straps.
Ostrich feather scarfs will take the place of last year’s pelerine stole,
and for theatres and later on for garden parties the new chiffon muff will
be much in evidence.
Dresden roses in a variety of strange shades, pale mauve, pastel blue,
bright green, and cowslips, pink, blue and green, are among some of the
curious flower novelties.
Leather appliqued sunshades of strong silk in its natural color are
intended for motoring, and the summer sunshade will consist of billowed
chiffon encrusted with lace.
Flowers are mixed together regardless of color. Crimson and lemon roses,
with blue forget-me-nots and bunches of heliotrope are a favorite flower
combination.
Evening bodices for young girls are out almost in V hearts, square or
rounded styles. Elbow sleeves are most generally worn, and these dresses
are really becoming and modest looking. Young matrons wear a wider
decolletage but it is softened by pretelles of velvet or tulle.
There is a feeling in dress which tends toward simplicity. We are weary of
the overtrimmed styles, and are happily returning to the long, noble lines
and flowing draperies which artists love.
To Keep Cake Fresh.
I have found that fresh bread in slices about one inch thick (renewed when
it gets dry), of bulk about half the cake to be kept “fresh,” put in the
tin with the cake causes the cake to remain “fresh.”