sailed from Boston for Sierra Leone with thirty-eight free Negroes as
settlers on the Black Continent. Only eight of these could pay their own
expenses, but Cuffe, nevertheless, took out the entire party, landed
them safe on the soil of their forefathers after a journey of fifty-five
days and paid the expense for the outfit, transportation and maintenance
of the remaining thirty, amounting to no less than twenty-five thousand
dollars ($25,000), out of his own pocket. The colonists were cordially
welcomed by the people of Sierra Leone, and each family received from
thirty to forty acres from the Crown Government. He remained with the
settlers two months and then returned home with the purpose of taking
out another colony. Before, however, he could do so, and while
preparations were being made for the second colony, he was taken ill.
After a protracted illness he died September 7, 1817, in the fifty-ninth
year of his age. At the time of his death he had no less than two
thousand names of intending emigrants on his list awaiting
transportation to Africa.
As to his personal characteristics: Paul Cuffe was "tall, well-formed
and athletic, his deportment conciliating yet dignified and
prepossessing. He was a member of the Society of Friends (Quakers) and
became a minister among them.... He believed it to be his duty to
sacrifice private interest, rather than engage in any enterprise,
however lawful ... or however profitable, that had the slightest
tendency to injure his fellow man. He would not deal in intoxicating
liquors or in slaves."
THE BLACK FAIRY
FENTON JOHNSON
Little Annabelle was lying on the lawn, a volume of Grimm before her.
Annabelle was nine years of age, the daughter of a colored lawyer, and
the prettiest dark child in the village. She had long played in the
fairyland of knowledge, and was far advanced for one of her years. A
vivid imagination was her chief endowment, and her story creatures often
became real flesh-and-blood creatures.
"I wonder," she said to herself that afternoon, "if there is any such
thing as a colored fairy? Surely there must be, but in this book they're
all white."
Closing the book, her eyes rested upon the landscape that rolled itself
out lazily before her. The stalks in the cornfield bent and swayed,
their tassels bowing to the breeze, until Annabelle could have easily
sworn that those were Indian fairies. And beyond lay the woods, dark
and mossy and cool, and there many a something mysterious could have
sprung into being, for in the recess was a silvery pool where the
children played barefooted. A summer mist like a thin veil hung over the
scene, and the breeze whispered tales of far-away lands.
Hist! Something stirred in the hazel bush near her. Can I describe
little Annabelle's amazement at finding in the bush a palace and a tall
and dark-faced fairy before it?
"I am Amunophis, the Lily of Ethiopia," said the strange creature. "And
I come to the children of the Seventh Veil."
She was black and regal, and her voice was soft and low and gentle like
the Niger on a summer evening. Her dress was the wing of the sacred
beetle, and whenever the wind stirred it played the dreamiest of music.
Her feet were bound with golden sandals, and on her head was a crown of
lotus leaves.
"And you're a fairy?" gasped Annabelle.
"Yes, I am a fairy, just as you wished me to be. I live in the tall
grass many, many miles away, where a beautiful river called the Niger
sleeps." And stretching herself beside Annabelle, on the lawn, the fairy
began to whisper:
[Illustration: The Black Fairy]
"I have lived there for over five thousand years. In the long ago a city
rested there, and from that spot black men and women ruled the world.
Great ships laden with spice and oil and wheat would come to its port,
and would leave with wines and weapons of war and fine linens. Proud and
great were the black kings of this land, their palaces were built of
gold, and I was the Guardian of the City. But one night when I was
visiting an Indian grove the barbarians from the North came down and
destroyed our shrines and palaces and took our people up to Egypt. Oh,
it was desolate, and I shed many tears, for I missed the busy hum of the
market and the merry voices of the children.
"But come with me, little Annabelle, I will show you all this, the rich
past of the Ethiopian."
She bade the little girl take hold of her hand and close her eyes, and
wish herself in the wood behind the cornfield. Annabelle obeyed, and ere
they knew it they were sitting beside the clear water in the pond.
"You should see the Niger," said the fairy. "It is still beautiful, but
not as happy as in the old days. The white man's foot has been cooled by
its water, and the white man's blossom is choking out the native
flower." And she dropped a tear so beautiful the costliest pearl would
seem worthless beside it.
"Ah! I did not come to weep," she continued, "but to show you the past."
So in a voice sweet and sad she sang an old African lullaby and dropped
into the water a lotus leaf. A strange mist formed, and when it had
disappeared she bade the little girl to look into the pool. Creeping up
Annabelle peered into the glassy surface, and beheld a series of vividly
colored pictures.
First she saw dark blacksmiths hammering in the primeval forests and
giving fire and iron to all the world. Then she saw the gold of old
Ghana and the bronzes of Benin. Then the black Ethiopians poured down
upon Egypt and the lands and cities bowed and flamed. Next she saw a
great city with pyramids and stately temples. It was night, and a
crimson moon was in the sky. Red wine was flowing freely, and beautiful
dusky maidens were dancing in a grove of palms. Old and young were
intoxicated with the joy of living, and a sense of superiority could be
easily traced in their faces and attitude. Presently red flame hissed
everywhere, and the magnificence of remote ages soon crumbled into ash
and dust. Persian soldiers ran to and fro conquering the band of
defenders and severing the woman and children. Then came the Mohammedans
and kingdom on kingdom arose, and with the splendor came ever more
slavery.
The next picture was that of a group of fugitive slaves, forming the
nucleus of three tribes, hurrying back to the wilderness of their
fathers.
In houses built as protection against the heat the blacks dwelt,
communing with the beauty of water and sky and open air. It was just
between twilight and evening and their minstrels were chanting impromptu
hymns to their gods of nature. And as she listened closely, Annabelle
thought she caught traces of the sorrow songs in the weird pathetic
strains of the African music mongers. From the East the warriors of the
tribe came, bringing prisoners, whom they sold to white strangers from
the West.
"It is the beginning," whispered the fairy, as a large Dutch vessel
sailed westward. Twenty boys and girls bound with strong ropes were
given to a miserable existence in the hatchway of the boat. Their
captors were strange creatures, pale and yellow haired, who were
destined to sell them as slaves in a country cold and wild, where the
palm trees and the cocoanut never grew and men spoke a language without
music. A light, airy creature, like an ancient goddess, flew before the
craft guiding it in its course.
"That is I," said the fairy. "In that picture I am bringing your
ancestors to America. It was my hope that in the new civilization I
could build a race that would be strong enough to redeem their brothers.
They have gone through great tribulations and trials, and have mingled
with the blood of the fairer race; yet though not entirely Ethiopian
they have not lost their identity. Prejudice is a furnace through which
molten gold is poured. Heaven be merciful unto all races! There is one
more picture--the greatest of all, but--farewell, little one, I am
going."
"Going?" cried Annabelle. "Going? I want to see the last picture--and
when will you return, fairy?"
"When the race has been redeemed. When the brotherhood of man has come
into the world; and there is no longer a white civilization or a black
civilization, but the civilization of all men. I belong to the world
council of the fairies, and we are all colors and kinds. Why should not
men be as charitable unto one another? When that glorious time comes I
shall walk among you and be one of you, performing my deeds of magic and
playing with the children of every nation, race and tribe. Then,
Annabelle, you shall see the last picture--and the best."
Slowly she disappeared like a summer mist, leaving Annabelle amazed.
IT'S A LONG WAY
WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE
It's a long way the sea-winds blow
Over the sea-plains blue,--
But longer far has my heart to go
Before its dreams come true.
It's work we must, and love we must,
And do the best we may,
And take the hope of dreams in trust
To keep us day by day.
It's a long way the sea-winds blow--
But somewhere lies a shore--
Thus down the tide of Time shall flow
My dreams forevermore.
NEGRO MUSIC THAT STIRRED FRANCE
EMMETT J. SCOTT
"You cannot defeat a singing nation," a keen-witted observer has said,
in noting the victory spirit engendered by the martial music, the
patriotic songs and the stirring melodies of hearth and home that have
moved the souls of men to action on all the battlefields of history.
"Send me more singing regiments," cabled General Pershing, and Admiral
Mayo sent frequent requests that a song leader organize singing on every
battleship of the Atlantic Fleet.
Since "the morning stars sang together" in Scriptural narrative, music
has exerted a profound influence upon mankind, be it in peace or in war,
in gladness or in sorrow, or in the tender sentiment that makes for love
of country, affection for kindred or the divine passion for "ye ladye
fair." Music knows no land or clime, no season or circumstance, and no
race, creed or clan. It speaks the language universal, and appeals to
all peoples with a force irresistible and no training in ethics or
science is necessary to reach the common ground that its philosophy
instinctively creates in the human understanding.
The War Department was conscious of this and gave practical application
to its theory that music makes a soldier "fit to fight" when it
instituted, through the Commission on Training Camp Activities, a
systematic program of musical instruction throughout the American Army
at the home cantonments and followed up the work overseas. It was the
belief that every man became a better warrior for freedom when his mind
could be diverted from the dull routine of camp life by arousing his
higher nature by song, and that he fared forth to battle with a stouter
heart when his steps were attuned to the march by bands that drove out
all fear of bodily danger and robbed "grim-visaged war" of its terrors.
Skilled song leaders were detailed to the various camps and cantonments
here and abroad, and bands galore were brought into service for
inspiration and cheer.
The emotional nature of the Negro fitted him for this musical program.
The colored American was a "close up" in every picture from the start to
the finish and was a conspicuous figure in every scenario, playing with
credit and distinction alike in melody or with the musket.
No instrumentality was more potent than music in off-setting the
propaganda of the wily German agents, who sought to break down the
loyalty of the Negro. The music he knew was intensely American--in
sentiment and rhythm. It saturated his being--and all the blandishments
of the enemy were powerless to sway him from the flag he loved. His
grievances were overshadowed by the realization that the welfare of the
nation was menaced and that his help was needed. American music
harmonized with the innate patriotism of the race, and the majestic
sweep of "The Star-Spangled Banner" or the sympathetic appeal of "My
Country, 'Tis of Thee," were sufficient to counteract the sinister
efforts of the missionaries of the Hohenzollerns to move him from his
moorings.
No labor is ever so onerous that it can bar music from the soul of black
folk. This race sings at work, at play and in every mood. Visitors to
any army camp found the Negro doing musical "stunts" of some kind from
reveille to taps--every hour, every minute of the day. All the time the
trumpeters were not blowing out actual routine bugle calls, they were
somewhere practicing them. Mouth-organs were going, concertinas were
being drawn back and forth, and guitars, banjos, mandolins and whatnot
were in use--playing all varieties of music, from the classic, like
"Lucia," "Poet and Peasant," and "Il Trovatore" to the folksongs and the
rollicking "Jazz." Music is indeed the chiefest outlet of the Negro's
emotions, and the state of his soul can best be determined by the type
of melody he pours forth.
Some writer has said that a handful of pipers at the head of a Scotch
regiment could lead that regiment down the mouth of a cannon. It is not
doubted that a Negro regiment could be made to duplicate the "Charge of
the Light Brigade" at Balaklava--"into the mouth of hell," as Tennyson
puts it--if one of their regimental bands should play--as none but a
colored band can play--the vivacious strains of "There'll Be a Hot Time
in the Old Town Tonight."
The Negro's love of home is an integral part of his nature, and is
exemplified in the themes he plaintively crooned in camp on both sides
of the ocean. Such melodies as "Carry Me Back to Old Virginia," "My Old
Kentucky Home," "In the Evening by de Moonlight," and "Swanee River"
recalled memories of the "old folks at home," and kept his patriotism
alive, for he hoped to return to them some day and swell their hearts
with pride by reason of the glorious record he made at the front.
The Negro is essentially religious, and his deep spiritual temperament
is vividly illustrated by the joy he finds in "harmonizing" such ballads
of ancient days as "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," "Steal Away to Jesus,"
"Standin' in the Need of Prayer," "Every Time I Feel the Spirit," "I
Wan' to be Ready," and "Roll, Jordan, Roll." The Negro is also an
optimist, whether he styles himself by that high-sounding title or not,
and the sincerity of his "make the best of it" disposition is noted in
the fervor he puts into those uplifting gems, "Pack Up Your Troubles in
Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile," "There's a Long, Long Trail,"
"Keep the Home Fires Burning," and "Good-bye Broadway, Hello France."
Just as the Negro folk-songs--or songs of war, interpreted with the
characteristic Negro flavor--stirred all France and gave poilu and
populace a taste of the real American music, the marvelous "jazz bands"
kept their feet patting and their shoulders "eagle-rocking" to its
infectious motion. High officials are said to have been literally
"carried away" with the "jazz" music furnished by the colored bands
"over there" during the war. General Petain is said to have paid a
visit, at the height of the hostilities, to a sector in which there were
American troops and had "the time of his life" listening to a colored
band playing the entrancing "jazz" music, with some Negro dance stunts
in keeping with the spirit of the melodies. He warmly congratulated the
colored leader upon the excellence of the work of his organization, and
thanked him for the enjoyable entertainment that had been given him.
The stolid Briton is scarcely less susceptible to the "jazz" than his
volatile French brother, for when another colored band from "The States"
went to London to head a parade of American and English soldiers, and
halted at Buckingham Palace, it is said that King George V and Queen
Mary heard the lively airs with undisguised enthusiasm and were loath to
have the players depart for the park where they were scheduled for a
concert, with a dance engagement, under British military control, to
follow. The colored bands scored heavily with the three great Allied
Powers of Europe by rendering with a brilliant touch and matchless
finish their national anthems, "God Save the Queen," "La Marseillaise"
and the "Marcia Reale."
NOVEMBER 11, 1918
(This letter was written by a young first lieutenant (colored) in the
366th Infantry, Company L, 92nd Division, Cleveland, Ohio.)
November 11th.
My dearest Mother and Dad:
Well, folks, it's all over but the flowers. Yesterday it was war,
hard, gruelling, hideous. Today it is peace.
This morning I formed my platoon in line in the woods behind the
line. They didn't know why. They were just a bunch of tired,
hard-bitten, mud-spattered, rough-and-tumble soldiers standing
stoically at attention, equally ready to go over the top, rebuild a
shell-torn road, or march to a rest billet. At 10:45 I gave the
command: "Unload rifles!" They didn't know why and didn't
particularly care. Then--"Unload pistols." And while they still
stood rigid and motionless as graven images, I read the order
declaring armistice and cessation of hostilities effective at 11
o'clock. The perfect discipline of these veteran soldiers held them
still motionless, but I could see their eyes begin to shine and
their muscles to quiver as the import of this miraculous message
began to dawn on them.
The tension was fast straining their nerves to the breaking-point,
so I dismissed them. You should have seen them! They yelled till
they were hoarse. Some sang. Others, war-hardened veterans, who had
faced the death hail of a machine-gun with a laugh, men who had
gone through the horrors of artillery bombardments and had seen
their fellows mangled and torn without a flinch, broke down and
cried like babies.
Tonight something is wrong. The silence is almost uncanny. Not a
shot--not even a single shell. Very faintly we can hear the mellow
tones of the church bell in the little French town on the hill far
to our rear. All day long it has been singing its song of joy and
thanksgiving. It seems symbolical of the heart of France, which,
today, is ringing.
I don't know when I'm coming home, but when I do, I want a big
roast turkey, golden brown, new spuds swimming in butter and
cranberry sauce.
Love,
JESSE.
SEA LYRIC
WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE
Over the seas to-night, love,
Over the darksome deeps,
Over the seas to-night, love,
Slowly my vessel creeps.
Over the seas to-night, love,
Waking the sleeping foam--
Sailing away from thee, love,
Sailing from thee and home.
Over the seas to-night, love,
Dreaming beneath the spars--
Till in my dreams you shine, love,
Bright as the listening stars.
A NEGRO WOMAN'S HOSPITALITY
LEILA A. PENDLETON
Mungo Park, a native of Scotland, was one of the first of noble, brave
men who devoted the best years of their lives to Africa. In 1795, when
he was only twenty-four years old, he went to West Africa to find the
source of the River Niger. One of the drawbacks of the west coast is its
deadly climate, and shortly after arriving at Kano young Park fell ill
of fever and remained an invalid for five months. While recovering, he
learned the language of the Mandingoes, a native tribe, and this was a
great help to him.
He finally started with only six natives on his journey. Had he been
older and wiser he would have taken a larger company. At one time they
were captured by Moors and a wild boar was turned loose upon them, but
instead of attacking Park the beast turned upon its owners, and this
aroused their superstitious fears. The king then ordered him to be put
into a hut where the boar was tied while he and his chief officers
discussed whether Park should lose his right hand, his eyes or his life.
But he escaped from them, and after nearly two years of wandering in
search of the Niger's source, during which time he suffered many
hardships and had many narrow escapes, he returned to Kano, the place
where he had been ill.
At one time during his journey Mr. Park arrived in the neighborhood of
Sego, and as a white man had never been seen in that region before, the
natives looked upon him with fear and astonishment. He asked to see the
king, but no one would take him across the river, and the king sent word
that he would by no means receive the strange traveler until he knew
what the latter wanted.
Park was tired, hungry, and discouraged and was preparing to spend the
night in the branches of a tree when a native woman pitied him. She
invited him into her hut, and with the hospitality for which the natives
are noted, shared with him her food. By signs she made him understand
that he might occupy the sleeping mat and as she and her daughter sat
spinning they sang their native songs, among them the following, which
was impromptu and composed in honor of the stranger:
The wind roared and the rain fell.
The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree.
He has no mother to bring him milk; no wife to grind his corn.
CHORUS
Let us pity the white man;
No mother has he to bring him milk;
No wife to grind his corn.
Speaking of this incident, Park says: "Trifling as this recital may
appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was
affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected
kindness and sleep fled from my eyes." And another writer says: "The
name of the woman and the alabaster box of precious ointment, the
nameless widow, who, giving only two mites, had given more than all the
rich, and this nameless woman of Sego, form a trio of feminine beauty
and grandeur of which the sex in all ages may be proud."
RECORD OF "THE OLD FIFTEENTH" IN FRANCE
EMMETT J. SCOTT
Early in September, 1918, the men of the 369th Infantry were transferred
from the 15th French Division, in which they had been serving, and made
an integral part of the 161st French Division. And then, on the morning
of September 26th, they joined with the Moroccans on the left and native
French on the right in the offensive which won for the entire regiment
the French _Croix de Guerre_ and the citation of 171 individual officers
and enlisted men for the _Croix de Guerre_ and the Legion of Honor,
for exceptional gallantry in action. The action began at
Maisons-en-Champagne; it finished seven kilometers northward and
eastward, and over the intervening territory the Germans had retreated
before the ferocious attacks of the Fifteenth and its French comrades.
A month later a new honor came to the regiment--the honor of being the
first unit of all the Allied armies to reach the River Rhine. The
regiment had left its trenches at Thann, Sunday, November 17, and,
marching as the advance guard of the 161st Division, Second French Army,
reached the left bank of the Rhine, Monday, November 18. The 369th is
proud of this achievement. It believes also that it was under fire for a
greater number of days than any other American regiment. Its historian
will record:
That the regiment never lost a man captured, a trench, or a foot of
ground; that it was the only unit in the American Expeditionary Force
which bore a State name and carried a State flag; that it was never in
an American brigade or division; that it saw the first and the longest
service of any American regiment as part of a foreign army; and that it
had less training than any American unit before going into action.
NEGRO SOLDIERS
ROSCOE C. JAMISON
These truly are the Brave
These men who cast aside
Old memories, to walk the blood-stained pave
Of Sacrifice, joining the solemn tide
That moves away, to suffer and to die
For Freedom--when their own is yet denied!
O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pass by,
Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified!
These truly are the Free,
These souls that grandly rise
Above base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs,
Who march to war with visions in their eyes
Of Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs
Aforetime, while they front the firing-line.
Stand and behold! They take the field today,
Shedding their blood like Him now held divine,
That those who mock might find a better way!
THE "DEVIL BUSH" AND THE "GREEGREE BUSH"
GEORGE W. ELLIS