by Various
Of the awful burst of shot and shell,
They turned and rushed away pell-mell.
There were Negroes fighting at Bunker Hill;
In 1812 they were at it still,
And when they were called in ’61,
Thousands shouldered the government gun.
Loyal? I guess so—game till death;
Braver soldiers never drew breath.
Just treat them like men ’tis all they ask,
And then they are ripe for the sternest task.
They fight, not as Negroes, they fight like men;
As men with rights they gladly maintain.
They fight for a land that’s theirs by birth,
And die for a cause, the grandest on earth.
32
AMELIA E. JOHNSON
(ca. 1858–1922)
Amelia E. Johnson was born Amelia Etta Hall in Toronto, Canada; she lived most of her life in Baltimore, where she married the Baptist pastor Harvey Johnson. She was the founder of the eight-page monthly publication Joy and published poetry, fiction, and journalism in various periodicals throughout her lifetime. She is most well known for her three novels—Clarence and Corinne, The Hazeley Family, and What is My Motive?—published by the American Baptist Publication Society of Philadelphia, one of the largest publishing houses of the time. She was the first African American and the first woman to publish Sunday School fiction for the publisher.
The following is an excerpt from Johnson’s 1890 novel, Clarence and Corinne. The tragic subject matter of the book points toward the moralistic and religious beliefs that much of the black American population preached in the years following the Civil War. Black intellectuals of the time and many of the authors featured in this collection believed temperance and religious movements held the key to lifting blacks out of rural poverty and into the upper echelons of society. Throughout this excerpt, characters are punished for making decisions that the author considers immoral.
Selections from Clarence and Corinne, or God’s Way (1890)
SOURCE: A. E. Johnson, Clarence and Corinne, or God’s Way (Philadelphia: American Baptist Publications Society, 1890).
CHAPTER I.
Discouraged.
On the outskirts of the pretty town of N——, among neat vine-covered homes, like a blot upon a beautiful picture, there stood a weather-beaten, tumble-down cottage.
Its windows possessed but few unbroken panes, and rags took the place of glass. The rough door hung on a single hinge, which was so rusty as almost to refuse to perform its duty for the paintless boards that hung upon it for support. There was a little garden plot in front, separated from the street by broken palings, and a gate that was never closed. The brick walk that led to the house was uneven and grass-grown; while weeds grew unmolested in the hard, dry soil which had been intended for fairer and more fragrant occupants.
Dismal as was the outside of this wretched abode, still more so was the inside. The floor, devoid of carpet, and unacquainted with soap and water, creaked under foot, and in places was badly broken.
The two or three rickety chairs, a rough pine table and crazy bedstead could hardly be dignified with the name of furniture. Some chipped plates and handleless cups were piled in confusion on the table, and had evidently been left there since noon.
A rickety stove, that was propped up on bricks, which did duty for legs, was littered with greasy pots and pans. Ashes strewed the hearth, and the few unbroken lights in the windows were so begrimed with dust as to be of little use, so far as letting in the daylight was concerned.
So much for the dwelling; now for the inmates.
In an old rocking chair sat the mistress of all this misery. In her hands she held a tattered garment, bearing but small semblance to either male or female attire. She had been engaged, apparently, in attempting to draw together some of the many rents into which it had been torn; but whether the task had seemed a hopeless one, or whether her thoughts were far away from her occupation, I cannot say. At any rate, her hands were resting listlessly in her lap, where they had dropped, with the work still unfinished between her fingers.
Aside from the fact that her appearance partook of the general aspect of her surroundings, she was a comely woman, but one upon whose countenance was stamped despair, and, judging from her swollen eye, one also who was the victim of ill-usage.
She was the sole occupant of the room at the time our story opens, but she did not remain so long, for presently the half-open door was pushed back on its unwilling hinge, and a boy of twelve years entered, followed by a little girl of nine. They were both attractive children, notwithstanding the fact that they bore in their appearance and faces the stamp of neglect and scanty fare.
The boy advanced to his mother’s side, and throwing himself down on the floor, resting his elbow on her knee and his head upon his hand, burst out impetuously: “Oh, how I wish we could dress decently, and go to school again like other children!”
The mother roused herself from her apathy and looked at him, half curiously, half sadly.
“What now, Clarence? What’s the good of wishing for what can’t be?” she said, wearily.
“But why can’t it be? It drives me just wild to see the boys coming from school, and to know that they have been there learning, while we’re just running around every day; and I’m getting so big too. Now, there’s Tom and Lizzie Greene; we met them to-day going to school, looking decent and clean, and, of course, Mr. Tom had to holler ‘ragamuffin’ at me; but I didn’t give it to him, did I?” And the boy chuckled with satisfaction at the way he had served his tormentor.
“Yes; but, Clarence, I was real sorry for poor Lizzie, she was so frightened; besides, I like her: she don’t call names, and always speaks to me.”
This came from Corinne, Clarence’s sister, who had seated herself on the edge of the ragged bed.
“Come, come, my boy,” said Mrs. Burton, taking up her mending again, in a disheartened way, and beginning to draw the needle and thread slowly back and forth. “There’s no use talking, and there’s no use trying to be decent when your father is likely to come home drunk at any time, and knock and beat a body about as he does. I tell you it’s no use talking.” And her voice rang out sharp and harsh. “Take the basket,” she continued, after a moment’s pause, “and go and get some chips to start a fire to get some supper, if your father should bring anything home to eat.”
Silenced, but not satisfied, the boy obeyed and left the room, followed closely by his sister. He knew that what his mother said was true, and he felt that there was but little benefit to be gained by talking.
Corinne was devotedly fond of her brother, whom she considered a miracle of wisdom; and indeed the lad did have a fund of information about things in general, acquired after the manner usual to observant boys. To this was added an ardent desire to possess an education. Then he was honest and truthful; in fact, he was a boy who might become a useful man; but, as he said to his sister, as he walked slowly along, “he’d no chance.”
“Corrie,” he exclaimed, suddenly coming to a standstill, and flinging the old basket away from him savagely, “I’m going to run away; so there, now!”
The little girl looked at him in amazement, for a moment, too surprised to say anything. Then the tears gathered in her black eyes, and she said, reproachfully:
“Oh, Clarence! Will you go away and leave me?”
The boy was not proof against the pleading look in the sad little face, for if there was one person in the world whom he really loved, it was his sister. And now, as he looked at her, the fierce hard look slowly died out of his face.
“Now that’s just it, Corinne,” he said, “if it wasn’t for you, I’d go to-morrow; but I do hate to leave you. Never mind, don’t cry; maybe something will turn up some day. Here, wipe your eyes on my silk handkerchief.”
This had the
effect he desired on the little girl, for a smile spread over her face, like sunshine after rain, and she laughed merrily; for the “silk handkerchief” of which her brother spoke was an old bandanna which was so comically dilapidated as to make it a matter of doubt as to whether she would find sufficient handkerchief with which to dry her tears.
While the children were thus engaged with each other a lady approached. The boy and his sister moved aside so that she might pass; but instead of doing this, she came to a stop in front of them.
They looked up into her face in surprise. A very pleasant face it was that they saw, lighted by a pair of very dark and very bright eyes. Clarence knew the face; it was that of a teacher in the school, the very same school that he was so anxious to attend. Yes, he knew her well enough, for he had met her often, and once or twice she had smiled at him, but had never spoken before.
“Your name is Clarence Burton, is it not?” she asked, pleasantly, after surveying the boy from head to foot.
“Yes’m,” he answered, looking down at the ground.
“And is the little girl your sister?”
“Yes’m,” he said again, “she’s Corrie.”
“Well, Clarence, why don’t you and Corrie come to school?”
“I’ve nothing fit to come in; neither has Corrie.”
“But you would like to come, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am; it’s what I’d like to do more’n anything.”
“Won’t your mother let you come?”
“Don’t know as she’d care, but we ain’t going anywhere to be called names, we ain’t.” And the old hard look came again into the boy’s eyes, and he picked up his basket, and was moving away unceremoniously. But it wasn’t a part of Miss Gray’s plan to have him go yet.
“Clarence,” she said, “don’t you know that it isn’t just polite to do that?”
Something in her voice made Clarence halt, in spite of himself, although he felt as if he would like very much to run away as fast as he could.
He looked up again in the lady’s face, expecting to see the “school ma’am” in it, but there was the same kindly expression in the dark eyes that he had seen before.
Again he dropped his to the ground, and twisted a bit of the poor ill-used basket between his uneasy fingers, but he said not a word.
“Clarence,” began Miss Gray again, “I have been noticing you for a long time, and I have passed by your home a great many times; and, my poor boy, I know all about it and I’m so sorry for you.” And she reached out her neatly gloved hand and took the boy’s grimy one and gave it a squeeze.
This was altogether more than Clarence could stand, especially in his present state of mind, and he snatched his band away and hid his face with it. Of course, he wouldn’t have any one think that he was crying—oh, no, not for a moment; but however that may be, there was a tremulousness in his voice when he answered Miss Gray’s kind “good-bye.” “I’m coming to see your mother soon, Clarence,” she added, with a parting smile at Corinne, who had done nothing but gaze at the pleasant face of their new acquaintance.
The children watched her for a while after she left them, and then they slowly turned and resumed their interrupted walk. They were going to a new house that was being built, some blocks distant from their home.
Not one word did either of them say until they had reached the building, and were busily engaged in filling their basket with the bits of wood and shavings that had been left by the workmen. When the basket would hold no more they sat down to rest.
“Clarence,” said Corinne, looking about her, curiously, “who do you s’pose will live in this house when it’s finished?”
“How should I know,” returned her brother, rather tartly.
“It’s going to be a nice house, Clarence,” she went on, without heeding the curtness of the answer to her former question, “and I guess the people that’ll live in it will have all sorts of nice things. It must be fine to have all the nice things you want.” And the little girl sighed wistfully, as she thought how barren of “nice things” her own poor little life was.
“Don’t you fret, Corrie,” said her brother, comfortingly; “one of these days you shall have nice things too.”
“Where will they come from, Clarence?” asked the child, opening her brown eyes wide.
“Oh, you’ll see,” was Clarence’s answer, given with a wise shake of the head, as he arose to go; and bidding Corinne “come on,” he added that the new house was nothing to them, “and never would be.” Ah, Clarence, how little we know what the future contains for us!
CHAPTER IV.
Provided For.
Clarence was quite as determined that he would not wear Tom Greene’s clothes to his mother’s funeral as he had been that he would not go to Tom Greene’s home the day before; so, leaving his sister and Mrs. Greene together, he climbed up to his attic, and having succeeded in finding materials, proceeded to draw together, as best he could, the rents in the garments his poor mother had been attempting to mend on the last sad day of her life. The articles consisted of a jacket and trousers; and he was working away industriously, if not skillfully, when Corinne, who had missed him, stole quietly upon him.
“Whatever are you doing, Clarence?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” he answered; “only fixing these things to put on.”
“But you won’t need them, Clarence. Mrs. Greene has brought a nice suit of her Tom’s for you to wear. Why, you know that!”
“Yes, I know it well enough. I shan’t wear it, though.”
“Not wear the clothes Mrs. Greene brought!”
“No; I’d rather wear the worst kind of rags than put on Tom Greene’s things and have him throw it in my face afterward.”
“Oh, but, Clarence, Mrs. Greene will be angry! And she has been so good to us! I am to wear a dress of Lizzie’s.”
“Oh, it’s all right about you; they wouldn’t bother you. Just let me do as I want to about this, Corrie, there’s a good girl. I’ll make it all right with Mrs. Greene. She needn’t know why I don’t want to wear the clothes she brought. Run away down, now, won’t you?”
Corrie did as she was told; and her brother, finishing his mending, put on the garments and went down.
“Why, Clarence, I thought you were putting on the suit I brought for you. Hurry, now, and get it on,” cried Mrs. Greene.
“I’d rather wear these things, Mrs. Greene, please,” stammered the boy.
“Why, what on earth——” began the puzzled woman impatiently. But she was interrupted by a knock on the door.
There was no further time to spend in talking, for the hearse was waiting for its burden. The mother, in her rough coffin, was placed within, and the two children followed it to the burial place, where a short service was read; and then the earth was thrown in upon all that was mortal that remained of their parent. The two children had cried so much that they could do nothing now but stand and look on in a dazed sort of way. When all was over they turned sadly and walked away.
Mrs. Greene was waiting for them at the door of the little cottage. She had determined not to notice any further the boy’s refusal to wear the clothes. She told the children that she was waiting to take them home with her to pass the night. To her astonishment, Clarence said, quietly:
“You have been very kind to us, Mrs. Greene, and we’re very thankful to you for all you have done for us; but, if you please, ma’am, I am going to stay here to-night. Corrie can do as she likes; she can go if she wants to.”
“No, no, Clarence; I’ll stay with you,” whispered his sister, although the vision of Mrs. Greene’s cozy, neat rooms was a great deal more inviting than the dingy, dreary cottage. But she was unwilling to leave her brother alone. He was all she had to look up to, and she wanted to be near him.
“Well, Clarence Burton,” said Mrs. Greene, when she had r
ecovered enough to say anything, “I didn’t think you were such an ungrateful, headstrong boy. But there; that’s all one has a right to expect from such people.” And she walked away with an angry air.
“Oh, Clarence! I thought she would be angry,” said Corinne, regretfully.
“Well, I can’t help it,” answered her brother. “Of course, I’m thankful for what she has done; but that doesn’t make me want to go to her house. I couldn’t go there, and that’s all about it.” He turned and entered the house, and Corinne followed.
The night seemed very long and dreary, especially to the little girl, who was a timid, nervous child; and daylight was a welcome sight. Good Mrs. Greene, although she was angry at the boy’s persistent refusal to come to her home, could not bring herself to forget the forlorn children entirely; so she sent Lizzie over with some breakfast, which they were glad to receive, and for which they thanked her warmly.
Early that morning, their friend, Miss Gray, came to deliver her message to Clarence, who received it with real pleasure. Having done this, she was about to tell Corinne to get ready to go home with her for the day, when Miss Rachel Penrose unceremoniously entered.
As I have already said, Miss Rachel was the owner of the wretched old cottage; and she had come to tell the children that it would be no longer their home. When she heard that the boy had been offered a situation she nodded her head approvingly, and said that, “seein’ as the boy’s provided for, I guess I’ll take the girl. She’s likely to be of service to run errands and wash dishes and such.”
And so it was settled, and the cottage was closed. Corinne went to her new home with Miss Rachel, and Clarence went with Miss Gray, who was to show him the way to Dr. Barrett’s office. He found that good gentleman just getting ready to go out.
“Oh, so you’re ‘the boy,’ are you?” he said, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles to get a better view of him. “What is your name?”
“Clarence Burton, sir.”
“Clarence, is it, eh? Well, that’s a good name. Now, Clarence, I’ve got to go out for a while. Just turn about in here, and rub things up generally: for everything is at sixes and sevens as the saying goes. I had a good smart boy, but he was taken sick and compelled to go home, and I haven’t been able to find another to suit me, until I heard about you”