The Portable Nineteenth-Century African American Women Writers

by Various

  None felt more keenly the death of John Brown, the noble hero who planned and died for the cause of emancipation, than Mrs. Harper. Tenderly she expressed her sympathy for Mrs. Brown in her bereavement, beseeching God to sustain her in the hour of affliction.

  Mrs. Harper was married to Fenton Harper in Cincinnati, November, 1860. She still labored in the literary field, never giving up unless compelled to do so by other duties. On May 23, 1864, occurred the death of Mr. Harper. Some of her best productions are “The Slave Mother,” “To the Union Savers of Cleveland,” “Fifteenth Amendment.” “Moses,” a story of the Nile, deals with the story of the Hebrew Moses, beautifully portrayed by her from his infancy, when exposed on the Nile, found and adopted by Pharaoh’s daughter; his gratitude to the princess; his flight into Midian and his return into Egypt; his nomadic life, by means of which God prepared him to be the means of deliverance to His people; to his death on Monnt Nebo, and his burial in an unknown grave, following closely the account of the Scriptures. Most pathetically are the death and burial of Moses penned in the following lines:

  His work was done; his blessing lay

  Like precious ointment on his people’s head,

  And God’s great peace was resting on his soul.

  His life had been a lengthened sacrifice,

  A thing of deep devotion to his race,

  Since first he turned his eyes on Egypt’s gild

  And glow, and clasped their fortunes in his hands,

  And held them with a firm and constant grasp.

  But now his work was done; his charge was laid

  In Joshua’s hand, and men of younger blood

  Were destined to possess the land and pass

  Through Jordan to the other side. He, too,

  Had hoped to enter there—to tread the soil

  Made sacred by the memories of his kindred dead,

  And rest till life’s calm close beneath

  The sheltering vines and stately palms of that

  Fair land; that hope had colored all his life’s

  Young dreams and sent its mellow flushes o’er

  His later years; but God’s decree was otherwise,

  And so he bowed his meekened soul in calm

  Submission to the word, which bade him climb

  To Nebo’s highest peak, and view the pleasant land

  From Jordan’s swells unto the calmer ripples

  Of the tideless sea, then die with all its

  Loveliness in sight.

  As he passed from Moab’s grassy vale to climb

  The rugged mount, the people stood in mournful groups,

  Some with quivering lips and tearful eyes,

  Reaching out unconscious hands as if to stay

  His steps and keep him ever at their side, while

  Others gazed with reverent awe upon

  The calm and solemn beauty on his aged brow,

  The look of loving trust and lofty faith

  Still beaming from an eye that neither care

  Nor time had dimmed. As he passed upward, tender

  Blessings, earnest prayers and sad farewells rose

  On each wave of air, then died in one sweet

  Murmur of regretful love; and Moses stood

  Alone on Nebo’s mount.

  Alone! Not one

  Of all that mighty throng who had trod with him

  In triumph through the parted flood was there.

  Aaron had died in Hor, with son and brother

  By his side. And Miriam, too, was gone.

  But kindred hands had made her grave, and Kadesh

  Held her dust. But he was all alone; nor wife

  Nor child was there to clasp in death his hand,

  And bind around their bleeding hearts the precious

  Parting words. And yet he was not all alone,

  For God’s great presence flowed around his path,

  And stayed him in that solemn hour.

  He stood upon the highest peak of Nebo,

  And saw the Jordan chafing through its gorges,

  Its banks made bright by scarlet blooms

  And purple blossoms. The placid lakes

  And emerald meadows, the snowy crest

  Of distant mountains, the ancient rocks

  That dripped with honey, the hills all bathed

  In light and beauty, the shady groves

  And peaceful vistas, the vines oppress’d

  With purple riches, the fig trees fruit-crowned,

  Green and golden, the pomegranates with crimson

  Blushes, the olives with their darker clusters,

  Rose before him like a vision, full of beauty

  And delight. Gazed he on the lovely landscape

  Till it faded from his view, and the wing

  Of death’s sweet angel hovered o’er the mountain’s

  Crest, and he heard his garments rustle through

  The watches of the night.

  Then another, fairer vision

  Broke upon his longing gaze; ’twas the land

  Of crystal fountains, love and beauty, joy

  And light, for the pearly gates flew open,

  And his ransomed soul went in. And when morning

  O’er that mountain fringed each crag and peak with light,

  Cold and lifeless lay the leader. God had touched

  His eyes with slumber, giving his beloved sleep.

  Oh! never on that mountain

  Was seen a lovelier sight

  Than the troupe of fair young angels

  That gathered round the dead.

  With gentle hands they bore him,

  That bright and shining train,

  From Nebo’s lonely mountain

  To sleep in Moab’s vale.

  But they sang no mournful dirges,

  No solemn requiems said,

  And the soft wave of their pinions

  Made music as they trod.

  But no one heard them passing.

  None saw their chosen grave.

  It was the angels’ secret

  Where Moses should be laid.

  And when the grave was finished

  They trod with golden sandals

  Above the sacred spot;

  And the brightest, fairest flowers

  Sprang up beneath their tread.

  Nor broken turf nor hillock

  Did e’er reveal that grave,

  And truthful lips have never told,

  We know where he is laid.

  Mrs. Harper is now engaged in writing a book called “Iola,” which is a work on the racial question. May we not hope that the rising generation, at least, will take encouragement by her example and find an argument of race force in favor of mental and moral equality, and, above all, be awakened to see how prejudice and difficulties may be surmounted by continual struggles, intelligence and a virtuous character.

  We also find in the lecture field, working for the best interest of her race, Mary Ann Shadd Carey, also an able writer and teacher. Mary Ann Shadd Carey was born in Delaware, and received a better education than was usually obtained by free colored people. As a speaker she ranks deservedly high; as a debater she is quick to take advantage of the weak points of her opponents, forcible in her illustrations, biting in her sarcasm.

  The name of Charlotte L. Grimké, nee Forten, appears before me. A woman of rare intellectual gifts, a moral nature full of sympathy and benevolence for her race. Charlotte L. Grimké was born in Philadelphia. Like her predecessors, obstacles in the way of progress presented themselves to her. In her native city, then the most bitterly prejudiced of Northern cities, she was refused admission to institutions of learning, and was sent to school in New England—to Salem
, Massachusetts. Here prejudice existed, but not so much as in Philadelphia. She was received into the grammar school at Salem. She was the only colored pupil in the school, and won the esteem of her teachers and fellow-pupils. A short time before graduation from this school, the principal requested each student of the graduating class, of which she was a member, to write a poem to be sung at the closing exercises, the successful competitor to be known only on that day. This proved a stimulus in drawing out the poetic genius of the young aspirants. The manuscripts were collected, each bearing a fictitious name. One of the many was selected and printed on the program. This was the poem, entitled

  A PARTING HYMN.

  When winter’s royal robes of white

  From hill and vale are gone,

  And the glad voices of the spring

  Upon the air are borne,

  Friends, who have met with us before,

  Within these walls shall meet no more.

  Forth to a noble work they go,

  Oh! may their hearts keep pure;

  And hopeful zeal and strength be thine

  To labor and endure;

  That they an earnest faith may prove

  By words of truth and deeds of love.

  May those whose holy task it is

  To guide impulsive youth,

  Fail not to cherish in their souls

  A reverence for truth;

  For teachings which the lips impart

  Must have their source within the heart.

  May all who suffer share their love—

  The poor and the oppressed—

  So shall the blessings of our God

  Upon their labors rest;

  And may we meet again, when all

  Are blest and freed from every thrall.

  To the surprise of all, this beautiful hymn was written by Charlotte L. Forten, the only colored pupil of her class, the only one of the school, convincing the prejudiced minds of the possibilities of her race.

  She next entered the Normal School, from which she graduated, and was offered a position to teach in one of the schools, which offer she accepted, being the first colored woman to teach in a white school. She continued to teach until her health became impaired, and was advised, by her physician, to go South. After recuperating in Philadelphia for a time, she went farther South to teach the freedmen at Port Royal, on the coast of South Carolina, a deeply interesting work to her, and the years spent in that work the most delightful of her life; and while here, at the suggestion of her beloved and life-long friend, Mr. Whittier, she wrote some articles about life there. She afterward resided in Boston and Cambridge, where she became assistant secretary of the Teacher’s Committee of the New England Freedmen’s Aid Society. When this society disbanded, she went to Washington to reside, and there married Rev. Francis J. Grimké, who is well known to us as an eloquent divine. To him she has been a true minister’s wife, and has done much to make his ministerial career successful. She has contributed to the Anti-Slavery Standard, Boston Commonwealth, Boston Christian Register. She has made some translations from the French, among them one of the Eickmann Châtrien Novels, entitled “Madame Thérese,” which was published by Scribner some years ago. Of late years Mrs. Grimké has been able to write but little, owing to her continued ill-health, which is the source of deep regret not only to herself, but to her many friends. One of her more recent writings, “A June Song,” was read at the closing exercises of the “Monday Night Literary,” at Cedar Hill, the residence of the Hon. Frederick Douglass:

  We would sing a song to the fair young June,

  To the rare and radiant June,

  The lovely, laughing, fragrant June.

  How shall her praise be sung or said?

  Her cheek has caught the roses hue,

  Her eye the heaven’s serenest blue.

  And the gold of sunset crowns her head,

  And her smile—ah! there’s never a sweeter, I ween,

  Than the smile of this fair young summer queen.

  What life, what hope her coming brings!

  What joy anew in the sad heart springs

  As her robe of beauty o’er all she flings.

  Old earth grows young in her presence sweet,

  And thrills at the touch of her gentle feet,

  As the flowers spring forth her face to greet.

  Hark, how the birds are singing her praise

  In their gladdest, sweetest roundelays!

  O’er the lovely, peaceful river

  The golden lights of sunset quiver.

  The trees on the hillside have caught the glow,

  And heaven smiles down on the earth below.

  And our radiant June,

  Our lovely, joyous June,

  Our summer queen

  Smiles, too, as she stands

  With folded hands,

  And brow serene.

  How shall we crown her bright young head?

  Crown it with roses, rare and red;

  Crown it with roses, creamy white,

  As the lotus bloom that sweetens the night.

  Crown it with roses pink as the shell

  In which the voices of ocean dwell.

  And a fairer queen

  Shall ne’er be seen

  Than our lovely, laughing June.

  We have crowned her now, but she will not stay,

  The vision of beauty will steal away

  And fade, as faded the fair young May.

  Ah, loveliest maiden, linger awhile!

  Pour into our hearts the warmth of thy smile,

  The gloom of the winter will come too soon.

  Stay with us, gladden us, beautiful June!

  Thou glidest away from our eager grasp,

  But our hearts will hold thee close in their clasp.

  They will hold thee fast; and the days to be

  Will be brighter and sweeter for thoughts of thee.

  Our song shall not be a song of farewell,

  As with words of love the chorus we swell

  In praise of the fair young June,

  Of the rare and radiant June,

  The lovely, laughing, fragrant June.

  H. Cordelia Ray, daughter of the late Rev. Chas. B. Ray, is a woman full of savoir-faire, and stands among our able women writers, not only in poetry, but in prose, excelling in poetry in the sonnet, in prose critical literature. Miss Ray was born and educated in New York City, and began to weave verses at the age of ten years. Among her poems are “The Mist-maiden,” “The Hermit of the Soul,” “Dante,” “Antigone and Epidus,” “Reverie,” “Hour’s Glory,” “Lincoln” (written by request and recited for the unveiling of the Freedmen’s monument at Washington in memory of Abraham Lincoln). This poem was quite widely copied in the papers.

  Among the group of illustrative sonnets are, “Shakespeare, the Poet,” “Raphael, the Artist,” “Beethoven, the Musician,” “Emerson, the Philosopher,” “Sumner, the Statesman,” “Toussaint L’Overture, the Patriot,” “Wendell Phillips, the Philanthropist.” Miss H. Cordelia Ray teaches in Grammar School No. 80, New York City, of which Professor Charles L. Reason is principal.

  In June, 1891, the University of the City of New York held their commencement exercises. At this commencement, first in the history of education, university pedagogical degrees were conferred. An event of historic interest. Fourteen members of the University School of Pedagogy received the degree of Doctor of Pedagogy, and twelve the degree of Master of Pedagogy. Of the twelve, I am proud to say, three were colored—Miss H. Cordelia Ray, of whom I have just spoken, Miss Florence T. Ray and Miss Mary Eato. Miss J. Imogen Howard now attends the university, and will be the next to receive the degree of Master of Pedagogy.

  Mrs. Sarah J. S. Garnet has proved herself the pioneer for t
he maintenance of colored schools, and an advocate of the higher education of women. Mrs. Garnet is a teacher of varied experience. She has filled the positions from the lowest primary grades. She was an assistant in Grammar School No. 1, Mulberry Street, New York, principal of Primary Department No. 3, Brooklyn, and afterward appointed principal of Grammar School No. 81, Seventeenth Street, New York, where she has served faithfully twenty-six years. Being a member of the National Teachers’ Association for many years, and many times the only colored representative from this section of the country, she has enjoyed extensive travel over our own country and is well up in points of interest and information as regards the educational system and general development of our own country. As a philanthropist, nothing of interest to the race within her power and ability to be achieved has been lost. All opportunities are carefully watched and treasured for opportune development.

  In Philadelphia, we find Mrs. Fannie Jackson Coppin, principal of the Philadelphia Institute for Colored Youth, an acute thinker, an eloquent speaker, a benefactress to her race. Mrs. Coppin was born in the District of Columbia about the year 1837, and was left an orphan when quite young. She was brought up by her aunt, Mrs. Clark. In Washington the opportunities for education were limited, that is to say for the race. Anxious to gain knowledge, she left and went to New Bedford, in her sixteenth year, where she began the studies of the higher branches. She entered Oberlin College and graduated with honor. Through her untiring efforts, the Philadelphia Institute for Colored Youth was founded for the purpose of giving Negro children an industrial as well as an intellectual education. This institution is a success. Says John Durham, now minister to Hayti, of Mrs. Coppin and her work: “Long before the industrial-training idea threatened to become a fad, she had introduced it into this institute for boys and girls. Had she been other than an American colored woman, or had she not had to struggle against the characteristic conservatism of the Society of Friends, she would have been one of the most famous of American’s school reform instructors. As it is she works on modestly, indeed, too self-deprecating; eminent, but without notoriety.”