The Portable Nineteenth-Century African American Women Writers

by Various

  There is no humbug about that “casting your bread upon the waters.” You will gather it up some day, ten loaves for one. Bright smiles pay—they may be benedictions. Kind words pay,—“they never die.” It pays to get a good article, if you have to pay more for it than a cheap one. It pays to trust God in the human or in the abstract. “Trust is truer than our fears,” sings Whittier, and he has got the right tune. It pays to work off, mentally or physically, the blues. The rain has ceased to fall.

  Louisville, Sept. 1st, 1865.

  “Neglected Opportunities” (1866)

  SOURCE: Edmonia Goodelle Highgate, “Neglected Opportunities,” Christian Recorder, July 14, 1866.

  In the sober light of reason, one is often led to wonder what punishment the great Dealer of justice has in store for that class of persons who have amber-hued opportunities, and never develop in their lives—a purpose—never make themselves felt in their own State, County, town, village or ward.

  Some girls and boys at twenty-two or five,—good-rate, graduate from an academic course, possibly before thirty, from a collegiate course—come out into the earnest, hard-working world of realities, without ever feeling that they have a role to enact. Without realizing that their advantages have made them liable to be the grand starter in some move that could draw thousands with them. Too many males and females, with an ambition equal to Caesar’s, or Napoleon’s, or Margaret Fuller’s, or Frederick Douglass’s, never make any thing of themselves. Do not even become energetic tradesmen. Why is it? Some of our elaborately educated young men dash all their energy upon some love-sick penchant for some imperious, handsome-faced, brainless girl, who for want of other avenues, uses efforts at passing cupid darts through their gizzards. Excuse me, “embryo hearts” I meant. Some of our men that might have been good physicians, lawyers, orators, professors and essayists, have been lost to the higher cause of literature or sacred manhood, by this dashing against Charybdis. Too many friends spoil this, and give abortive developments of their own personal ruin. A rich father has made too many earth-encumbering sons, or useless lady shadows.

  All things alternately will be tried by the test of ability, and I would not have it otherwise. It is more than a fancy that many of these people, who have been like good gardens, which contain weeds and nothing else, all their fifty or sixty years of earth—death will have exquisite tantales hereafter in punishment for lost opportunities. A real man or woman makes circumstances and controls them. They be deterred from doing what duty calls them to! Never! They control their destiny and observe every weaker mind within the square of the distance. I find it easier to coalesce with a person who has been guilty of ennui, and whose lives are proof of their repentance, than these good-for-nothing aspirants! Any thing which you young pump-strutters earnestly wish to be, you can be. God gives every key to a sober demander. All that you ought to be, pretty beau-catcher wearer, you can be, if you have to wait till you are thirty-five to attain your goal, and do without Mr. Exquisite for your partner in an aimless non-existence. I hate a weak man or woman. I fling them from me as I do half-drowned, clinging cats. Yet no one sooner than I would be a strong friend to one who has determined to reform—to be definitely something.

  I don’t believe in world-saving—but I do in self-making—No—I am no shining light; but I have a reverence for a real every-inch-man, or a whole woman, who earnestly is a definite something besides a fawning husband—liver and corset lacer, and liver and dier by this eternal “style.” Come out into the glory of God’s world of functions and uses—Create something. Aspire to leave something immortal behind you. That’s the life test at last. The monument you leave—I don’t mean granite or marble—but something that will stand the corruption of the ages. A principle well developed will in science or ethics—A cause will—An immortal healthy soul. Ah! the gods would any of these! Have I said too much? Is it inelegant? Does it not breath balm of a thousand flowers? Opopinax, excuse me,—but I never wear perfumed kids, especially when I have to touch wads. Up! work, make something out of yourself, even if it is like getting blood from a turnip. Try! The race needs living, working demonstrations—the world does. Young man, the master in world-reconstruction has called; is calling, but will not enact, for you and your sister.

  New Orleans, June 21st.

  “On Horse Back—Saddle Dash, No. 1” (1866)

  SOURCE: Edmonia Goodelle Highgate, “On Horse Back—Saddle Dash, No. 1,” Christian Recorder, November 3, 1866.

  Who that has taught school, the elementary branches year in and year out, don’t know what teacher’s ennui is? I always thought I did, but find that I have just found out. Here I am in the western interior of Louisiana trying with my might to instruct these very French, little and large Creoles, in the simplest English, and in morals. But for my roan, I would break down as a harp unstrung; but as soon as day-school is out I am on his back, and off on a quick gallop for these grand old October woods. I took my first ride of six miles to a famous old spring, at which the rebel General Morton drank with his wretchedly demoralized command in their retreat after the battle of Shiloh. My horse, like everything else here, was Creole, and I am afraid rather confederate in his tendencies; for when I was feeling lost, almost to my surroundings in some meditations of an intensely union cast, he had the bad taste to get into a fence leaping mood. Of course I conquered, and made myself mistress of the situation. Then I plunged into the thickest of the oak tree forest with its exquisite drapery of array hanging moss. The old dame must have anticipated some children visitors, for she had swings ready made, formed of the thick inter-lapping vine-like branches, reaching from treetop to treetop all through these woods. What delightful order! Oh, if dear Henry D. Thoreau were here, wouldn’t he go into a rhapsody! But he is here in spirit.

  Natures admiring children, who perseveringly labor to know her secrets while in earth form, only learn more after they “cross the river Jordan,” and they hover around beautiful retreats. Yes, they are “ministering spirits.” Then don’t imagine me a modern spiritualist after the “affinity-seeking,” “wife and husband leaving” strife. No, I detest “table rapping’s and crockery breaking,” especially the last; for I have broken so much. But those who are of the same mind do coalesce whether in the spirit or out. Oh, what a cluster of scarlet blossoms! All negroes like red; so pash on, pony, I must have those flowers! How I wish my Philadelphia friends had these! Why they are handsomer than either “fuchsia’s or bleeding heart.” But I have left my botany in the city; so I can’t trace their genera.

  Oh, how independent one feels in the saddle! One thing, I can’t imagine why one needs to wear such long riding skirts. They are so inconvenient when you have to ford streams or dash through briers. Oh, fashion, will no Emancipation Proclamation free us from thee!

  My . . .

  Now for the matter in this saddle-dash. I had to keep off horse back several days in order to recover from extreme fatigue and soreness, but my bay is at the door this glorious Saturday morning, and I am off till noon. Some rebel equestrians just passed, and fired four times almost in my face. But who is going to let grape keep them off horse back or off duty? Hasn’t He promised to keep His workers? “Then to doubt would be disloyal; to falter would be sin.”

  Oh! I forgot to say my roan did not understand English any better than my scholars do. When I said, “Whoa, pony,” he would gallop.

  Au revoir.

  • • •

  I am home again from my canter. We passed through several cotton and cornfields worked on shares. The former owners are giving half what the crops yield to the hands in payment. Besides, there is five per cent tax levied to pay for the school privilege for the children of the hands. These men work well. Their employers say; “better than slaves did.” But they work all day Sunday of their own accord on land they have rented; so anxious are they to get places of their own. Cotton is worth from 40 to 50 cents per pound here. One would soon get rich with o
ne of these plantations. Oh! It is time for my night school. Believe me, Vetre Amie des Chevauz.

  Oct. 13th, Vermillionville, Lafayette Parish, La.

  MEMOIRS: LOOKING BACK

  21

  JULIA A. J. FOOTE

  (1823–1900)

  Julia A. J. Foote was the first female to be ordained as a deacon in the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church. She grew up in upstate New York, the daughter of former slaves. At the age of sixteen she married George Foote, and she spent the entirety of her adult life traveling and preaching. Though her race and gender made it initially hard for her to gain a following, she eventually grew popular among both black and white audiences. Her autobiography, A Brand Plucked from the Fire (1879), is excerpted on the following pages. Foote died in 1900 and was buried in Cypress Hill Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York.

  The first two chapters excerpted here contain stories from Foote’s childhood, including a near poisoning at age five and the execution of a teacher. The second two chapters describe the challenges Foote faced as a woman fighting for her dignity and reputation, while insisting on her right to preach. She fights to reconcile her devotion to Christianity with the relentless opposition to her desire to preach.

  Selections from A Brand Plucked from the Fire (1879)

  SOURCE: Julia A. J. Foote, A Brand Plucked from the Fire (Cleveland, OH: Printed for the Author by Lauer and Yost, 1879).

  CHAPTER I.

  Birth and Parentage

  I was born in 1828, in Schenectady, N.Y. I was my mother’s fourth child. My father was born free, but was stolen, when a child, and enslaved. My mother was born a slave, in the State of New York. She had one very cruel master and mistress. This man, whom she was obliged to call master, tied her up and whipped her because she refused to submit herself to him, and reported his conduct to her mistress. After the whipping, he himself washed her quivering back with strong salt water: At the expiration of a week she was sent to change her clothing, which stuck fast to her back. Her mistress, seeing that she could not remove it, took hold of the rough tow-linen under-garment and pulled it off over her head with a jerk, which took the skin with it, leaving her back all raw and sore.

  This cruel master soon sold my mother, and she passed from one person’s hands to another’s, until she found a comparatively kind master and mistress in Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman, who kept a public house.

  My father endured many hardships in slavery, the worst of which was his constant exposure to all sorts of weather. There being no railroads at that time, all goods and merchandise were moved from place to place with teams, one of which my father drove.

  My father bought himself, and then his wife and their first child, at that time an infant. That infant is now a woman, more than seventy years old, and an invalid, dependent upon the bounty of her poor relatives.

  I remember hearing my parents tell what first led them to think seriously of their sinful course. One night, as they were on their way home from a dance, they came to a stream of water, which, owing to rain the night previous, had risen and carried away the log crossing. In their endeavor to ford the stream, my mother made a misstep, and came very nearly being drowned, with her babe in her arms. This nearly fatal accident made such an impression upon their minds that they said, “We’ll go to no more dances;” and they kept their word. Soon after, they made a public profession of religion and united with the M.E. Church.

  They were not treated as Christian believers, but as poor lepers. They were obliged to occupy certain seats in one corner of the gallery, and dared not come down to partake of the Holy Communion until the last white communicant had left the table.

  One day my mother and another colored sister waited until all the white people had, as they thought, been served, when they started for the communion table. Just as they reached the lower door, two of the poorer class of white folks arose to go to the table. At this, a mother in Israel caught hold of my mother’s dress and said to her, “Don’t you know better than to go to the table when white folks are there?” Ah! she did know better than to do such a thing purposely.

  This was one of the fruits of slavery. Although professing to love the same God, members of the same church, and expecting to find the same heaven at last, they could not partake of the Lord’s Supper until the lowest of the whites had been served. Were they led by the Holy Spirit? Who shall say? The Spirit of Truth can never be mistaken, nor can he inspire anything unholy. How many at the present day profess great spirituality, and even holiness, and yet are deluded by a spirit of error, which leads them to say to the poor and the colored ones among them, “Stand back a little—I am holier than thou.”

  My parents continued to attend to the ordinances of God as instructed, but knew little of the power of Christ to save; for their spiritual guides were as blind as those they led.

  It was the custom, at that time, for all to drink freely of wine, brandy and gin. I can remember when it was customary at funerals, as well as at weddings, to pass around the decanter and glasses, and sometimes it happened that the pall-bearers could scarcely move out with the coffin. When not handed round, one after another would go to the closet and drink as much as they chose of the liquors they were sure to find there. The officiating clergyman would imbibe as freely as any one. My parents kept liquor in the house constantly, and every morning sling was made, and the children were given the bottom of the cup, where the sugar and a little of the liquor was left, on purpose for them. It is no wonder, is it, that every one of my mother’s children loved the taste of liquor?

  One day, when I was but five years of age, I found the blue chest, where the black bottle was kept, unlocked—an unusual thing. Raising the lid, I took the bottle, put it to my mouth, and drained it to the bottom. Soon after, the rest of the children becoming frightened at my actions, ran and told aunt Giney—an old colored lady living in a part of our house—who sent at once for my mother, who was away working. She came in great haste, and at once pronounced me DRUNK. And so I was—stupidly drunk. They walked with me, and blew tobacco smoke into my face, to bring me to. Sickness almost unto death followed, but my life was spared. I was like a “brand plucked from the burning.”

  Dear reader, have you innocent children, given you from the hand of God? Children, whose purity rouses all that is holy and good in your nature? Do not, I pray, give to these little ones of God the accursed cup which will send them down to misery and death. Listen to the voice of conscience, the woes of the drunkard, the wailing of poverty-stricken women and children, and touch not the accursed cup. From Sinai come the awful words of Jehovah, “No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of heaven.”

  CHAPTER IV.

  My Teacher Hung for Crime

  My great anxiety to read the Testament caused me to learn to spell quite rapidly, and I was just commencing to read when a great calamity came upon us. Our teacher’s name was John Van Paten. He was keeping company with a young lady, who repeated to him a remark made by a lady friend of hers, to the effect that John Van Paten was not very smart, and she didn’t see why this young lady should wish to marry him. He became very angry, and, armed with a shotgun, proceeded to the lady’s house, and shot her dead. She fell, surrounded by her five weeping children. He then started for town, to give himself up to the authorities. On the way he met the woman’s husband and told him what he had done. The poor husband found, on reaching home, that John’s words were but too true; his wife had died almost instantly.

  After the funeral, the bereaved man went to the prison and talked with John and prayed for his conversion until his prayers were answered, and John Van Paten, the murderer, professed faith in Christ.

  Finally the day came for the condemned to be publicly hung (they did not plead emotional insanity in those days). Everybody went to the execution, and I with the rest. Such a sight!

  Never shall I forget the execution of my first school-teacher. On the scaffold he made a speech, whic
h I cannot remember, only that he said he was happy, and ready to die. He sang a hymn, the chorus of which was,

  “I am bound for the kingdom;

  Will you go to glory with me?”

  clasping his hands, and rejoicing all the while.

  The remembrance of this scene left such an impression upon my mind that I could not sleep for many a night. As soon as I fell into a doze, I could see my teacher’s head tumbling about the room as fast as it could go; I would waken with a scream, and could not be quieted until some one came and staid with me.

  Never since that day have I heard of a person being hung, but a shudder runs through my whole frame, and a trembling seizes me. Oh, what a barbarous thing is the taking of human life, even though it be “a life for a life,” as many believe God commands. That was the old dispensation. Jesus said: “A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another.” Again: “Resist not evil; but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” Living as we do in the Gospel dispensation, may God help us to follow the precepts and example of Him, who, when he was reviled, reviled not again, and in the agony of death prayed: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Christian men, vote as you pray, that the legalized traffic in ardent spirits may be abolished, and God grant that capital punishment may be banished from our land.