Life, Travels and Works
of
Miss Flora Batson
DECEASED
Queen oi Song
BY GERARD MILLAR
THE BASSO
For ten years her Manager and Professional Associate,
Interspersed with comments from the leading characters of
the world, and original poems heretofore unpublished.
Depend on Christ, thou canst not fail,
Make all thy wants and wishes known;
Fear not, His merits shall prevail,
Ask what thou will, It shall be done.
PUBLISHED BY
T. M. R. M. COMPANY
GERARD MILLAR
MANAGER
Copyrighted
PREFACE.
As the greatest minds display themselves, in the
most turbulent storms on the call of necessity, so the
Negro has to boast, among others, his Flora Batson—
a bright star in the history of mankind. If I should
select one feature in her character which is more
prominently marked than any other, I should name
that deep religious feeling with which she seemed for
the most part to have been impressed. Taught from
the very first by sad experience that this was no' world
of rest, she was left to lift up her soul to God,—seek¬
ing ease from Him who wounds and heals, who kills
and makes ajlive. This love of God induced her to
love her neighbor, and what but this could have sus¬
tained her amid labours that would have dampened
the energy of almost every other woman; what but
this , gave her power of being— a star and example
to her people; requiring nothing from them', but what
she was willing to exhibit in her own character and
conduct? I know not which of the many virtues to
admire most—her talent, industry, charity, or perse¬
verance, for all blend together in beautiful harmony
in the life and character of Flora Batson, and the
world will continue to gather many golden fruits sown
by her, and let my race cry aloud with joyful pride:
''The woman is near of kin unto> us."
Above all, who will not abound in thanksgiving to
Almighty 'God, who raised up this mighty instru¬
ment that has proved as of incalculable benefit to my
people? He who watched the gradual growth of this
slender plant and enabled it to expand into the beau¬
teous tree, unscathed by the storm of winter or the
heat of the summer's sun; with Him "all things are
ours." He is our only foundation of hope. This is
truly the stone which was set at naught of you build¬
ers, which has become the head of the corner. And
now see to it that ye fail not, and that you build upon
it, and let the structure grow higher and higher, until
its top has reached the pinnacle of perfection, and the
angel Batson steps out upon its highest balcony and
shouts his praise in glory.
I have written this little book after many prayers
to ascertain God's and my people's will. My object
is simply to try and bring forth something of the har-
vest of virtue, gleaned from a life of usefulness, by
one of God's creatures. Many have not the means of
purchasing large and expensive works on any sub¬
ject, hence I have tried hard to place the fruit within
the reach of all who will but put forth their hand and
pluck of the same. I am aware of the greatness of
the grand little woman of whom, I have dared to write,
and her greatness diminishes my individuality; so it
can be plainly observed that it is no1 great task for the
writer to be entirely obscured by the subject chosen,
and if I stagger and halt under the weight of my load,
we will say, " 'Twas too heavy."
GERARD MILLAR.
CHARACTER
"Stop, little girl; let me assist you. Whose
child are you? Where do you live? What is your
name? Have you a mother and father?"
This storm of interrogations fell upon the ears of
a little one of nine years toiling up one of the hilly
streets of the city of Providence, R. I., pulling hard
at the miniature express wagon loaded with kindling
wood, and as she stops and plants her little foot
firmly against a rock, she reaches the disengaged
hand into the pocket of her simple gingham apron,
and takes out a plain but spotless handkerchief and
wipes the perspiration from, her brow and eyes, and,
looking up into the face of the speaker, she seems
dazed and perplexed for an answer to so many ques¬
tions, only for a few moments, and then in a soft
and musical voice she answers as follows: "I live
8
Life, Travels and Works of
at the top of this street, sir. I have a mother; her
name is Mary A. Batson. My father is dead, sir.
My name is Flora Batson."
And then, wrapping the rope tightly around her
tiny hand, she braces her frail form against the
weight of the loaded wagon and starts up the 'hill to
home and mother. But she is not alone. The kind
stranger has his hand gripped in the rope also and
the load is made lighter.
Reader, does this not bring to our mind how easy
it is to make the load lighter, by twisting our hand
and heart into the troubles of our neighbor and
lending of our strength to help them up the hill of
life?
And this roughly brings us to the character of this
great woman, Miss Flora Batson, Queen of Song.
Up from the wood wagon and the ranks of poverty.
Up from the forest of humanity where millions of
grand and lofty oaks are destined to rock and sway
to and fro in the storms of many years. Up from
the farmyard of obscurity she flew like a lark, and
Miss Flora Batsori
9
mounted higher and higher until the rays of the
shining sun of music glittered upon the hard-earned
crown she wore with such unassuming simplicity
and grandeur. And the busy rushing world stops
in its onward march and inclines its, ear to catch the
sounds that pour from that God-inspired and won¬
derful throat.
The Queen upon England's throne cried as she
grasped her hand: "My child, this is the work of the
Almighty. You are truly a graduate of that insti¬
tution presided over by Him who rules the universe."
Pope Leo bowed his reverend head as she sang
the 27th Psalm, and with hands upon her head called
God's blessing down.
Bishop Small, a few days before his answer to
the heavenly summons, said: "Your songs are mes¬
sages from heaven's throne, sent to cheer us on."
Talmage sat thrilled by her wonderful voice, and
in his ecstacy exclaimed: "To hear Batson sing is
rest after a weary day's toil."
Dr. T. W. Henderson, in speaking of her, said;
10
Life, Travels and Works of
"She is God's ambassador in song. No better rep¬
resentative could have been selected."
Dr. Tindley says: "She flutters in the dewy grass
of poverty's field, and soars higher and higher, too
high for the guns of scandal to bring her to earth."
Dr. Fickland describes her as "Singing her way
to the throne of God."
To take the roll to its end would require more
time and space than can be spared. We have prom¬
ised to skim the top, and in the near future, should
God see fit to spare us, we will give a more com¬
plete story of this noble woman.
My purpose is now to take you on a flying trip
around the world with the only two Afro-American
vocalists who have ever dared such a venture. Our
tickets shall read from Philadelphia to Philadelphia,
overland to 'Frisco, by special train. In a com¬
pany of forty so-called performers, male and female,
we rush across the continent to California and find
our steamer, "The Mona," standing as an impatient
and panting steed, waiting for the jockey's foot to
Miss'Flora Batson
11
touch the stirrup. All is bustle and hurry; the
trucks are rattling, the mules are braying (for we
had fifty on the upper deck for the Fiji Islands),
the deck hands and stewards are indulging in lan¬
guage more pointed than polite; the company lug¬
gage is being tossed as foot balls, and many pretty
trunks, made only to look nice in shop windows, are
are being disemboweled, and their contents flutter to
the breeze, to the dismay of their owners.
At last it is over, the gangplank is pulled away
and the vein of hemp that holds us to the shore of
"Uncle Sam" has released us, and we pick our way
out through the Golden Gate, and in a few hours
we leave the sight of land. As a matter to be
dreaming of, and take upon ourselves troubles of
our own. Sea sickness! Reader, were you ever
seasick? If not, let me tell you you have missed
over one-half of the pleasure attached to dying of
hydrophobia or any other dread disease. Miss Bat-
son was sick twenty days. It was the verdict of
12
Life, Travels and Works of
the ship's doctor that she would be buried at sea.
But God knew different.
On our arrival in Honolulu we decided to give a
show, and had just five hours to spare before the
time to set sail and get out of the harbor before
nightfall. So we got our stage clothes and the nec¬
essary traps and fixings to give our first show, which
.was number one bad, other than the singing of Bat-
son's Team. The verdict was, this one act re¬
deemed the entire affair, and the royal box let down
the flag on us, which is the highest honor that can
be paid an artist in a foreign land. Miss Batson,
being entirely unfamiliar with the foreign customs,
she became so nervous that she trembled, and it was
necessary to hold her hand to keep her from trying
to make her exit from the stage at the most critical
and trying moment of her career. Had she left
the stage at that time she would have insulted the
Queen of the islands. The stage manager being a
native, knew just what to do, and at once rushed on
the stage, secured the flag, wrapped Miss Batson in
Miss Flora Batson
13
its folds and commanded the orchestra to play "God
Save the Queen." And in an instant 3,000 people
realized that one queen had honored another. The
cheer that went up shook the massive structure to
its foundation, and to my eyes and mind as we stood
there hand in hand came the picture of the hilly
street in Providence, and the tired child tugging at
the wagon loaded! with kindling; and these words
came to me: "Surely my God can make unto1 Him¬
self a queen, even out of the waif of the streets."
Queen Liliqualana and Queen- Flora Batson stood
looking into each other's face, the former an inher-
itant through royal blood, the latter through the
power of God. Five times the curtain bowed to
this royal pair before the end came, and then Flora
turns to me, and in that sweet, simple, childlike way,
says: "What is it? Did I make any mistake?" I
could only answer: "No, my child, you have tri¬
umphed beyond all expectations." Her reply was
simply "Thank God."
Back to the vessel and the long voyage to Auck-
14
Life, Travels and Works of
land, New Zealand. Upon arrival "Our Team" was
put ashore, bag and baggage, as it was understood
we were not to be in any way connected with the
big company, but join the small singing organiza¬
tion.
We had just sat down to our supper when in
rushed our manager and informed us that he had a
cable from Sydney, N. S. W., by all means bring
Batson and myself. We were rushed to our rooms,
locked and strapped trunks, repacked grips, jumped
in a cab and went down to the vessel to take back all
the good-byes we had so recently distributed among
the members of the company, bound, as we thought,
to leave us for a year.
Next we find ourselves entering into the beautiful
Sydney harbor, one of the grandest sights of a life¬
time. It would take a hundred pages to describe
it. After passing through a rigid inspection we are
permitted to land, and once more we are quartered
in a beautiful hotel, "The Royal Palace," and for
nine weeks our show, or Batson and our show, is
Miss Flora Batson
15
the talk of the city, her singing the seventh wonder,
the daily; and weekly papers devoting columns each
day to' the vocal achievements of "The Batson
Team." One of the managers offers Mr. McAdoo
one thousand dollars and the cost of bringing us to
Australia for our release. Another at the death of
Mr. McAdoo, offers us a five years' contract at an
enormous salary for fourteen minutes' work a day.
But Flora had been away from her mother long
enough, and she said she must return to her native
soil. We had then traveled Australasia in its en¬
tirety, and to her it was one triumphant march as
far as the public was concerned.
But, my dear reader, do not for a moment think
it was all "sunshine" at or behind the scenes, for
along the path of life is ever coiled that serpent of
jealousy, and nothing arouses him as much as others'
success. Miss Batson had enemies. Did she by
her words or acts merit such ? For answer ask any
one who has been near her in trouble, in sorrow, or
success. I am willing to abide by their verdict.
16
Life, Travels and Works of
But she, by kindness and sweetness of disposi¬
tion, would cause the serpent whose head was poised
for the blow, whose eyes were glittering with fury,
and whose fangs were dripping with venom, to
gradually but surely uncoil his body, lower his head
and silently drag its quivering form, away from her
pathway.
On our return to America our first real surprise
was when the agent for the late manager informed
us that he had been instructed by Mr. McAdoo's
wife to furnish us with two tickets that called for
"steerage passage!" Well, had this been my first
trip, perhaps I might have accepted this "cattle tick¬
et." But, to use a familiar phrase, "I was wise to
it," and after quite a dispute we were told that if
we did not accept that we would get none. But we
knew better, and just dictated certain terms. They
were very glad to agree to them, and Flora Batson
came back to America first class cabin, and not as
a steerage passenger.
X will say here that the generous lady who in-
Miss Flora Batson
17
structed her lawyers to furnish steerage tickets for
Batson claimed it was good1 enough for her, as she
was black. "What fools these mortals be."
On our return trip we stopped at the S'amoan Is¬
lands and took dinner with the King and royal fam¬
ily. The menu consisted of live soft-shell crabs,
spiced fish, cocoanuts, oranges and poi. This lat¬
ter dish is made of a root that resembles the Spanish
lily or dagger, as it is called by the Mexicans. They
grind it up into a pulp, cook it, and then it has the
appearance of starch after a pair of blue overalls
have been passed through it. The proper way to
eat this is to< push the cuff up well, then dip the first
two fingers of the right hand in the bowl, which sits
in the center of the table, which is the floor. After
this you get the fingers to your mouth as soon and
as graceful as you possibly can, and by several licks
you manage to unload the poi. It tastes all right
after you get it properly loaded and unloaded. Of
course, the cue is to watch your neigbhor. If he or
she use their hair for napkins, you do the same.
18
Life, Travels and Works of
Don't stop to think of the good time the flies will
give you after the banquet is over.
After dinner conies the native dance to amuse the
guests. This also must be seen to be appreciated.
The American parodies we have on it are not tO' be
considered worthy of comparison. The men and
women are of the very finest forms and they work
themselves to the point where they have every
muscle under control and cause them to respond to
the strains of the native musical instruments, with
beauty of motion that can only bring wonder and
admiration from those who1 are so fortunate as to
be favored by an invitation to be present at the "Lu
Aon."
Back to the boat again, and we find it surrounded
by boys and girls swimming like fish in a hundred
feet of water. The passengers are pitching coins in
the sea, and they dive down and bring the money up
and show it to you; put it in their mouth and start
for another.
Once more back in Honolulu. At the Queen's
Miss Flora Batson
19
Theatre for a run of eleven weeks for "The Batson
Team," and. great is the reception of our queen of
song. Once a week Prince Kapiolana sends request
for Miss Batson to sing the "Last Rose of Summer"
for the Queen, his mother, and for eleven weeks she
sways the sceptre of song over the "Island of the
Sea," and then we find her once more, after a tour
of England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Japan, China
and Australia, back to the old home once again,
wrapped in the embrace of mother, her life, her
first, her last thought. Her eyes sparkle with the
joy she feels. Is she happy? Beyond, expression.
Has she conquered? Yes, yes; more than con¬
quered. Before she has time to brush the dust of a
foreign land from her eyes and clothing, she hears
of a home suitable for mamma, and with a bound of
delight she seeks the company, and the hard-earned
savings are dumped into the greedy hands of these
'human sharks. The savings of four years, the fi¬
nancial harvest of tears and smiles is paid them,
only to find out in a few days that the company was
20
Life, Travels and Works of
a myth, the promoters serving jail sentence for
swindle. This is the end of that bright morning of
hope, the sunset of that day she had hoped to call
her brightest, and out of the darkness she cried
through the veil of tears, "Oh God, be Thou my
Guide!"
Did she stop? No, why must she stop, when we
read in Matthew 2: 20, that the Son of Man hath
not where to lay His head. Dashing the tears of
disappointment from her eyes, she drops to her
knees and makes an appeal to the strength giver,
the watchman of the widow and orphan, and with
bleeding hands she catches up the broken threads of
the future and twists them together once more, and
starts out again "for mamma and for home."
Once more we find her holding the masses spell¬
bound with that matchless voice, stepping from one
rung to another up the long ladder of fame, and by
that God-given power she compelled opposition,
race prejudice, character assassins to step aside,
leaving her way clear, and like Pilate as they wash
Miss Flora Batson
21
their filthy hands in a lachrymatory of human tears,
they find no fault of her.
THE POWER OF RELIGION.
In this she believed and she has so often told those
who crowded around her that it was God, who gave
her the power of song, and she never stepped upon
stage or platform that she did not call upon her
Heavenly Father for help and strength to do her
best. "Angels could do no more." Is it any won¬
der that she had power, when we stop to consider
from what source she applied for it, for if He be for
you, it matters not if the world is against you. And
perhaps it may be thought the voyage of the life of
professionals is ever pleasant. This is far from be¬
ing a fact. Outside of the race comes the billows
of opposition breaking as they dash against us, and
I am sorry to admit that in the ranks of our own
race we find those who delight to sit in judgment
and by one little word they enlist the very forces of
perdition, and muster them fully armed and
22
Life, Travels and Works of
equipped to destroy even the weak and inoffensive
woman who is battling hard for scant necessities of
life, and the bread that she reaches out her trembling
hand to grasp is turned to a stone, and the wail of
the mother wild with grief has no pangs or pains
they can see, and they laugh at her efforts to find re¬
lief, and her sorrow is a pleasure to see.
And as the slanderer stands in his satanic attitude
in the midst of dead and dying, he can only look
about him and ask the question that was put to
Saul, "Why persecutest thou me?" Many of us
step out of our way to crush the lowly
worm that never did, that never can,
that never would, that never could do us harm,
forgetting that even by crawling upon the face of
the earth it is obeying its God. None of us have
chosen our own conditions. Of all who have come
into existence here, Christ Jesus is the only one
who had that power. In the birth conditions of
every individual soul, one of two things only can
Miss Flora Batson
23
be seen. A totally blind and undirected choice, or
the absolute sovereignty of God.
It is vain to ask of second causes, why of two,
sentient beings with equal claims and with so much
at stake, one opens his eyes upon the splendor of a
palace, the other upon the horrors of a cellar, his
ears upon blasphemy and falsehood, unclothed, un¬
taught and uncared for.
Why is it that the child that is wrapped in ermine,
and fondly sheltered from every approach of harm,
is doomed to owe all things to> the world's compas¬
sion, while the other child that has been tossed by
the tide of sin and sorrow, breathed only the stifling
atmosphere of want, slept upon rags of degradation
high up in the attic of infamy, mopped its briny
tears with its ragged sleeve of ambition, wrapped its
shivering form in the mantle of desire, stamped its
chilly feet upon the hard rocks of opposition, and
shaded the feeble eyes with the horny hand of toil
as it looks over the future. This child of destiny
mounts to the highest rung in the ladder of achieve-
24
Life, Travels and Works of
ment. Why is it, we ask? Philosophy finds rea¬
sons in the animal functions in the physical temper¬
ament, or the organizations of the brain. But
where is the reason of their reasons ? Something
must have guided Nature's hand in this unequal dis¬
tribution. There is but one solution—the absolute,
unbiased sovereignty of God, who owes no man any¬
thing and can do what He will with His own. It
is a fact that God has never chosen great things or
the great ones of the world to do His work with, or
He could have made the Roman Empire the stepping
stone to the cross. This was not what He intended.
Jesus chose for Himself poverty and meanness of
condition. He chose the same for Batso-n and all
other instruments of His work. He took His dis¬
ciples from among the unknown, not because he
preferred the poor because they were poor, but,
rather, because He had placed in that station those
He intended to select from it. He meant to send
the whispers of His still small voice through the
songs of Flora Batson. He meant that her last
Miss Flora Batsori
25
winter on earth she should be the instrument
through which hundreds of her own race should
find Christ precious to their souls, and at Wylie Av¬
enue Church, Dr. Townsend, pastor, through her
wonderful voice, hearts of from 7 to 75 years were
made to surrender to the forces of the Christ. Some
may say she was well paid financially. My reply to
this is, take the trouble to write and ask. She who
wore her honors and used her gifts, and the multi¬
tude dropped their congratulations. They cannot
know how the sound fell upon her ears as with
shrinking' modesty she would only whisper, "I
thank thee, oh God I" and like the King that looked
down from the ramparts of Babylon, she asks, who
am I, oh Lord God, and what is my house ? W'e see
Flora Batson, like Moses, preferring adversity with
the people of God in their churches to the fabulous
salaries of the vaudeville stage. Take up the cross
and follow me.
All His days are sorrows and His travails grief,
from Jacob who in the simplicity of his patriarchal
26
Life, Travels and Works of
life looked back upon 'his years and found them
few and evil, to the King of Israel, who in the plen-
titude of luxury and knowledge declared there was
nothing but sorrow under the sun. From the secret
complaint of the captive, obscurely carved upon his
prison wall, to the last death struggle of she whom
I am permitted to write, in every chronicler's story,
in every poet's song—in every philosopher's argu¬
ment, sorrow is the longest and most interesting
chapter, for it is that which finds a response in ev¬
ery human bosom, and for six thousand years man
has searched in vain for a remedy. The parents
still see their children break their hearts and die;
children see the gray hairs of their parents brought
wTith sorrow to the grave; the most gifted, the most
admired of humanity rush desperately into eternity,
because the weight of misery is too heavy to bear,
and St. Paul says the sorrow of the world worketh
death.
But Romans tells us if we be dead with Christ we
shall also live with Him. And when God's glory
Miss Flora Batson
27
shall be perfected in us, and His effaced likeness
quite restored, who contemplates no moment of his
life so blessed as that in which it shall be said he or
she dies.
On June 13th, 1906, I noticed Miss Batson had
been weeping, and on going to my room, that night
I wrote the following little poem that she seems to
love SO', and after reading it to her she said, "Put it
away, and use it when I am gone from you." Lit¬
tle did I think as I sealed it up and put it aside with
my precious papers, that I would ever live to< look
on it after she was no more on earth. But for some
reason I am here to carry out her wish, and for the
first time I am trying to give this poem to the
world.
GOD'S WAYS ARE BEST.
Cheer up, little woman;
The time will come bye and bye,
When the sun of satisfaction
Will shine out in your sky;
When every lonely moment now,
28
Life, Travels and Works of
Spent with head bowed low,
Will be consumed with hours of joy,
And you will weep no more.
Your voice has cheered thousands
Whose hearts were bowed with grief,
And to their weary souls
Brought comfort, joy, relief.
Now put your trust in Jesus,
And clouds now black as night
Will soon be bright and blue,
And gates of opposition will open wide for you.
Why halt and look behind you
To days past and gone?
They have no power to bid you hope;
Their prospects are forlorn.
The sunshine of the coming day
Has split the darkest night,
And even as the shadows sway,
Ambition bids us fight.
There is a goal that you must reach,
A steep and rugged bluff,
Until your name is written,
Miss Flora Batson
29
There, Forget to: Cry Enough.
The thorns that pierce your feet and hands
Should only give you warning,
That the darkest hour that e'er appears
Is the courier of the morning.
I know the path is winding;
Its crooks are sharp, severe;
The Labor slow and grinding,
And filters many a tear;
The load at times seems heavy;
It bends us to our knees.
But there we find the remedy,
Prayer's ever soothing breeze.
So buckle on faith's armour,
That shines as bright as day;
And don't forget the Passwords:
Watch, and fight, and Pray.
And when the smoke of battle
Has blown from East to West,
Your tired, weary, troubled soul
Will say, God's way is best.
30
Life, Travels and Works of
CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL.
Another original composition that gave her much joy.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever God's there be
For this unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced or cried aloud;
Under the bludgerings of chance
My head is bruised but still unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds me calm, but un-afraid.
It matters not how fierce the gait,
How charged with punishments the goal;
I am the Master of My Fate ;
I am the Captain of My Soul,
Miss Flora Batson
31
Is this not a grand declaration for one to make,
"I am the captain of my soul"? How many
of us are in that position, "the captains of
our souls." Friends, see and look to it that you can
say this to life, to sickness, yes, and even to death:
"I am the captain of my soul."
This is something grand for one of ours to say,
whose life has been spent in the profession. In all
the history of the stage my people have been held up
to ridicule, but in this case, which (we thank God is
not the only one) can exclaim in one grand chorus,
"The talent was acknowledged—the life was lived."
The battle fought, the victory won, and still another
lamp of hope, lighted in the midst of life's most
terrible storms, has not been snuffed, but hung
brightly burning beyond the smiling and the weep¬
ing, where we all shall be seen to look up to it.
A solo in a choir of a thousand voices. Few of
us have ever had the pleasure of seeing or hearing
a choir of a thousand trained voices, and this in the
grandest church in the world, whose history dates so
32
Life, Travels and Works of
far back that one becomes dizzy in trying to trace
it. Batson sang an "Ava Maria" in this grand old
cathedral, where if the organ was turned on full
force it would burst the drums of the listener's ears ;
this ancient pile of Roman antiquity where persons
of all stations in life consider it an 'honor to sit or
stand within its sacred walls. Is it not a grand
thing to be able to look over the small volume of
Negro History and find, that we had one whose
voice rang out and charmed the thousands who had
gathered to do honor to the occasion and the sweet
singer. On the same 'program with Ben Tillman. This
happened in Oregon City Chatauqua. As a special
feature we are booked to appear on the same bill
with Mr. Tillman, and think of the torture of sitting
for an hour and a half, having all manner of abuse,
as false as it was vile, pushed down your throat by
this creature of destiny, who the so-called sympa¬
thetic friends of the colored man delight to pay a
hundred dollars to heap abuse, falsehoods and cow¬
ardly slander upon us as a people. I noticed him as he
Miss Flora Batson
33
sat down and hung his guilty head. The master of
ceremonies signalled Miss Batson to* sing. She
arose, and, as the words that came from her lips were
''The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then
shall I fear?" And Ben Tillman looked around
with his solitary eye as if he was being pursued by
some unseen foe, and after our portion of the pro¬
gram ended, the multitude gathered around Miss
Batson and as they grasped her hand they said,
Thank God for having sent us such a message of
song. And He, yes He, "the vile^mouthed serpent
of hatred," left almost entirely to himself, was seen
to drag himself off to the swamp of obscurity, there
to hatch out, if possible a more putrid mass of dog¬
gerel for the ears of what he terms "the despised
and nigger-loving Yankee," for whom he has no
more use than satan has for an old-fashioned prayer
meeting. I thank God that the power of Batson's
voice was demonstrated beyond our most sanguine
expectations, and through its mighty force God's
word was heard and the seed of race hatred that had
34
Life, Travels and Works of
been thrown broadcast by that "satanic ambassa¬
dor," was burned to crisp by the rays of the sunshine
of hope, and the people said, a race that can produce
such an appeal through song has nothing to fear, for
surely God's hand is guiding them on. And the
Red Sea of Southern hatred was split, and she
passed over. The fiery furnace of falsehood became
as a shady spot in the desert; the lion's den of opposi¬
tion as a family where love reigns supreme.
Knowing it will be interesting to many to know
just what the world's greatest papers thought of the
ability of the late Flora Batson, I have added this
list, every one of which has been given freely as a
"reward of merit" found in this artist of our race.
PRESS COMMENTS.
Peerless.—New York Sun.
Unrivaled.—New York Age.
A charming and gifted singer.—San Francisco
Chronicle.
Miss Flora Batson
35
A mezzo-soprano of wonderful range.—San Fran¬
cisco Examiner.
A sparkling diamond in the golden realm of song.—■
San Jose Calif ornian.
Worthy to rank among the great singers of the
world.—Portland Oregonian.
Her progress through the country has been one
continuous triumph.—Denver Rocky Mountain News.
All her numbers were sung without effort—as the
birds sing.—Mobile (Ala.) Register.
The sweetest voice that ever charmed a Virginia
audience.—Lynchburg (Va.) Advance.
A voice of great range and of remarkable depth
and purity.-—Louisville (Ky.) Courier Journal.
Entitled to> a high rank among American singers.—
Chattanooga (Tenn.) Daily Times.
Her articulation is so perfect, her renditions seem
like recitations set to music.—Kansas City Dispatch.
A better pleased audience never filed out of the the¬
atre than that which listened to her last evening.—Los
Angeles (Cal.) Tribune.
36
Life, Travels and Works of
The indescribable pathos of her voice in dramatic
and pathetic selections wrought a wondrous effect.—
The Colonist, Victoria, British Columbia.
She electrified the vast audience of 12,000 people
at the (Mormon) Tabernacle service on Sunday by
her marvelous rendition of the 27th P'sahn.—Descrct
Evening Nezvs, Salt Lake, Utah.
A highly cultivated mezzo-soprano, of great sweet¬
ness, power and compass, and of dramatic quality.—
Charleston (S. C.) Nezvs and Courier.
She scored a complete success as a vocalist of high
ability, and fully justified the favorable criticisms of
the Eastern press.—San Francisco Examiner.
In response to an encore she gave a selection from
"II Trovatore'' in baritone, snowing tne extraordinary
range of her voice, and producing a melody like the
low tones of a pipe organ under a master's touch.—
San Diego (Cal.) Sun.
Miss Batson scored a distinct success. Her voice
is a mezzo-soprano of unusual range and sweetness.
Her method is artistic and free of affectation, and
her higher notes are, as bell-like as the lower ones
are resonant and full.—The Philadelphia Times,
Miss Flora Batsoh
31
Her voice is rich in the qualities most valuable to
a singer. The range is wonderful. It is clear and
resonant, exceedingly flexible and pure. Her articu¬
lation is perfect, and she sings with a freedom from
effort seen rarely, except in the most famous singers.
The tones of her voice are powerful and thrilling. It
is rather dramatic than emotional. Her rendition last
night covered an extraordinary versatility and range.
—Nashville American.
Flora Batson created such a furore in Odd City Hall
last evening that before the programme was half
through the excitement had become so intense that
cries of "Bravo" were heard from all parts of the
house. Many people arose to their feet and the ap¬
plause was uproarious and deafening in its intensity,
and not only rounded ofit the conclusions of selections,
but broke in spontaneously at every interlude. The
singer was certainly a marvel. Her voice showed a
compass of three octaves, from the purest soprano,
sweet and full, to the rich round notes of the baritone
register.—Pittsburg Commercial Gazette.
38
Life, Travels and Works of
FIFTY OF THE SONGS SHE SANG.
Miss Batson beyond doubt had the largest reper¬
toire of solos and duets of any artist before the pub¬
lic. I give fifty here, which is simply the beginning :
I.
Across the Sands.
2.
Answer.
3-
Ava Maria.
5-
Angel Band.
4-
Ava Maria.
6.
Because.
7-
Creole Sue.
8.
Could We Recall.
9-
Come Unto Me.
10.
Dear Heart.
11.
Ecstacy.
12.
Eternity.
13-
Forgive and Forget.
14.
Golgotha.
i5-
Great White Throne.
16.
Good-Bye, Sweet Day.
17. 'Go Forth.
18. Good-Bye Forever.
19. Huntsman's Horn.
Miss Flora*Batson
39
20. Hiawatha.
21. Hearest Thou?
22. Heart is Young.
23. Holy City.
24. Israfael.
25. Just for To-Day.
26. Keep Me from Sinking.
27. Land of Blest.
28. Lost Rose.
29. Meeting.
30. My Noble Knights.
31. My Little Woman.
32. N.'ew-Born King.
33. Oh, Blest Hope.
34. Promise of Life.
34. Quick and Dead.
35. Rose Its Thorn.
36. Swiss Echo.
37. Staccatto Polka.
38. Six Feet of Earth.
39. Sunlight.
40. Sunshine.
41. Ships on Fire.
42. The Raft.
40
Life, Travels and Works of
43. The Night Watch.
44. The Parting.
45. The Intermezzo.
46. The Minstrel.
47. The Stranger.
48. The Swanee River.
49. The 27th Psalm.
50. Waltz Kellog.
And Hundreds More.
Next we will try and change our train of thought
for a few minutes, and speak of some of the things
seen by a "Traveling Team," as told in the columns
of a paper printed in Gloversville, New York, where
Batson and I appeared in twenty-four concerts. I
must here try and make an excuse for mentioning
myself in this little book, but I cannot avoid it, for
the entertainers known as "Batson and Millar" were
absolutely inseparable in life, and the success or the
failure of one affected both alike. Hand in hand
we climbed the hill of prosperity; hand in hand we
Miss Flora Batson
41
groped in the valley of adversity, and the blinding
tears of disappointment have fallen in unison. The
cup of woe has passed from one lip to the other.
Success, responsibilities and abuse have been equally
shared, and to the last breath it was Batson and Mil¬
lar, and, on that terrible night I sat and wrote fifty-
four letters, notifying the patrons that death had
cancelled all dates for Batson and Millar, and I ap¬
peal to you that you do not think this fact of my
giving the two names as an advertisement of the
surviving member. Now for the "Random Shots,"
or the things seen by a traveling team of singers:
WHAT WE SAW IN TRAVEL.
RANDOM SHOTS.
Helvetius tells us, when a man acquires a very great
number of ideas interesting to the society in which
he lives, he will be regarded in that society as a man
of abilities.
Lucian said: "He that is born to be a man, neither
should nor can be anything nobler, greater and better
42
Life, Travels and Works of
than a man." And permit me to add, for the very
reason that he may not become less than a man, he
should be always striving to' become more.
>!< * *
Let us not forget that deceit is the strong but
subtle chain which runs through all the members of
society, and links them together; trick or be tricked,
is the alternative; 'tis the way of the world, and with¬
out it intercourse would drop. Even the savage has
a way of deceiving his neighbor, in not permitting
him to think that he is growing old; some have pro¬
fessional hair pullers, who on the appearance of gray
hair in the persons who employ them, at once remove
it; hence many heads resemble billiard balls.
* * *
In the Fiji Islands, when a chief dies some other
man, nearly equal to him in rank, must die also', or
else two women, so that his spirit will have compan¬
ionship in the next world. Fathers and mothers, when
old and burdensome, are put out of the way with a
club. This is brutal, but how about the more "civil¬
ized" mode; of letting them know they are old and
only in the way, by leaving them to their thoughts,
Miss Flora Batson
43
and rushing life by them at the pace of a BenHur.
Many sit, watch and wait for one little sign of recog¬
nition from son or daughter that is never given; and
the plant of true parental love, that should be nour¬
ished by the dew, of patience, is scalded to death by
tears of remorse. I knew of a Cannibal chief whose
daughter had been in poor health for a long time, and
her father, thinking she might continue so for an in¬
definite period, ordered a grave dug for her. The
young woman, hearing a great noise near her father's
house one morning, stepped out to see what it could
mean, when she was suddenly seized and carried and
thrown into the fresh grave. In vain she appealed to
her father, and cried out: "Do not bury me, I am
quite well now." Two strong men jumped on her,
while others shoveled dirt over her body until her
voice was choked and she smothered toi death.
^ H5
While standing on a street in India, during the
plague of "black vomit," I saw a coffin roll off one
of the dead wagons. The top came off and the con¬
tents, a woman, rolled out and sat up and spoke; but
the driver and his assistant threw her back, nailed up
44
Life, Travels and Works of
the coffin and threw it lip on the wagon, and drove
on to the "fire cave," where they pitched it in with
the others, to be consumed by the flames.
* * *
We saw a white woman in the South of this coun¬
try, who was highly educated and regally dressed,
walk up to a man bound to. a stake and deliberately
saturate him with kerosene oil, and then apply the
torch to him, and a cheer went up from at least three
thousand of America's "best citizens," as they gazed
on the form of the burning man as he writhed and
screamed in agony.
* * *
We saw a savage mother take her child to see a
dead body, and command him to beat and cut it, and
bite and tear off the flesh.
Of the four brutes, the chief, the driver of the dead
wagon, the Southern belle, or the savage mother, take
your choice. If there be any.
* * *
We saw at the fall of Ladysmith, South Africa,
during the Boer-British War, between two and three
hundred native prisoners who were turned out of the
Miss Flora Batson
45
mines and other slave pens by the British soldiers;
and the majority of these men were almost totally
blind from having been under ground so long; among
them also could be seen many who were suffering
with rheumatism and could not walk a step, but
shuffled along on their hands and knees. We say
hands, but few of them had hands; their fingers were
worn off, down to the last joint, and the knees and
shins were solid scabs and sores, brought on by crawl¬
ing around under ground and digging with the fingers.
The strongest man could not look on this horrible sight
without asking the question, "Justice, why sleepest
thou so sound!" This is only a sample of the hypo¬
critical work of the Boers, who strange as it may seem,
were actuated in their blood shedding by a religious
frenzy, always beginning and ending a murder with
prayer. And some of England's best blood was spilled
to remove this stench from the nostrils of the civilized
world.
Batson, of whom. I am permitted to write, is simply
a woman with the weakness clerived from being a
member of the family called human; perhaps too
often obstinate in error, perhaps too aspiring, too
often influenced by the circumstances of the struggle
46
life, Travels and Works of
to be superior. But never leaving behind those great
principles by which alone we can work out our own
salvation with fear and trembling, and cultivate a
desire for the "Good," a passion for the "Honest"
and a yearning after "Truth," which teaches us forti¬
tude to bear, serenity to enjoy, and faith to look be¬
yond. Amidst the fierce but ennobling struggles with
poverty and want, to which genius is too often con¬
demned, spring God's creature. Child not of the
spirit, but of the clay, struggling in the right to sur¬
vive the grave, appeared before the world's best in
all parts of Mother Earth, and has been encored by
the hard-handed laborer and the soft-jeweled hands
of Kings and Queens.
A WORD TO THE COLORED MAN.
His future is in his own hands, but he must not for¬
get that if handled carelessly he will ultimately crush
it beyond repair. Honesty, integrity and inclination
to imitate and not ignore the example set by your su¬
periors, should be your maxims; above all things re¬
spect an obligation. Let no man be able to say that,
either by word or act, you are guilty of dishonesty.
On the railroad of life is issued two tickets to each
Miss Flora Batson
47
passenger, the. first "your debts," the last "your
prayers."
* * *
The white man must be both patient and generous;
do not expect too much of the man in black; for his
opportunities have, as you know, been very, very few;
remember the class of people who allowed him to* call
them by the name of master. It is a wonder that he
aspires to anything above the lowest animal life. You
have a duty to perform; not in the jungles of Africa,
but right here at your door is the duty. See that you
perform it, and that the handwriting does not appear
on the wall.
5j5
Our travels in and out of this country have been
from one extreme to> the other, and have by actual
contact had opportunities that money could not have
presented us. One of these has been our extensive
Southern travel. We will say for the benefit of the
Southern coloied people,—and not by any means do
we wish to confine our words of praise entirely to the
colored man of the South, neither are we posing as
authority when we say that from a point of advance-
48
Life, Travels and Works of
ment on the majority of topics and lines that go1 to
build the foundations of a race, the Negroes of the
Southland are far, far ahead.
For this state of affairs we give no credit to the
Southern white man, and less to his Northern brother
of the same hue. Politically we are infidels, believing
in no party, but we cheer the man who dares to do
right. As far as the "black politician" is concerned
in America, the crumbs that fall from the political
banqueting table do not pay for acting the part of
Lazarus.
Believe me, when I say that not until this silver
cord is snapped by death shall we forget you,
BATSON AND MILLAR.
These clippings are given to show that to travel
in .concert work one is not expected to be deaf, dumb
and blind to what the outer world is doing or has to
say about fellow sufferers.
Crossing a bridge in the Southland we stopped
the train to get out and look at the stiff form of a
woman of my race, who had been lynched by a mob
Miss Flora Batson
49
because she could not tell where her brother was—
who had found a sum of money in the gutter and
refused to give it up unless it was properly de¬
scribed. Of the four thousand people lynched in
the United States in twenty-five years, ninety-five
per cent, of them were people charged with various
"crimes," ranging from "assault" to just the crime
of being a helpless Negro. It has been our misfor¬
tune to' have witnessed several of these horrible
murders, so this is my excuse for inserting this item
in the life, travels and work of Flora Batson. The
cruel murder of a mother, father and child is the
origin of the next poem:
VENGEANCE IS MINE SAYETH GOD.
Sitting beneath a tree in the Southland a few years
ago, I noticed one very large grave. Upon making
inquiry, I was told it contained the "Colored Victims"
of that kind of murder knowa as "Lynching" in¬
dulged in by certain classes of "law abiding citizens."
This game of slaughter is purely an American insti¬
tution, and is not confined to any particular section
50
Life, Travels and Works of
of the land of the free and the home of the brave. My
excuse for this so-called poem is, what it lacks poeti¬
cally is over-balanced by truth.
An old oak tree that stood in a la*e,
Tossed by the winds and beat by the rain,
On a lonely night as its long limbs bend,
Whispered this tale to a listening friend:
Many years ago upon this land
An "acorn" dropped from a farmer's hand.
How it took root none can tell
But God, who rules Heaven and earth so well.
First came a twig, a sappling, a tree,
And I am the last-named of the three.
I've sheltered the deer when all was still,
And felt the sting of the woodpecker's bill.
My summers have been hot and oft' too brief;
Each winter has robbed me of every leaf,
And many a snow has covered" this lane.
But that's God's works, and I don't complain.
And the story I tell, please understand,
Makes me proud I'm a tree and not a man.
Miss Flora Batson
51
On a silent night, when my feathered crew
Calmly slept in the midnight dew.
Came tramp of feet and yell of crowd,
And dust in the road raised its shroud.
N(o beast of the field or fowls of the air
Ever made such sounds, I do declare.
Every twig and bough and leaf stood still,
As the howiling mob came over yoa hill,
And in their midst, all bleeding and tore,
Drags one of God's creatures for whom the cross He
bore.
And here at my foot they stopped with him,
And threw a rope o'er this withered limb,
And as the cloud took the moonlight away,
A man uttered these words: "Nigger, you pray!"
The prisoner bound looked straight in his face,
Then cast his eyes heavenward; no fear I could trace;
Then dropped to his knees, it hardly seems true,
Said: "Lord, forgive them; they know not what
they do."
52
Life, Travels and Works of
Then high in the air swung the form of this man,
And the murderers had broken God's holy command;
But, not satisfied at the crime they had done,
They stepped back a pace; each drew his gum.
And there in the moonlight, where grim shadows fell,
Took aim, and emptied shell after shell.
The body seemed to struggle, writhe and sway,
And a soul to its Maker, a form to clay.
And once more the crowd crept back o'er the hill,
The noise had ceased and all was still.
And down 011 my trunk, without any sound,
I could feel the life's blood running slow to the ground.
And as death's pallor settled o'er his face
It left me a picture time ne'er can erase.
I saw not far distant a woman and child
Creep slowly up to yon moss-covered stile,
And, looking around, she trembled in fright,
And a scream, left her lips as she gazed on the sight.
She tottered as if she'd fall to the ground,
And then on her face seemed to settle a frown,
Miss Flora®Batson
M
53
And with arms pressed tightly round the fatherless
youth,
Said: "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
And kneeling, she prayed and moaned in grief,
Till this of itself seemed to bring relief.
And the wind from the north caused the body to
swing,
Then back to her passion her thoughts made a spring,
And said to her son: "Touch the back of this tree.
Say, word for word, this oath after me."
Then in the stijl night she sent up a vow,
Tree as I am I'll not repeat now.
But one thing, old friend, let me say to you,
The tortures of hell to her edict are few.
She mentioned the slave ship, the master, the man.
As the blood of her husband stained her quivering
hand,
And then in one voice she and the child did declare
The red arm of vengeance is lifted and bare.
She cried out for justice to answer her back—
Was it right she must suffer because God made her
black ?
54
Life, Travels and Works of
And then all was quiet, the night's work was done,
And there in one grave sleeps father, mother, son.
The funeral was simple, no sign of discord;
Five words was the sermon,
"Vengeance is Mine, sayeth God."
SERMON INSPIRED POEM.
The following poem was written in the little his¬
torical town of Knadenhutton, O., March 21, 1906:
Editor of The Chronicle: At the concert given by
Gerard Millar and Miss Flora Batson, Sunday even¬
ing, in the Moravian Church, Mr. Millar rendered the
following poem, of his own production. Mr. Millar
attended services in the morning, and the poem is the
result of the impressions he received.
Yours truly,
R. L. Frazier.
We attended church this morning
In a little country town;
The edifice was beautiful,
Trimmed in green and brown.
We sat up near the chancel
Miss Flora Batson
55
The sermon to enjoy,
Because if you sit back in church
There's something- to annoy.
The pastor took his text
From the Sermon on the Mountain,
He handled it masterly,
He took us to the fountain.
Ad as we sat and listened
In that high and holy place
For a while we were forgetful
Of the color of our face.
He pictured man and woman
As God said we should be,
Without the shackles of the slave
Or the haughtiness of the free.
He spoke of Jesus dying,
Of his sleeping in the grave,
The naii that pierced his hands and feet
This sinful world to save.
On earth we find some people
Who pretend they understand
That Jesus hung and bled and died
For a certain race of man.
They scorn the yellow Japanese,
Life, Travels and Works of
Speak harshly of his birth,
But in His holy book we find
We all are dust of earth.
In the breast of the Ethiopian
Is a heart, a mind, a soul,
That to our blessed Savior
Is more precious than the gold.
Now, if we let our thoughts speed
With style and earthly pelf,
Can we obey God's word which says,
"Love thy neighbor as thyself?"
So let us all take warning
By this woman's plaintive plea
And cry aloud from the darkness,
"My Redeemer, pity me!"
In listening to this noble man
Of eloquence and thought
We could but think how dearly
Our redemption had been bought.
The picture drawn for me by him
As plain as day and night,
He told us to inherit
We must dare to do the right.
His reference to parental love
Miss Flora Batson
£>7
Of king or queen or slave
Took our thoughts on a journey
From the cradle to the grave.
We saw the Queen of England
With her son, the Prince of Wales,
As she fondled and caressed him
And told him fairy tales.
We saw the poor black mother,
Whose heart knew naught of rest,
And heard the scream that left her lips
For the babe torn from her breast.
And the same imagination
Brought the slave ship to my eyes
As the fettered bondsmen cried aloud,
Oh Lord, be Thou my guide.
We saw those brave Moravians—
Who stood in yonder grove—
And as assassins struck them down
They praised the God of Love.
And to-night from the snowy mantle
That covers up the spot
Blooms forth the flower of martyrdom,
The sween forget-me-not.
—Uhrichsville Chronicle} March 22, 1906.
58
Life, Travels and Works of
The next is "The Black Man's Plea." This Miss
Batson was committing to memory to read in our
production of "The Clansman's Confession," pro¬
duced the first time in the new Twelfth Baptist
Church, Boston, Mass, Rev. M. H. N. Shaw, D. D.,
M. D., pastor; the second time at Batson's last con¬
cert at Big Bethel A. M. E. Church, Philadelphia,
Pa., Rev. R. Wm. Fickland, D .D., pastor. Mme.
Ella Wright Pleasants, of Frankford, Pa., recited
this poem, "The Black Man's Plea," on that even¬
ing.
THE BLACK MANl'S PLEA.
Behold I'm knocking at your door,
My hands are bruised and bleeding.
If you will not bid me enter,
Pray listen to my pleading.
I have some startling things to say:
To you I am no stranger;
My hope like yours for heaven's bliss
Was fixed in Bethlehem's manger.
Miss Flora Batson
69
The lips that speak these words are black;
'Twas God that willed it so.
If I am true to every trust,
Why should you treat me so ?
Behind your walls of prejudice
All scattered on the ground
Is that which made your people great.
Why can I not stoop down?
And pick from out the volumes
Of long forgotten lore
That which will make my people, too,
In higher regions sore.
I do not crave equality,
Social or otherwise;
I simply pray you let me look
With these God given eyes.
And pluck the fruit of intellect
From limbs within my reach,
That I may aid your people
To practice what they preach.
60
Life, Travels and Works of
Don't tell me of my ignorance,
For this I know too well.
But "stop me" when you see me
On the road that leads to hell.
It was not I who sought thee,
When in my native domains.
Ah, but 'twas you who brought me,
Bound in cruel chains.
Note the slave ship and its crew
Plow the briny flood.
What should be a spotless deck
Is bathed in human blood.
Hear the many mournful sounds
From out the filthy reeking hole.
Though the savage is chained down,
God gave to him a soul.
In my vision I can see
Three crosses in a line.
On the center one is "He,"
Who for the world is dying.
Miss Flora Batson
61
See your clansman's multitude,
Robed in white and red;
Justice with her tired eyes
Weeping o'er our dead.
Thousands murdered, oh how cruel!
Without judge or jury;
Shot down, slaughtered, burned to crisp,
In the mad rush of fury.
How you've sought to justify
The deeds of this, your Klan;
'Tis no1 use, your soul will cry,
"You've killed your fellow: man."
All the silver, all the land,
Every lump of gold,
Will not compensate a man
For giving up his soul.
Let your brother, robed in black,
Bless or curse you as he will;
For you there's no looking back;
There's no peace; be still.
62
Life, Travels and Works of
But to him, Ah, let me say,
Take courage, look to God.
There is still a brighter day
For all who1 keep his word.
And with this I leave you now
'Twixt God, and man, and thee.
Take an oath, a solemn vow,
To hear the black man's Plea.
Six weeks' revival work at Wylie Avenue A. M.
E. church, Pittsburg, Pa., Rev. J. W. Townsend, D.
D., pastor. During the great revival of 1906 Miss
Batson gave her services to this great cause, and I
am requested to insert the songs she sang. I am
sorry I have not space for but one, which I hope may
satisfy my readers:
Miss Flora Batson
63
"SHOUT HIS PRAISE, GLORY."
As sung by Miss Flora Batson.
.You ask what makes me happy, my heart so free
fromi care.
It is because my Saviour, in mercy heard my prayer;
He me brought out of darkness, and now the light
I see;
0 blessed loving Saviour! to him the praise shall be.
Chorus.
I will shout his praise in glory, (So will I, so will I,)
And we'll all sing halleujah in heaven by and by;
I will shout his praise in glory, (So wi,ll I, so will I,)
And we'll all sing hallelujah in heaven by and by.
1 was a friendless wand'rer till Jesus took me in.
My life was full sorrow, my heart was full of sin;
But when the blood so precious, spoke pardon to my
soui;
Oh, blissful, blissful moment 'twas joy beyond con¬
trol Ciiq,
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Life, Travels and Works of
I wish that every sinner before his throne would bow;
He waits to bid them welcome, he longs to bless them
now;
If they but knew the rapture that in his love I see,
They'd come and shout salvation, and sing his praise
with me Cho.
I mean to live for Jesus, while here on earth I stay,
And when his voice shall call me to realms of endless
day.
As one by one we gather, rejoicing on the shore,
We'll shout his praise in glory, and sing forevermore.
Friends, our trip has very nearly ended. We have
given the last end of our ticket to the conductor
"Time," and must now gather up our luggage and
get ready to leave the train. We are back in Phil¬
adelphia, Pa. It is Thanksgiving evening. At
Bethel Church will appear'Flora Batson, Queen of
Song, and an array of local talent. This work would
be more incomplete, if possible, if I should leave
off the program of that ever-to-be-remembered even-
Miss Flora Batson
65
ing. It is due every artist who appeared to be men¬
tioned at length, but space and time do not permit
me to do so.
program.
BETHEL A. M. E. CHURCH,
Sixth Street, below Pine.
Rev. R. Wm. Fickland, D. D., . . . Pastor
batson and millar,
GRAND STAR CONCERT.
Assisted by Miss Flora Lewis, Soprano; Madam
Frances Price, Soprano; Miss Maggie A. Fra-
zier. Elocutionist; Madam Hattie E. Lee, Elocu¬
tionist; Mr. Wm. H. Owens, Tenor; Prof. Geo.
O. Price, Pianist.
THURSDAY EVENING, 'NOVEMBER 29, 1906.
part i.
1 Instrumental Selection, Prof. Geo. O. Price
2 Soprano Soto—The Flower Girl,
Miss Flora Lewis
3 Monoilogue—The Soul of the Violin,
Miss Maggie A. Frazicr
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Life, Travels and Works of
4 Tenor Solo—Cujas-Animam, from Stabat Mater
—Rossini, Mr. Wm. H. Owens
5 Soprano Solo—Love in Springtime—Arditi,
Madame Frances Price
6 Children's Chorus,
Children from Various Sunday Schools
Director, Mr. Charles W. Clark.
7 Bass Solo—King of the Main, Mr. Gerard Millar
8 Soprano Solo—An Echo, Miss Flora Batson
PART II.
1 Soprano Solo—Summer, Miss Flora Lewis
2 Recitation—In a Cellar in Saho, Mrs. Hattie E. Lee
3 Soprano Solo—Carmena—//. Lane Wilson,
Mrs. Frances Price
4 Recitation—Selected, Miss Maggie A. Frazier
5 Soprano Solo—Italy, Miss Flora Batson
6 Bass Solo—Robbers' Dream, Mr. Gerard Millar
7 The Rose Drill—Boys and Girls from Various
Schools
Solo, The Last Rose of Summer,
Mill Flora Bit son
Miss Flora Batson
67
8 Finale—The Klansman's Confession—Introducing
Mr. Millar's Religious Tableaux, and Two New
Poems, Diixonia and The Black Man's Plea.
The Klansman's Dying Chief, Mr. Gerard Millar
Note.—During last scene the church will be dark;
audience please join in singing "The Death Angel,"
and keep seats until lights have been turned on again.
"Social Hour," 10.30 to 11.30 o'clock; in the Lec¬
ture room.
This concert was given under the auspices
of the Official Board and Sabbath-school, and
was one of the grandest affairs ever given in a
church in the city of Philadelphia. At 8 o'clock the
sale of tickets was stopped, the house was packed,
and the people were clamoring for standing room,
and over a hundred stood up during the entire pro¬
gram. Every artist on the bill did themselves hon¬
or, but Flora, "our Flora," sang as she never had
The Angel Justice,
Ethiopia,
Miss Flora Batson
Mme. E. W. Pleasants
68
Life, Travels and Works of
sung before. This was the verdict of all. Her
voice seemed to have a peculiar ring that even I, who
had been hearing it for eight years, remarked to her
that she made notes that were even strange to me,
and as her friends gathered around her she thanked
them and said, I owe it all to God. And on Friday
she plotted and planned for her mother's comfort,
and on Saturday after breakfast she took mother
to help her select things for mother's comfort, and
until after 5 P. M. she was rushing here and there
making her purchases. At 5:15 she came home
with her face wreathed in smiles, and said, at last I
have made mamma and you comfortable. I asked
her as she told me with so much pride of the many
purchases she had made for us, Flora, what did you
get for yourself?
She replied, 0I1, never mind me; just so you two
are comfortable I am satisfied.
Reader, you who knew Flora Batson can in an
instant recognize that unselfish, sacrificing nature
that she was the mistress of. None were too poor
Miss Flora Batson
69
or humble for that greeting or parting kiss; none
were so high to cause her to overlook the poor and
humble who stood around to congratulate her. I
have seen her rush as the queen she was to the side
of an humble man or woman who' stood back in the
multitude, and seize their hand and bid them wel¬
come, yes, people who the world ignored on the ac¬
count of looks and dress. But not so with her. She
knew no color or class. All were God's people, all
her friends, and she loved them all, and if I had no
other ammunition than the two' words "Flora Bat-
son," to load this little book with, I believe thou¬
sands who can testify to the truth of her generous
and unselfish nature, would reach out their hands
and say, it is enough, I will take it. We see her in
a company that is stranded, tear her diamonds from
her fingers and give them into the hand of the man¬
ager to pledge to get food and shelter for the people.
We see her stop on her way to the platform on the
even of her last concert, to fondle a little child who
steps in front of her,
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Life, Travels and Works of
We see her rush to the stage and with her mighty
voice pick up the strains of a song of one before the
footlights who had collapsed—this same woman
had been, by and through the selfish desire of her
husband, given a song that had been assigned to
Flora Batson. Regardless of this fact, she does not
allow "self" to see her fail, and this man and wom¬
an are brought to her feet by so generous an act.
And I could name a hundred such acts of hers—but
stop and listen! What means this mass of human¬
ity, this flood of people weeping as they pass in and
out of Bethel Church ?
What does it mean, I ask; will no> one answer
me?
Yes, I will answer you by her last words: Don't
worry, mamma. It is all right.
Flora Batson is dead. No, not dead, but sleep-
eth. Friend, just suppose you and I had been able
to see the Death Angel as he approached the bed
upon which she lay on that dread night. The arch¬
angel lays his hand on the hilt of his sword, and as
iliss Flora Batson
71
we look into his face we see a smile upon the dread
angel's face. And we hear a voice say, "Withdraw
thy sword, thou hast no victim here/' and he leaves
the sleeping form until Gabriel says arise.
We now leave the train and seek our home—for
have we not toured the world with our Flora, Queen
of Song?
A few poems she used to> love so much, every one
of which is an original composition.—By the Author.
DONi'T WORRY.
Don't worry—though above your head
The threatening storm, clouds meet;
The rainbow as of yore shall spread
Its signs of promise sweet.
The flowers fled, the winter gray
Proclaimed again his cruel sway.
Yet every blossom's smile will say,
Don't worry.
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Life, Travels and Works of
Don't worry, though the noon-tide find
Your footsteps faltering;
The morn's glad hopes left far behind,
The day its joys shall bring.
When sunset's radiant curtain falls,
Sleeps awgel ready at the call
Of night, shall whisper low to all,
D'on't worry.
Don't worry—though with little good
Your eager quest seems fraught;
She that has striven as she could
Has striven as she ought.
Ask not how destiny was planned;
The little that we understand
Is eloquent with the command,
Dton't worry.
—Gerard Millar, The Basso.
Miss Flora Batson
"ALONE."
One little word is the theme
Of this poetic song,
A reality, not a dream,
Or vision of right or wrong.
It has no chosen elect
From which to gather toll;
It reasons not with factions,
Silver, gems or gold.
It settles like a moonless night
On everything that's near;
It knows no stations in its flight,
Has not a thought of fear.
It wrings from each and every eye
That silent pearly drop ;
Its passage like the wheels of time
(Nb power on earth can stop.
It makes the mighty tremble
As they march with heavy tread;
Its features don't resemble
The living or the dead,
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Life, Travels and Works of
It sings the song of gladness;
Can weep, can wail and moan;
This is the word of sadness,
Alone, Alone Alone!
HAVE MERCY.
Have mercy is the word we use
When trouble gathers thick;
Have mercy is the cry from us
When stung by pain, and sick.
Have mercy conies from mansion,
From cabin and from cell;
Have mercy from the beggar,
The millionaire, as well.
Have mercy comes from every lip,
Though we cannot understand;
Have mercy is the nation's cry,
And spoke by every man.
Have mercy in the time of peace,
As well as time of strife;
Have mercy when your fallen foe
Shall beg you for his life.
Have mercy on my people,
Whose advantages are few;
Have mercy, and the God of Love
Has mercy then on you.
Miss Flora Bafeort
f5
ROOM AT THE TOP.
Why struggle hard to reach the goal,
When opposition crush the soul;
Why make a fight for higher art,
When nothing bids me to take heart.
'Mid tears and sorrow I've reached the top,
But there stands the sentinel saying stop;
Is it because I have fainted as I ran,
Or because of the color of face or hand?
My life has not yet reached disgrace;
My toil in profession has gained a place.
My feet have grown weary, tired I quake,
But ne'er can I halt—too much at stake.
I think of a mother's face and prayer,
And her admonition, do and dare;
And then I take courage and defy,
And with greater ambition say I'll try.
Then hopes bright sunshine shows the road,
And God's own hand lightens the load;
And as grim, despair takes its flight,
I stand out again equipped to fight.
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Life, Travels and Works of
I approach Lie door with knock and sign;
Wide fly the portals entrance to mine.
With steady step and without fear,
I read the verdict, "No faz>oritcs here."
Out in the arena I take my stand,
No robes of purple, but empty hand;
And step by step I fight my way,
Till no opponents bid me stay.
Rung after rung in the ladder of fame,
With bleeding hands I climb for a name;
And at last when 'tis over I must stop,
I send back the message, Stifl room at the top.
DIRGE.
Mournfully, tearfully, hear the bell toll;
Mournfully, solemnly, its numbers roll,
In grief o'er the sleeper, so still and quite,
And o'er the poor weepers in sorrow's night.
Tearfully, tenderly gaze on her face;
Of all earth's dark sorrows there's not a trace;
Miss Flora Batson
But a peace only given to hearts all pure,
The sweet peace of heaven that shall endure.
Silently, tenderly, when the birds sing,
And where the sweet blossoms come with the spring,
With mosses to cover her pillow blest,
And blue skies above her, lay her to rest.
Softly, tenderly, press down the sod;
She's at rest now on the bosom of God,
Where bright days of summer ne'er fade at eve;
No sin to o'ercome her; no cares to grieve.
— Wm. H. Mason,
"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from
henceforth."—Rev. 14: 13.
Our Flora has gone,
Our Queen of Song,
To the realms of love,
In the mansions above.
No more those sweet strains
Wdl ring in our ears.
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Life, Travels and Works of
With music so sweet
And accent so clear.
No more that sweet voice
Will be heard in the church,
Like the voice of an angel
Uplifted from earth.
Our hearts are sad,
Our breasts heave with sighs;
Our eyes are dimmed with tears
For our Queen that died.
In the old Mother Church
She completed her work,
And sang her last song,
Like the dying Saviour.
Her last word was "hope:"
When 'mid dark despair
The dying chieftain
Feels death was near.
Dear Queen, you bade us hope J
You bade us look
Miss Flora Batson
79
To that God above,
Whose message was love.
Dear Queen, we obey thee;
Though our hearts are sad,
We lift up our eyes
To thee, Almighty God.
For whate'er He does
We know is best;
He has taken our queen
To give her rest.
Farewell, dear Queen;
We leave thee soon;
'Neath the dark cold mound
'Mid the Winter's gloom.
But we'll meet thee again
In yonder sky,
And we'll sing glad songs
In the sweet bye and bye,
-~By Mrs, Banks,
Life, Travels and Works of
"IT IS I."
Who is it that has battled
Against all kinds of odds?
Who is it that has stopped
To-day and cried aloud to God?
"It is I."
Who is it that has stumbled
So often on the way;
And often falling on his knees,
Lift up his voice to pray?
"It is I."
Who is it that in years gone by
Knew all the joys of home;
But, ah to-night they sit and sigh,
Deserted and alone?
"It is I."
Who is it that has knelt beside
The bed of dying friend,'
And watched the monster Death
Dcg their footsteps to the end?
"It is I."
Miss Flora Batson
81
Who is it that has struggled up,
Though my limbs would sting and ache;
And brushed the briny tear away,
New courage then to take?
"It is I."
Who is it that can hardly see
What step they next must take;
When every new day brings to me
A blow my heart to break?
"It is I."
Who is it that must not complain ?
'Tis weak, 'tis wrong in man.
My loss to others, has been gain,
Must learn to understand.
"It is I."
Who is it that in good reports
Will clap their hands in glee;
But when the light of hope burns low
Don't trust God's eyes to see?
"It is I,"
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Life, Travels and Works of
Who is it that will here admit,
My faith 'tis very weak;
Ad when for Him I should explain,
I dare not even speak?
"It is I."
-Gerard Millar.
TEARS.
It's past midnight,
Not a sound greets my car,
Alone I sit thinking
In sorrow, not fear.
My heart seems to've stopped,
I care not to speak
When I'm aroused by the scald
Of a "tear" on my cheek.
For a moment it pauses,
Then drops into space,
And one more grief emblem
Has left this poor face.
Miss Flora Batson
83
I turn my gaze earthward,
And there on the ground
The dew drop of sorrow
Its haven has found.
But what of the fountain
From which it has flown.
Has it left a "twin brother"
Or did it dwell there alone?
For answer, ah! friend,
Ask the husband or wife
Who has witnessed the battle
Of death versus life.
And the orphan, too,
In grief can g*roan
In a way that will prove
No tear is alone.
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Life, Travels and Works of
THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN.
In a mansion in the Southland
Sat a handsome boy and girl,
And with fingers white and shapely
Toyed with a golden curl.
He said, Sister, will you answer,
If I should ask you why
Man with so much power here below
Is at last compelled to die?
She gently shrugged her shoulders,
And said, Why, brother Paul,
Death is bad, we must admit;
Cut that don't end it all.
But, said he, we both are young;
Our sins on earth are few.
Little harm I've ever done,
Much less been done by you.
Yes, very true, my brother dear,
Of this I'm proud, yea glad.
But Justice collects duty
From good as well as bad.
Miss Flora Batson
85
We represent a race, she said,
Whose power shows no bound,
And with the heel of prejudice
Grind others in the ground.
Our Father was a planter
In a far off Southern State,
He owned slaves by the hundred;
That part of it f-'hate.
For every inch of land and blade of gras.
Around my native home
Brings to my mind the lash of whip
And tired bondman's groan.
And just now as we are speaking
On this particular line,
I will describe a vision
That comes before "my mind.
In a little old log cabin,
Many, many miles away,
Sits a crippled Negro woman,
Her hair is, oh, so grey.
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Life, Travels and Works of
Her face, though somewhat wrinkled,
Shows suffering and pain.
Has still the trace of beauty
That years ago did reign.
She fumbles in her bosom,
Finds the photo of a boy—
And as the tears flow freely,
She says, my pride, my joy.
And her eyes are raised heavenward,
As she lisps a silent prayer;
Points to the mound with trembling hand;
She says, He's sleeping there.
And then the force of pent-up grief
Caused her aged form to shake;
And I remember 'twas my race
Burned her poor boy at the stake.
Was he vile, uneducated,
Or a savage in disguise ;
Or just another victim
Of prejudice and lies?
Miss Flora Batson
87
This bo-y played with my father;
To well we knew his worth,
And my grandpa's duplicity
Was responsible for his birth.
In the little school-house on the hill,
That stood beneath those trees,
Is where taught his people
To say their A B C's.
And for this crime alone, my dear,
They took his life away.
But don't you know for all these things
There comes a reckoning day.
The leopard spots, we have them too;
We try hard to erase.
There's but one ending to such crimes:
Destruction, Death, Disgrace.
Take the flood at Galveston,
Atid its stacks of purging frames;
They threw them far out-in the sea;
Floods washed them back again.
Life, Travels and Works of
And wild waves mocked them,
And in their thundering- tone
Said, yon delight in burning human flesh;
Here's chance to burn your own.
Next comes San Francisco,
Who flirted long with fate.
Its glorious fruits and flowers;
Its boasted Golden Gate.
Where the God who sent them
Life, Liberty and Light,
WTas treated with contempt and scorn,
By day as well as night.
Whiskey Dens, Dance Halls,
Theatres, Parks, as well,
Stood as mig-hty mile posts
Pointing men to Hell.
And on Sabbath, as on week day,
Never checked their sinful mirth;
Saying, Are we not all powerful,
And don't we rule the earth?
Miss Flora Batson
89
But on that awful morning,
Just about the peep of day,
When birds were singing sweetly,
'Mid the fruit and new mown hay;
The Earth it seems to tremble;
To boil, to turn around;
And the highest, strongest buildings
Staggered and toppled to the ground,
And frantic men and women
Rushed forth in scant attire
Through clouds of dust so angry,
Armed with fangs of fire.
A man rushed madly through the street,
His infant in his arms;
And labored hard to'shield
The dear one from all harm;
When a piece of falling timber,
That coming down like rain,
Like an arrow from the bow of fate,
Pierced the infant's brain.
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Life, Travels and Works of
On right and left, front and rear,
Come cries of deep despair.
No pen or tongue can e'er describe
The misery pictured there.
In twenty-eight short seconds,
Less than a half minute's time,
Life, property and wealth
Had paid the debt divine.
What means this devastation
Of this our land so fair?
Can we say with guiltless cnscience
That our greed for earthly gain
Has caused us for a moment
To give to others pain.
Have we rendered unto Caesar
That which to him belongs?
If not, our heavenly Father knows,
And he will not sanction wrong.
Have we dared to scorn the creatures
Made by God's own hand—
Miss Flora Batson
91
Because they once wore fetters?
Have we looked down upon them
When perhaps they are our betters.
Does the dizzy heights to which we've sprung
Make us forget the call
That God in His wise judgment
Doth mark the sparrows fall?
If it does, like old Beltshazzer,
There's handwriting on the wall.
I hear the cry of fettered slaves,
The screams of fevered lips;
And hear the many groans and prayers
As they pile on sinful chips.
I see the weeping widow and orphan
child, as well.
And hear the snarl of Satan
As he points his brood to hell.
And the weary sin sick soul
Staggers on his way to Jordan,
Bearing a load of sin and shame—
'Tis the White Man's Burden,
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Life, Travels and Works
LIFE'S FINALE.
After the day has ended;
After the toil has ceased;
After the vale of the evening,
The blackness of night increased.
After the lamps are lighted;
After the curtain's pulled down;
After the song of the robin,
'Tis heard from the tree, not the ground.
After the romping of childhood,
After the love tales told,
After the wooing and wedding,
Then comes your chance to be old.
After the cares of the family;
After sunset in your sky;
After the meeting comes parting:
Good Bye, Loved One, Good Bye.