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The Passing of a Distinguished Negro
Dy Harriette Parks Miller
EV. J. W. CARR, D.D., pastor of the
First African Baptist church, of Sa
vannah, died in the midst of his use
fulness, August 25, 1907. He was a
Tennesseean by birth, but in the high
noon of his Christian career he chose
Georgia as his field of work. On learn
ing of his death “time rolled back
ward in its flight,” and in beautiful
R
retrospect I saw my father as he rode in at sunset,
to the front gate of our old country home, with a
little colored boy of ten or twelve years seated be
hind him on his favorite saddle horse, Julia Cook.
We ran out tp meet him, and he said:
“My children, this is William Carr. His parents
have a large family, and asked me to bring him
along and see if he could earn what he eats and
wears. You must be kind to the little fellow, for
he has never stayed from home.”
He timidly followed us to the family room, where
mother beckoned him to a seat on the bottom step
of the stairway. The colored cook gave him a good
supper, of which he partook lightly, and when she
tucked him away in a comfortable little bed in the
servant’s room, he did not venture even so much
as a “good night to you,” but she said she heard
him softly whisper his evening prayer.
He spent next day getting acquainted with the
premises, played with the bird dogs, brought stove
wood for the cook, drew water, etc.
When Saturday came father told him he might
go home and stay till Sunday afternoon. We did
not expect him to return, but Sunday about 4 p. m.
we looked out and saw him walking briskly up the
front lawn, with a. bundle of clothes under his arm.
We were delighted. He was soon on the doorstep,
looking bright and cheerful, and said his parents
told him not to come home every Saturday if the
weather was bad.
He did not seem to care to stay out in the col
ored people’s houses after supper at night, but
walked quietly in and took his seat on the bottom
stair step, never speaking, unless he was spoken to.
One cold night, as we were assembled around
the reading table studying our school lessons,
mother placed a stool up near the fire, next to the
side of the mantel, and said, “William, come up
near the fire, and here is a book, you can look at
the pictures. ’ ’
It was a cast-away First Reader, and soon we
noticed him moving his lips as if he were reading,
and sure enough he was, but we found he had gone
no further in his books than the First Reader.
Among our family group was a sister fourteen
years old, who wrote a pretty hand, and drew ar
tistic pen-pictures. Seeing that he was interested
in the writing, in that he was often picking up bits
of paper and trying to imitate her letters, making
them on pieces of pine plank, or any smooth sur
face he could find, she sewed together some sheets
of foolscap paper and gave him a home-made copy
book full of easy letters, and words.
He remained in our family four years, and during
that time learned to be a valuable hand in the cul
tivation of tobacco, the staple crop of middle Ten
nessee, as well as making considerable advance
ment in his books, at night, and even studying at
noon during the summer months, while his team
put in the hour assigned plow stock fqr rest.
At fourteen years of age he professed Christ and
joined Mount Zion Missionary Baptist church, of
which his father was pastor.
He had an older brother, the late Altheus Carr,
who had attained some prominence as a Baptist
minister, who persuaded him to study theology, and
loaned him money to take the course at Fisk’s Uni
versity, Nashville, Tenn.
He was a fluent speaker, and in his early twenties
made a tour of several southern States, delivering
religious lectures, till he finally decided to locate
at Savannah. But he remained loyal to his native
State, and grateful to the white people who had
assisted him in his youthful effort to obtain an ed
ucation.
The Golden Age for December 5, 1907.
As evidence of the latter, I quote from a letter
before me, written by Rev. Carr a few months be
fore his death, to a member of the white family
who taught him to write:
“I recall very vividly that June day, in Mont
gomery county, Tennessee, when. I hoed vegetables
in your father’s garden.
“I worked near a walk bordered with beautiful
roses, and the birds sang sweetly in a forest hard
by.
“It seemed that every surrounding was conduc
ive to spiritual thoughts on that day, and under
such influences I decided to spend my life ‘working
in the Master’s vineyard.’
“We often hear of being called to preach. I
date my ‘call’ from your father’s garden, and my
successful start in life from his family room, in
which I was not only permitted the use of his chil
dren’s castaway school books, but kindly instructed
in them, when I was groping in darkness.
“The memory of my Christian parents, and their
advice to me on leaving their cabin home on Red
River in the late ’7o’s, will linger pleasantly with
me as long as I live.
“I am glad to hear you visited my mother before
her death, and wrote down the principal incidents
of her useful life. At some future date I shall
hope to read the interview.
“Next to Tennessee, I like Georgia. The recent
race riot at Atlanta in no way changed my opinion
as to the South being the proper home for the
negro. When the reign of whisky is broken (which
seems near at hand), there will be no race riots in
the South.”
Since Rev. Carr mentioned the interview with his
mother, I deem it nothing amiss to give The Golden
Age readers the benefit of same, as in it they will
appreciate his honorable ancestry. It was Septem
ber, 1900, that I went to her home, and found her
seated on the back porch peeling peaches to dry.
Aunt Kitty Carr —a small, delicate featured mulatto
woman —was known far and wide as a person of no
ble-minded character. She was unlettered, but used
good English, from having associated all her life
with cultured people, as a sick nurse in wealthy
families.
After conversing with her a short while on the
news of the day (I have never found it a good plan
to start an interview too abruptly, especially with
an old person), I told her of the high esteem in
which she and her departed husband —Uncle Hor
ace —were held, and of how the white people of
their community wished to preserve their history.
In fact, a small volume was already under con
struction.
“Well,” she said, “I guess you will wish to
begin at the first. I was born in Virginia, near
Spottsylvania, in 1815. My mother was free-born,
and as her offspring, I was also. I came to Ten
nessee when I was six years old. I just can remem
ber the time, and how we traveled in covered wag
ons.
“At eighteen I was married to Horace Carr. He
was a slave, but his owner was kind. We were
married the night the stars fell —and such a shout
ing and carrying on among the colored people, and
ignorant white folks, I never heard before, or after.
They thought Judgment Day was at hand. Next
morning Horace came in from the woodpile, which
faced the east, and said, ‘Well, Kitty, I know the
world is all right, for the sun is rising in the same
place. ’
“After we had lived together many years, and
raised a large family, my husband hired himself
from his owner for the sum of S2OO, and we rented
a small log house on Red River, where he kept a
ferry during the high water season, and made
brooms, baskets and boards between times. He us
r.ally made about S3OO a year—and the one hun
dred, over his hire, went a long way toward sup
porting the family, for we were saving.
“Our humble home was a pleasant one, for reli
gion ruled there. We belonged to Red River Bap
tist church.
‘‘ In those times the colored people had no church
es of their own, but worshipped in those of then
owners. In 1850 my husband was ordained to
preach. He could read just a little in the Bible,
but he knew whole chapters by heart, from hearing
the white preachers. He naturally had a good un
derstanding, and a good memory along with it. The
day he was ordained, your uncle, Lawson Fort, a
kind man, and large slave owner, who lived just
across the river from us, came up to us as we stood
outside the church door after the congregation was
dismissed and said, ‘ Horace, whenever you feel like
preaching at night, or on Sunday, just come over
to my negro quarters and feel welcome, and 1 will
see to it that you and your orderly congregations
are not disturbed by patrolers.’
“Other good white friends invited him to their
premises, and when the weather was pleasant he
often preached in groves, under the shade of the
trees, and I tell you we enjoyed that good old time
religion!
“After the war, and the negroes were freed, they
began to have churches of their own. My husband
was pastor fifteen years of Mount Zion church —the
first colored church in middle Tennessee after the
war. In 1880, the Master called him away.
“From our family of thirteen children, two sons
followed the footsteps of their father, and were
Baptist preachers. Altheus, our second son, died
while conducting a big revival in Topeka, Kansas,
and William, our next to the youngest, is preaching
to a host in Georgia. None of our descendants have
ever departed from the Baptist faith. I feel that
the Lord has been good to me, and mine, all along
the journey of life, and I am ready to go any day
He calls me.”
A few months later, news came that faithful old
Aunt Kitty Carr had loosed the sandals from her
tired feet, and made the last crossing. Besides
being pastor of the First African Baptist church at
Savannah, Rev. J. W. Carr was chairman of the
executive board of the Mount Olive Baptist Associa
tion and life member of the National Baptist Con
vention. When the news of his death reached his
only surviving brother, Horace Carr, of Sadlers
ville, Tenn., memorial services were held in several
middle Tennessee and Southern Kentucky churches.
The little brown boy that sat on the bottom step
of the old stairway in the long ago, had builded
higher, and has gone to reap his reward.
Certain About That.
Mrs. Verdigris was enumerating her various ail
ments. “I haven’t kept track of all of ’em,” she
said, “but one of the first things I had was the
lumbago in the small of my back. Then I had the
influenzy awful bad. The next thing was the
rheumatiz. Since then I’ve had neuralagy, nervous
headache, sore throat, indigestion, a breaking out
on my skin, and ever so many other pesky little
troubles that I can’t remember.”
“It would be an interesting list,” said her sym
pathizing neighbor. “Why didn’t you take an in
ventory ? ’ ’
“I’m not certain but what I did,” answered Mrs.
Verdigris. “I took ever so many things. I’ll try
if you think it’d help me, but unless it’s very
mild I just know it won’t stay on my stummick.”
*
Treason Tor Objection.
Fond Mother ‘ Why don’t you like your room—
mate, Reginald? The professor told me he would
be a good companion for you, because he studies
so hard.”
Young Collegian ‘But, mother, he uses so many
sesquipedalian words. ’ ’
Fond Mother—“ That settles it, my son. I don’t
want you to be contaminated by association with
anybody who uses such dreadful language.” Balti-
more American.