Preposterous, indeed, is this doctrine that _personal excellence is the true standard_, and that only such Negroes as attain a certain grade of merit should or would be admitted to social equality. A favourite evasion! _The Independent_, _The Nation_, _The Outlook_, the whole North--all point admiringly to Mr. Washington, and exclaim: "But only see what a noble man he is--so much better than his would-be superiors!" So, too, a distinguished clergyman, when asked whether he would let his daughter marry a Negro, replied: "We wish our daughters to marry Christian gentlemen." Let, then, the major premise be, "All Christian gentlemen are to be admitted to social equality;" and add, if you will, any desired degree of refinement or education or intellectual prowess as a condition. Does not every one see that any such test would be wholly impracticable and nugatory? If Mr.
Washington be the social equal of Roosevelt and Eliot and Hadley, how many others will be the social equals of the next circle, and the next, and the next, in the long descent from the White House and Harvard to the miner and the ragpicker? And shall we trust the hot, unreasoning blood of youth to lay virtues and qualities so evenly in the balance and decide just when some "olive-coloured suitor" is enough a "Christian gentleman" to claim the hand of some simple-hearted milk-maid or some school-ma'am "past her bloom?" The notion is too ridiculous for refutation. If the best Negro in the land is the social equal of the best Caucasian, then it will be hard to prove that the lowest White is higher than the lowest Black; the principle of division is lost, and complete social equality is established. We seem to have read somewhere that, when the two ends of one straight segment coincide with the two ends of another, the segments coincide throughout their whole extent.
THE MERMAN AND THE SERAPH[6]
[From _Poet-Lore_ (Boston, 1906)]
I
Deep the sunless seas amid, Far from Man, from Angel hid, Where the soundless tides are rolled Over Ocean's treasure-hold, With dragon eye and heart of stone, The ancient Merman mused alone.
II
And aye his arrowed Thought he wings Straight at the inmost core of things-- As mirrored in his magic glass The lightning-footed Ages pass-- And knows nor joy nor Earth's distress, But broods on Everlastingness.
"Thoughts that love not, thoughts that hate not, Thoughts that Age and Change await not, All unfeeling, All revealing, Scorning height's and depth's concealing, These be mine--and these alone!"-- Saith the Merman's heart of stone.
III
Flashed a radiance far and nigh As from the vortex of the sky-- Lo! a maiden beauty-bright And mantled with mysterious might Of every power, below, above, That weaves resistless spell of Love.
IV
Through the weltering waters cold Shot the sheen of silken gold; Quick the frozen heart below Kindled in the amber glow; Trembling heavenward Nekkan yearned, Rose to where the Glory burned.
"Deeper, bluer than the skies are, Dreaming meres of morn thine eyes are; All that brightens Smile or heightens Charm is thine, all life enlightens, Thou art all the soul's desire"-- Sang the Merman's heart of fire.
"Woe thee, Nekkan! Ne'er was given Thee to walk the ways of Heaven; Vain the vision, Fate's derision, Thee that raps to realms elysian, Fathomless profounds are thine"-- Quired the answering voice divine.
V
Came an echo from the West, Pierced the deep celestial breast; Summoned, far the Seraph fled, Trailing splendours overhead; Broad beneath her flying feet, Laughed the silvered ocean-street.
VI
On the Merman's mortal sight Instant fell the pall of Night; Sunk to the sea's profoundest floor He dreams the vanished vision o'er, Hears anew the starry chime, Ponders aye Eternal Time.
"Thoughts that hope not, thoughts that fear not, Thoughts that Man and Demon veer not, Times unending Comprehending, Space and worlds of worlds transcending, These are mine--but these alone!"-- Sighs the Merman's heart of stone.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Copyright, 1905, by McClure, Phillips and Company.
[6] Copyright, 1906, by Richard G. Badger.
ANDERSON C. QUISENBERRY
Anderson Chenault Quisenberry, historical writer, was born near Winchester, Kentucky, October 26, 1850. He was educated at Georgetown College, Georgetown, Kentucky. In 1870 Mr. Quisenberry engaged in Kentucky journalism, being editor of several papers at different periods, until 1889, when he went to Washington to accept a position in the War Department; but he has continued his contributions to the Kentucky press to the present time. His first volume was _The Life and Times of Hon. Humphrey Marshall_ (Winchester, Kentucky, 1892). This was followed by his other works: _Revolutionary Soldiers in Kentucky_ (1896); _Genealogical Memoranda of the Quisenberry Family and Other Families_ (Washington, D. C., 1897); _Memorials of the Quisenberry Family in Germany, England, and America_ (Washington, D. C., 1900); _Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-51_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1906), one of the most attractive of the Filson Club publications; and _History by Illustration: General Zachary Taylor and the Mexican War_ (Frankfort, Kentucky, 1911), the most recent volume in the Kentucky Historical Series of the State Historical Society. Mr. Quisenberry resides at Hyattsville, Maryland, going into Washington every day for his official duties.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Quisenberry to the present writer; _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).
THE DEATH OF CRITTENDEN[7]
[From _Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-1851_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1906)]
The victims, bound securely, were brought out of the boat twelve at a time; of these, six were blindfolded and made to kneel down with their backs to the soldiers, who stood some three or four paces from them.
These six executed, the other six were put through the same ghastly ceremony; then twelve others were brought from the boat; and so on, until the terrible and sickening tragedy was over. As each lot were murdered their bodies were cast aside to make room for the next lot.
An eyewitness says of these martyrs to liberty: "They behaved with firmness, evincing no hesitation or trepidation whatever." Among those shot was a lad of fifteen who begged earnestly on his knees that some one be sent to him who could speak English, but not the slightest attention was paid to him. One handsome young man desired that his watch be sent to his sweetheart. After the first discharge those who were not instantly killed were beaten upon the head until life was extinct. One poor fellow received three balls in his neck, and, raising himself in the agonies of death, was struck by a soldier with the butt of a musket and his brains dashed out.
Colonel Crittenden, as the leader of the party, was shot first, and alone. One of the rabble pushed through the line of soldiers, and rushed up to Crittenden and pulled his beard. The gallant Kentuckian, with the utmost coolness, spit in the coward's face. He refused to kneel or to be blindfolded, saying in a clear, ringing voice: "A Kentuckian kneels to none except his God, and always dies facing his enemy!"--an expression that became famous. Looking into the muzzles of the muskets that were to slay him, standing heroically erect in the very face of death, with his own hands, which had been unbound at his request, he gave the signal for the fatal volley; and died, as he had lived, "Strong in Heart." Captain Ker also refused to kneel. They stood up, faced their enemies, were shot down, and their brains were beaten out with clubbed muskets.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] Copyright, 1906, by the Filson Club.
ROBERT BURNS WILSON
Robert Burns Wilson, poet of distinction, the son of a Pennsylvania father and a Virginia mother, was born in his grandfather's house near Washington, Pennsylvania, October 30, 1850. When a very small child he was taken to his mother's home in Virginia; and there the mother died when her son was but ten years old, which event saddened his subsequent life. Mr. Wilson was educated in the schools of Wheeling, West Virginia, after which he went to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to study art. When but nineteen he was painting portraits for a living.
In 1871 he and John W. Alexander, now the famous New York artist, chartered a canoe and started down the Ohio river from Pittsburgh, hoping in due course to dock at Louisville, Kentucky. They had hardly reached the Kentucky shore, however, when they disagreed about something or other, and young Alexander left him in the night and returned to Pittsburgh. The next day Mr. Wilson ran his boat into a bank in Union county, Kentucky; he lived in that county a year, when he went up to Louisville. He gained more than a local reputation with a crayon portrait of Henry Watterson, and he was actually making considerable headway as an artist when he was discovered by the late Edward Hensley, of Frankfort, Kentucky, who persuaded him to remove to that town. Mr. Wilson settled at Frankfort in 1875, and he lived there for the following twenty-five years. His literary and artistic labors are inseparably interwoven with the history and traditions of that interesting old town, for he was its "great man" for many years, and its toast. As painter and poet he was heralded by the folk of Frankfort until the outside world was attracted and nibbled at his work. The first public recognition accorded his landscapes was at the Louisville and New Orleans Expositions of 1883 and 1884.
Mr. Wilson's first poem, _A Wild Violet in November_, was followed by the finest flower of his genius, _When Evening Cometh On_, which was originally printed in _Harper's Magazine_ for October, 1885. This is the only Southern poem or, perhaps, American, that can be mentioned in the same breath with Gray's _Elegy_. Many of his poems and prose papers were published in _Harper's_, _The Century_, and other periodicals. His first book, _Life and Love_ (New York, 1887), contained the best work he has ever done. The dedicatory lines to the memory of his mother were lovely; and there are many more poems to be found in the volume that are very fine. _Chant of a Woodland Spirit_ (New York, 1894), a long poem of more than fifty pages, portions of which had originally appeared in _Harper's_ and _The Century_, was dedicated to John Fox, Jr., with whom Mr. Wilson was friendly, and who spent a great deal of his time at the poet's home in Frankfort. His second and most recent collection of lyrics, _The Shadows of the Trees_ (New York, 1898), was widely read and warmly received by all true lovers of genuine poesy. Mr. Wilson's striking poem, _Remember the Maine_, provoked by the tragedy in Havana harbor, was printed in _The New York Herald_; and another of his several poems inspired by that fiasco of a fight that is remembered, _Such is the Death the Soldier Dies_, appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_. The Kentucky poet's battle-hymns to the boys in blue were excelled by no other American singer, unless it was by the late William Vaughn Moody.
Mr. Wilson's fourth and latest work, a novel, _Until the Day Break_ (New York, 1900), is unreadable as a story, but the passages of nature prose are many and exquisite.
While he has always been a writing-man of very clear and definite gifts, Mr. Wilson has painted many portraits and landscapes, working with equal facility in oils, water-color, and crayon. He is held in esteem by many competent critics as an artist of ability, but nearly all of his work in any of three mediums indicated, is exceedingly moody and pessimistic; and his water-colors, especially, are "muddy." It is greatly to be regretted that he did not remain the poet he was born to be, instead of drawing his dreams--many use a stronger word--in paints.
As has been said, Mr. Wilson was the presiding genius of the town of Frankfort during his life there; and he was a bachelor! Thereby hangs a tale with a meaning and a moral. For many years the widows and the other women past their bloom, burned incense at the shrine of the mighty man who could wrap himself in his great-coat, dash through a field and over a fence, punching plants with his never-absent stick, and return to town with a poem pounding in his pulses, and another landscape in his brain. Ah, he was a great fellow! But the tragedy of it all: after all these years of adoration from ladies overanxious to get him into their nets, they awoke one morning in 1901 to find that little Anne Hendrick, schoolgirl, and daughter of a former attorney-general of Kentucky, had married their heart's desire, that their dreams were day-dreams after all. The marriage took place in New York, after which they returned to Frankfort. The following year their child, Elizabeth, was born; and a short time afterwards he removed to New York, where he has lived ever since. Rumors of his art exhibitions have reached Kentucky; but the only tangible things have been prose papers and lyrics in the magazines.
A short time before his death, Paul Hamilton Hayne, the famous Southern poet, sent Wilson this greeting: "The old man whose head has grown gray in the service of the Muses, who is about to leave the lists of poetry forever, around whose path the sunset is giving place to twilight, with no hope before him but 'an anchorage among the stars,' extends his hand to a younger brother of his art with an earnest _Te moriturus saluto_." These charming words were elicited by _June Days_, and _When Evening Cometh On_.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Recent Movement in Southern Literature_, by C.
W. Coleman, Jr. (_Harper's Magazine_, May, 1887); _Who's Who in America_ (1901-1902); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, v. xv, 1910), an excellent study by Mrs. Ida W. Harrison.
LOVINGLY TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER[8]
[From _Life and Love. Poems_ (New York, 1887)]
The green Virginian hills were blithe in May, And we were plucking violets--thou and I.
A transient gladness flooded earth and sky; Thy fading strength seemed to return that day, And I was mad with hope that God would stay Death's pale approach--Oh! all hath long passed by!