him. He is a human being, capable of judging between good and evil,
right and wrong, liberty and slavery, and is as much a subject of law
as any other man; therefore, deal justly with him. He is, like other
men, sensible of the motives of reward and punishment. Give him wages
for his work, and let hunger pinch him if he don't work. He knows the
difference between fulness and famine, plenty and scarcity. 'But will
he work?' Why should he not? He is used to it, and is not afraid of it.
His hands are already hardened by toil, and he has no dreams of ever
getting a living by any other means than by hard work. 'But would you
turn them all loose?' Certainly! We are no better than our Creator.
He has turned them loose, and why should not we? But would you let
them all stay here?' Why not? What better is _here_ than _there_? Will
they occupy more room as freemen than as slaves? Is the presence of a
black freeman less agreeable than that of a black slave? Is an object
of your injustice and cruelty a more ungrateful sight than one of your
justice and benevolence? You have borne the one more than two hundred
years--can't you bear the other long enough to try the experiment?"
CHARLES L. REASON.
Professor C. L. Reason has for many years been connected with the
educational institutions of New York and Philadelphia. In 1849, he
was called to the professorship of Mathematics and Belles Lettres
in New York Central College. This situation he held during his own
pleasure, with honor to himself and benefit to the students. A man of
fine education, superior intelligence, gentlemanly in every sense of
the term, of excellent discrimination, one of the best of students,
Professor Reason holds a power over those under him seldom attained by
men of his profession. Were I a sculptor, and looking for a model of
a perfect man in personal appearance, my selection would be Charles L.
Reason. As a writer of both prose and poetry he need not be ashamed of
his ability. Extremely diffident, he seldom furnishes any thing for the
public eye. In a well-written essay on the propriety of establishing
an industrial college, and the probable influence of the free colored
people upon the emancipated blacks, he says, "Whenever emancipation
shall take place, immediate though it be, the subjects of it, like
many who now make up the so-called free population, will be, in what
geologists call, the 'transition state.' The prejudice now felt against
them for bearing on their persons the brand of slaves, cannot die out
immediately. Severe trials will still be their portion: the curse of
a 'taunted race,' must be expiated by almost miraculous proofs of
advancement; and some of these miracles must be antecedent to the great
day of jubilee. To fight the battle upon the bare ground of abstract
principles will fail to give us complete victory. The subterfuges of
pro-slavery selfishness must _now_ be dragged to light, and the last
weak argument, that the negro can never contribute any thing to advance
the national character, 'nailed to the counter as base coin.' To the
conquering of the difficulties heaped up in the path of his industry,
the free colored man of the north has pledged himself. Already he sees,
springing into growth, from out his foster _work-school_, intelligent
young laborers, competent to enrich the world with necessary products;
industrious citizens, contributing their proportion to aid on the
advancing civilization of the country; self-providing artisans,
vindicating their people from the never-ceasing charge of fitness
for servile positions." In the "Autographs for Freedom," from which
the above extract is taken, Professor Reason has a beautiful poem,
entitled "Hope and Confidence," which, in point of originality and
nicety of composition, will give it a place with the best productions
of Wordsworth.
A poem signifies design, method, harmony, and therefore consistency of
parts. A man may be gifted with the most vividly ideal nature; he may
shoot from his brain some blazing poetic thought or imagery, which may
arouse wonder and admiration, as a comet does; and yet he may have no
constructiveness, without which the materials of poetry are only so
many glittering fractions. A poem can never be tested by its length or
brevity, but by the adaptation of its parts. A complete poem is the
architecture of thought and language. It requires artistic skill to
chisel rough blocks of marble into as many individual forms of beauty;
but not only skill, but genius, is needed to arrange and harmonize
those forms into the completeness of a Parthenon. A grave popular
error, and one destructive of personal usefulness, and obstructive to
literary progress, is the free-and-easy belief that because a man has
the faculty of investing common things with uncommon ideas, therefore
he can write a poem.
The idea of poetry is to give pleasurable emotions, and the world
listens to a poet's voice as it listens to the singing of a summer
bird; that which is the most suggestive of freedom and eloquence being
the most admired. Professor Reason has both the genius and the artistic
skill. We regret that we are able to give only the last two verses of
"Hope and Confidence."
"There's nothing so lovely and bright below,
As the shapes of the purified mind;
Nought surer to which the weak heart can grow,
On which it can rest as it onward doth go,
Than that Truth which its own tendrils bind.
"Yes, Truth opes within a pure sun-tide of bliss,
And shows in its ever calm flood
A transcript of regions where no darkness is,
Where Hope its conceptions may realize,
And Confidence sleep in the good."
CHARLOTTE L. FORTEN.
In the autumn of 1854, a young colored lady of seventeen summers,
unable to obtain admission into the schools of her native city
(Philadelphia) on account of her complexion, removed to Salem,
Massachusetts, where she at once entered the Higginson Grammar School.
Here she soon secured the respect and esteem of the teachers and her
fellow-pupils. Near the end of the last term, the principal of the
establishment invited the scholars to write a poem each, to be sung
at the last day's examination, and at the same time expressing the
desire that the authors should conceal their names. As might have been
expected, this drew out all the poetical genius of the young aspirants.
Fifty or more manuscripts were sent in, and one selected, printed on a
neat sheet, and circulated through the vast audience who were present.
The following is the piece:--
A PARTING HYMN.
When Winter's royal robes of white
From hill and vale are gone,
And the glad voices of the spring
Upon the air are borne,
Friends, who have met with us before,
Within these walls shall meet no more.
Forth to a noble work they go:
O, may their hearts keep pure,
And hopeful zeal and strength be theirs
To labor and endure,
That they an earnest faith may prove
By words of truth and deeds of love.
May those, whose holy task it is
To guide impulsive youth,
Fail not to cherish in their souls
A reverence for truth;
For teachings which the lips impart
Must have their source within the heart.
May all who suffer share their love--
The poor and the oppressed;
So shall the blessing of our God
Upon their labors rest.
And may we meet again where all
Are blest and freed from every thrall.
The announcement that the successful competitor would be called out
at the close of the singing, created no little sensation amongst the
visitors, to say nothing of the pupils.
The principal of the school, after all parties had taken their seats,
mounted the platform, and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, the beautiful
hymn just sung is the composition of one of the students of this
school, but who the talented person is I am unaware. Will the author
step forward?" A moment's silence, and every eye was turned in the
direction of the principal, who, seeing no one stir, looked around
with a degree of amazement. Again he repeated, "Will the author of
the hymn step forward?" A movement now among the female pupils showed
that the last call had been successful. The buzzing and whispering
throughout the large hall indicated the intense interest felt by all.
"Sit down; keep your seats," exclaimed the principal, as the crowd rose
to their feet, or bent forward to catch a glimpse of the young lady,
who had now reached the front of the platform. Thunders of applause
greeted the announcement that the distinguished authoress then before
them was Miss Charlotte L. Forten. Her finely-chiselled features,
well-developed forehead, countenance beaming with intelligence, and her
dark complexion, showing her identity with an oppressed and injured
race, all conspired to make the scene an exciting one. The audience
was made up in part of some of the most aristocratic people in one of
the most aristocratic towns in America. The impression left upon their
minds was great in behalf of the race thus so nobly represented by the
granddaughter of the noble-hearted, brave, generous, and venerable
James Forten, whose whole life was a vindication of the character of
his race.
"'Tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honor peereth in the meanest habit."
For several days after the close of the school, the name of Charlotte
L. Forten was mentioned in all the private circles of Salem; and to
imitate her was the highest aspiration of the fairest daughters of
that wealthy and influential city. Miss Forten afterwards entered the
State Normal School, where, in the language of the _Salem Register_,
"she graduated with decided eclat." She was then appointed by the
school committee to be a teacher in the Epes Grammar School, where she
"was graciously received," says the same journal, "by parents of the
district, and soon endeared herself to the pupils under her charge."
These pupils were all white. Aside from having a finished education,
Miss Forten possesses genius of a high order. An excellent student and
a lover of books, she has a finely-cultivated mind, well stored with
incidents drawn from the classics. She evinces talent, as a writer, for
both prose and poetry. The following extracts from her "Glimpses of
New England," published in the _National Anti-Slavery Standard_, are
characteristic of her prose. "The Old Witch House," at Salem, is thus
described:--
"This street has also some interesting associations. It contains a very
great attraction for all lovers of the olden time. This is an ancient,
dingy, yellow frame house, known as "The Old Witch House." Our readers
must know that Salem was, two hundred years ago, the headquarters of
the witches. And this is the veritable old Court House where the
so-called witches were tried and condemned. It is wonderful with what
force this singular delusion possessed the minds, not only of the
poor and ignorant, but of the wisest and gravest of the magistrates
appointed by his majesty's government.
"Those were dark days for Salem. Woe to the housewife or the household
over whose door latch the protecting horseshoe was not carefully
placed; and far greater woe to the unlucky dame who chanced to be
suspected of such fanciful freaks as riding through the air on a
broomstick, or muttering mystic incantations wherewith to undo her
innocent neighbors. Hers was a summary and terrible punishment. Well,
it is very pleasant to think how times have changed, and to say with
Whittier,--
'Our witches are no longer old
And wrinkled beldams, Satan-sold,
But young, and gay, and laughing creatures,
With the heart's sunshine on their features.'
Troops of _such_ witches now pass the old house every day. I grieve to
say that the 'Old Witch House' has recently been defaced and desecrated
by the erection of an apothecary's shop in front of one of its wings.
People say that the new shop is very handsome; but to a few of us,
lovers of antiquity, it seems a profanation, and we can see no beauty
in it."
The hills in the vicinity of Salem are beautifully pictured. "The pure,
bracing air, the open sky," and the sheet of water in the distance, are
all brought in with their lights and shades. Along with the brilliancy
of style and warmth of imagination which characterize her writings, we
find here and there gravity of thought and earnestness of purpose,
befitting her literary taste. Of Marblehead Beach she writes,--
"The beach, which is at some distance from the town, is delightful.
It was here that I first saw the sea, and stood 'entranced in silent
awe,' gazing upon the waves as they marched, in one mass of the richest
green, to the shore, then suddenly broke into foam, white and beautiful
as the winter snow. I remember one pleasant afternoon which I spent
with a friend, gathering shells and seaweed on the beach, or sitting
on the rocks, listening to the wild music of the waves, and watching
the clouds of spray as they sprang high up in the air, then fell again
in snowy wreaths at our feet. We lingered there until the sun had sunk
into his ocean bed. On our homeward walk we passed Forest River, a
winding, picturesque little stream, dotted with rocky islands. Over
the river, and along our quiet way, the moon shed her soft and silvery
light. And as we approached Salem, the lights, gleaming from every
window of the large factory, gave us a cheerful welcome."
She "looks on nature with a poet's eye." The visit to Lynn is thus
given:--
"Its chief attraction to me was 'High Rock,' on whose summit the pretty
little dwelling of the Hutchinsons is perched like an eagle's eyrie.
In the distance this rock looks so high and steep that one marvels how
a house could ever have been built upon it. At its foot there once
lived a famous fortune-teller of the olden time--'Moll Pitcher.' She at
first resided in Salem, but afterwards removed to Lynn, where her fame
spread over the adjoining country far and near. Whittier has made her
the subject of a poem, which every one should read, not only for its
account of the fortune-teller, but for its beautiful descriptions of
the scenery around Lynn, especially of the bold promontory of Nahant,
whose fine beach, invigorating sea air, and, more than all, its grand,
rugged old rocks,--the grandest I have ever seen,--washed by the waves
of old Ocean, make it the most delightful of summer resorts."
The gifts of nature are of no rank or color; they come unbidden and
unsought: as the wind awakes the chords of the Æolian harp, so the
spirit breathes upon the soul, and brings to life all the melody of its
being. The following poem recalls to recollection some of the beautiful
yet solemn strains of Miss Landon, the gifted "L. E. L.," whose
untimely death at Cape Coast Castle, some years since, carried sorrow
to so many English hearts:--
THE ANGEL'S VISIT.
'Twas on a glorious summer eve,--
A lovely eve in June,--
Serenely from her home above
Looked down the gentle moon;
And lovingly she smiled on me,
And softly soothed the pain--
The aching, heavy pain that lay
Upon my heart and brain.
And gently 'mid the murmuring leaves,
Scarce by its light wings stirred,
Like spirit voices soft and clear,
The night wind's song was heard;
In strains of music sweet and low
It sang to me of peace;
It bade my weary, troubled soul
Her sad complainings cease.
For bitter thoughts had filled my breast,
And sad, and sick at heart,
I longed to lay me down and rest,
From all the world apart.
"Outcast, oppressed on earth," I cried,
O Father, take me home;
O, take me to that peaceful land
Beyond the moon-lit dome.
"On such a night as this," methought,
"Angelic forms are near;
In beauty unrevealed to us
They hover in the air.
O mother, loved and lost," I cried,
"Methinks thou'rt near me now;
Methinks I feel thy cooling touch
Upon my burning brow.
"O, guide and soothe thy sorrowing child;
And if 'tis not His will
That thou shouldst take me home with thee,
Protect and bless me still;
For dark and drear had been my life
Without thy tender smile,
Without a mother's loving care,
Each sorrow to beguile."
I ceased: then o'er my senses stole
A soothing, dreamy spell,
And gently to my ear were borne
The tones I loved so well;
A sudden flood of rosy light
Filled all the dusky wood,
And, clad in shining robes of white,
My angel mother stood.
She gently drew me to her side,
She pressed her lips to mine,
And softly said, "Grieve not, my child;
A mother's love is thine.
I know the cruel wrongs that crush
The young and ardent heart;
But falter not; keep bravely on,
And nobly bear thy part.
"For thee a brighter day's in store;
And every earnest soul
That presses on, with purpose high,
Shall gain the wished-for goal.
And thou, beloved, faint not beneath
The weary weight of care;
Daily before our Father's throne
I breathe for thee a prayer.
"I pray that pure and holy thoughts
May bless and guard thy way;
A noble and unselfish life
For thee, my child, I pray."
She paused, and fondly bent on me
One lingering look of love,
Then softly said,--and passed away,--
"Farewell! we'll meet above."
I woke, and still the silver moon
In quiet beauty shone;
And still I heard amid the leaves
The night wind's murmuring tone;
But from my heart the weary pain
Forevermore had flown;
I knew a mother's prayer for me
Was breathed before the throne.
Nothing can be more touching than Miss Forten's allusion to her sainted
mother. In some of her other poems she is more light and airy, and her
muse delights occasionally to catch the sunshine on its aspiring wings.
Miss Forten is still young, yet on the sunny side of twenty-five, and
has a splendid future before her. Those who know her best consider her
on the road to fame. Were she white, America would recognize her as one
of its brightest gems.
WILLIAM H. SIMPSON.
It is a compliment to a picture to say that it produces the impression
of the actual scene. Taste has, frequently, for its object works of
art. Nature, many suppose, may be studied with propriety, but art
they reject as entirely superficial. But what is the fact? In the
highest sense, art is the child of nature, and is most admired when
it preserves the likeness of its parent. In Venice, the paintings of
Titian, and of the Venetian artists generally, exact from the traveller
a yet higher tribute, for the hues and forms around him constantly
remind him of their works. Many of the citizens of Boston are often
called to mention the names of their absent or departed friends, by
looking upon their features, as transferred to canvas by the pencil and
brush of William H. Simpson, the young colored artist. He has evidently
taken Titian, Murillo, and Raphael for his masters. The Venetian
painters were diligent students of the nature that was around them.
The subject of our sketch seems to have imbibed their energy, as well
as learned to copy the noble example they left behind. The history of
painters, as well as poets, is written in their works. The best life
of Goldsmith is to be found in his poem of "The Traveller" and his
novel of "The Vicar of Wakefield." No one views the beautiful portrait
of J. P. Kemble, in the National Gallery in London, in the character
of Hamlet, without thinking of Sir Thomas Lawrence, who executed it.
The organ of color is prominent in the cranium of Mr. Simpson, and
it is well developed. His portraits are admired for their life-like
appearance, as well as for the fine delineation which characterizes
them all. It is very easy to transcribe the emotions which paintings
awaken, but it is no easy matter to say why a picture is so painted
as that it must awaken certain emotions. Many persons feel art, some
understand it, but few both feel and understand it. Mr. Simpson is
rich in depth of feeling and spiritual beauty. His portrait of John T.
Hilton, which was presented to the Masonic Lodge a few months since,
is a splendid piece of art. The longer you look on the features, the
more the picture looks like real life. The taste displayed in the
coloring of the regalia, and the admirable perspective of each badge
of honor, shows great skill. No higher praise is needed than to say
that a gentleman of Boston, distinguished for his good judgment in the
picture gallery, wishing to secure a likeness of Hon. Charles Sumner,
induced the senator to sit to Mr. Simpson for the portrait; and in this
instance the artist has been signally successful.
His likenesses have been so correct, that he has often been employed
to paint whole families, where only one had been bargained for in the
commencement. He is considered unapproachable in taking juvenile faces.
Mr. Simpson does not aspire to any thing in his art beyond portrait
painting. Nevertheless, a beautiful fancy sketch, hanging in his
studio, representing summer, exhibits marked ability and consummate
genius. The wreath upon the head, with different kinds of grain
interwoven, and the nicety of coloring in each particular kind, causes
those who view it to regard him as master of his profession. Portraits
of his execution are scattered over most of the Northern States and the
Canadas. Some have gone to Liberia, Hayti, and California.
Mr. Simpson is a native of Buffalo, New York, where he received a
liberal education. But even in school, his early inclination to draw
likenesses materially interfered with his studies. The propensity to
use his slate and pencil in scratching down his schoolmates, instead of
doing his sums in arithmetic, often gained him severe punishment. After
leaving school, he was employed as errand boy by Matthew Wilson, Esq.,
the distinguished artist, who soon discovered young Simpson's genius,
and took him as an apprentice. In 1854, they removed to Boston, where
Mr. Simpson labored diligently to acquire a thorough knowledge of the
profession. Mr. Wilson stated to the writer, that he never had a man
who was more attentive or more trustworthy than William H. Simpson. The
colored artist has been working in his own studio nearly three years,
and has his share of public patronage. Of course he has many obstacles
thrown in his path by the prejudice against him as a colored man; but
he long since resolved that he would reach the highest round in the
ladder. His career may well be imitated.
"Would you wrest the wreath of fame
From the hand of Fate;
Would you write a deathless name
With the good and great;
Would you bless your fellow-men,
Heart and soul imbue
With the holy task,--why, then
Paddle your own canoe."
Mr. Simpson is of small figure, unmixed in blood, has a rather mild
and womanly countenance, firm and resolute eye, is gentlemanly in
appearance, and intelligent in conversation.
JEAN PIERRE BOYER.