corrective or compensative agencies. All are weak and beggarly as over
against the almightiness of heredity, the omniprepotence of the
transmitted germ-plasma. Let this be amerced of its ancient rights,
let it be shorn in some measure of its exceeding weight of ancestral
glory, let it be soiled in its millenial purity and integrity, and
nothing shall ever restore it; neither wealth, nor culture, nor
science, nor art, nor morality, nor religion--not even Christianity
itself. Here and there these may redeem some happy spontaneous
variation, some lucky freak of nature; but nothing more--they can
never redeem the race. If this be not true, then history and biology
are alike false; then Darwin and Spencer, Haeckel and Weismann, Mendel
and Pearson, have lived and laboured in vain.
Equally futile is the reply, so often made by our opponents, that
miscegenation has already progressed far in the Southland, as witness
millions of Mulattoes. Certainly; but do not such objectors know in
their hearts that their reply is no answer, but is utterly irrelevant?
We admit and deplore the fact that unchastity has poured a broad stream
of white blood into black veins; but we deny, and perhaps no one will
affirm, that it has poured even the slenderest appreciable rill of Negro
blood into the veins of the Whites. We have no excuse whatever to make
for these masculine incontinences; we abhor them as disgraceful and
almost bestial. But, however degrading and even unnatural, they in
nowise, not even in the slightest conceivable degree, defile the
Southern Caucasian blood. That blood to-day is absolutely pure; and it
is the inflexible resolution of the South to preserve that purity, no
matter how dear the cost. We repeat, then, it is not a question of
individual morality, nor even of self-respect. He who commerces with a
negress debases himself and dishonours his body, the temple of the
Spirit; but he does not impair, in anywise, the dignity or integrity of
his race; he may sin against himself and others, and even against his
God, but not against the germ-plasma of his kind.
Does some one reply that some Negroes are better than some Whites,
physically, mentally, morally? We do not deny it; but this fact,
again, is without pertinence. It may very well be that some dogs are
superior to some men. It is absurd to suppose that only the elect of
the Blacks would unite with only the non-elect of the Whites. Once
started, the _pamnixia_ would spread through all classes of society
and contaminate possibly or actually all. Even a little leaven may
leaven the whole lump.
Far more than this, however, even if only very superior Negroes formed
unions with non-superior Whites, the case would not be altered; for it
is a grievous error to suppose that the child is born of its proximate
parents only; it is born of all its ancestry; it is the child of its
race. The eternal past lays hand upon it and upon all its descendants.
However weak the White, behind him stands Europe; however strong the
Black, behind lies Africa.
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!
Long years! Long years! and now, I well know why
Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away.
First loved; first lost; my mother:--time must still
Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best
In me, and in my art, is thine:--Me-seems,
Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill,
My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams
I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.
Frankfort, Kentucky, October 6, 1887.
WHEN EVENING COMETH ON
[From the same]
When evening cometh on,
Slower and statelier in the mellowing sky
The fane-like, purple-shadowed clouds arise;
Cooler and balmier doth the soft wind sigh;
Lovelier, lonelier to our wondering eyes
The softening landscape seems. The swallows fly
Swift through the radiant vault; the field-lark cries
His thrilling, sweet farewell; and twilight bands
Of misty silence cross the far-off lands
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Deeper and dreamier grows the slumbering dell,
Darker and drearier spreads the bristling wold,
Bluer and heavier roll the hills that swell
In moveless waves against the shimmering gold.
Out from their haunts the insect hordes, that dwell
Unseen by day, come thronging forth to hold
Their fleeting hour of revel, and by the pool
Soft pipings rise up from the grasses cool,
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Along their well-known paths with heavier tread
The sad-eyed, loitering kine unurged return;
The peaceful sheep, by unseen shepherds led,
Wend bleating to the hills, so well they learn
Where Nature's hand their wholesome couch hath spread;
And through the purpling mist the moon doth yearn;
Pale gentle radiance, dear recurring dream,
Soft with the falling dew falls thy faint beam,
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Loosed from the day's long toil, the clanking teams,
With halting steps, pass on their jostling ways,
Their gearings glinted by the waning beams;
Close by their heels the heedful collie strays;
All slowly fading in a land of dreams,
Transfigured specters of the shrouding haze.
Thus from life's field the heart's fond hope doth fade,
Thus doth the weary spirit seek the shade,
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Across the dotted fields of gathered grain
The soul of summer breathes a deep repose,
Mysterious murmurings mingle on the plain,
And from the blurred and blended brake there flows
The undulating echoes of some strain
Once heard in paradise, perchance--who knows?
But now the whispering memory sadly strays
Along the dim rows of the rustling maize
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Anon there spreads upon the lingering air
The musk of weedy slopes and grasses dank,
And odors from far fields, unseen but fair,
With scent of flowers from many a shadowy bank.
O lost Elysium, art thou hiding there?
Flows yet that crystal stream whereof I drank?
Ah, wild-eyed Memory, fly from night's despair;
Thy strong wings droop with heavier weight of care
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
No sounding phrase can set the heart at rest.
The settling gloom that creeps by wood and stream,
The bars that lie along the smouldering west,
The tall and lonely, silent trees that seem
To mock the groaning earth, and turn to jest
This wavering flame, this agonizing dream,
Ah, all bring sorrow as the clouds bring rain,
And evermore life's struggle seemeth vain
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Anear doth Life stand by the great unknown,
In darkness reaching out her sentient hands;
Philosophies and creeds, alike, are thrown
Beneath her feet, and questioning she stands,
Close on the brink, unfearing and alone,
And lists the dull wave breaking on the sands;
Albeit her thoughtful eyes are filled with tears,
So lonely and so sad the sound she hears
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Vain seems the world, and vainer wise men's thought.
All colors vanish when the sun goeth down.
Fame's purple mantle some proud soul hath caught
No better seems than doth the earth-stained gown
Worn by Content. All names shall be forgot.
Death plucks the stars to deck his sable crown.
The fair enchantment of the golden day
Far through the vale of shadows melts away
When evening cometh on.
When evening cometh on,
Love, only love, can stay the sinking soul,
And smooth thought's racking fever from the brow:
The wounded heart Love only can console.
Whatever brings a balm for sorrow now,
So must it be while this vexed earth shall roll;
Take then the portion which the gods allow.
Dear heart, may I at last on thy warm breast
Sink to forgetfulness and silent rest
When evening cometh on?
FOOTNOTE:
[8] Copyright, 1887, by O. M. Dunham.
DANIEL HENRY HOLMES
Daniel Henry Holmes is, with the possible exceptions of Theodore O'Hara
and Madison Cawein, the foremost lyric poet Kentucky can rightfully
claim, although he happened to be born at New York City, July 16, 1851;
and that single fact is the only flaw in Kentucky's fee simple title to
his fame. His father, Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, was a native of
Indiana; his mother was an Englishwoman. Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior,
settled at New Orleans when a young man as a merchant; but a year after
the birth of Daniel Henry Junior--as the future poet always signed
himself while his father lived--or in 1852, he purchased an old colonial
house back of Covington, Kentucky, as a summer place for his family, and
called it Holmesdale. So Daniel Henry Junior Holmes became a
warm-weather Kentuckian when but one year old; and he spent the
following nine summers at Holmesdale, returning each fall to New Orleans
for the winter. When the Civil War began his father, whose sympathies
were entirely Southern, removed his family to Europe, where eight years
were spent in Tours and Paris. In 1869, at the age of eighteen years,
Daniel Henry Junior, with his family, returned to the United States, and
entered his father's business at New Orleans. His dislike for
commercialism in any form became so great that his father wisely
permitted him to return to Holmesdale, which was then in charge of an
uncle, and to study law at Cincinnati. In the same year that he returned
to Holmesdale (1869), the house was rebuilt; and it remains intact
to-day. His family shortly afterwards joined him, and Holmesdale became
the manor-place of his people for many years. Holmes was graduated in
law in 1872, and he practiced in a desultory manner for some years. In
1883 he married Miss Rachel Gaff, of Cincinnati, daughter of one of the
old and wealthy families of that city. He and his bride spent the year
of their marriage at Holmesdale, and, in 1884, went abroad.