The Black Man (Brown)/William J. Wilson
WILLIAM J. WILSON.
In the columns of Frederick Douglass's paper, the Anglo-African Magazine, and the Weekly Anglo-African, has appeared at times, over the signature of "Ethiop," some of the raciest and most amusing essays to be found in the public journals of this country. As a sketch writer of historical scenes and historical characters,—choosing his own subjects, suggested by his own taste or sympathies,—few men are capable of greater or more successful efforts than William J. Wilson. In his imaginary visit to the "Afric-American Picture Gallery," he gives the following sketch of the head of Phillis Wheatley. "This picture hangs in the north-east corner of the gallery, and in good light, and is so decidedly one of the finest in the collection, whether viewed in an artistic light or in point of fact, that it is both a constant charm and study for me. The features, though indicative of a delicate organization, are of the most pleasing cast. The facial angle contains full ninety degrees; the forehead is finely formed, and the brain large; the nose is long, and the nostrils thin, while the eyes, though not large, are well set. To this may be added a small mouth, with lips prettily turned, and a chin—that perfection of beauty in the female face—delicately tapered from a throat and neck that are of themselves perfection. The whole make-up of this face is an index of healthy intellectual powers, combined with an active temperament, over which has fallen a slight tinge of religious pensiveness. Thus hangs Phillis Wheatley before you in the Afric-American Picture Gallery; and if we scrutinize her more closely through her career and her works, we shall find her truly an extraordinary person. Stolen at the tender age of seven years from the fond embraces of a mother, whose image never once faded from her memory, and ferried over in the vile slave ship from Afric's sunny clime to the cold shores of America, and sold under the hammer to a Boston merchant—a delicate child, a girl, alone, desolate; a chilly, dreary world before her, a chain on her feet, arid a thorn in her bosom, and an iron mask on her head, what chance, what opportunity was there for her to make physical, moral, or mental progress? In these respects, how get up to, or keep pace with, other and more favored people?—how get in the advance?—how ascend, at last, without a single competitor, the highest scale of human eminence? Phillis Wheatley did all, and more than this. A sold thing, a bought chattel at seven years, she mastered, notwithstanding, the English language in sixteen months. She carried on with her friends and acquaintances an extensive and elegant epistolary correspondence at twelve years of age, composed her first poem at fourteen, became a proficient Latin scholar at seventeen, and published in England her book of poems, dedicated to the Countess of Huntington, at nineteen; and with the mantle of just fame upon her shoulders, sailed from America to England to receive the meed due to her learning, her talents, and her virtues, at twenty-two. What one of America's paler daughters, contemporary with her, with all the advantages that home, fortune, friends, and favor bring,—what one ascended so far up the hill of just fame at any age? I have searched in vain to find the name upon the literary page of our country's record.
"O Wheatley!
What degrading hand, what slavish chain,
What earthly power, could link thy nobler soul
To baser things, and check its eagle flight?
Angel of purity, child of beauteous song,
Thy harp still hangs within our sight,
To cheer, though thou art gone."
"I break the chains that have been clanging
Down through the dim vault of ages;
I gird up my strength,—mind and arm,—
And prepare for the terrible conflict.
I am to war with principalities, powers, wrongs
With oppressions,—with all that curse humanity.
I am resolved. 'Tis more than half my task;
'Twas the great need of all my past existence.
The glooms that have so long shrouded me,
Recede as vapor from the new presence,
And the light-gleam—it must be life—
So brightens and spreads its pure rays before,
That I read my mission as 'twere a book,
It is life; life in which none but men—
Not those who only wear the form—can live
To give this life to the World; to make men
Out of the thews and sinews of oppressed slaves."
Mr. Wilson is a teacher, and whether the following is drawn from his own experience, or not, we are left to conjecture.
THE TEACHER AND HIS PUPIL.
Scene.—School Room. School in session.
Dramatis Personæ.
Teacher. A bachelor rising thirty.
Pupil. A beautiful girl of sixteen.
I see that curling and high-archéd brow.
"Scold thee?" Ay, that I will.
Pouting I see thee still;
Thou jade! I know that thou art laughing now!
Silence! bush! nor dare one word to mutter!
If it were e'er so gentle,
(I speak in tone parental,)
Do not thy very softest whisper utter.
I know that startled trembling all a hoax,
Thou pert and saucy thing!
I'll make thy fine ears ring;
I'll pretermit thy silly, taunting jokes.
"Whip thee?" Ay, that I will, and whip thee well;
Thy chattering tongue now hold!
There, there; I will no further scold.
How down those lovely cheeks the hot tears fell!
How quickly changed! Nay, nay; come hither, child.
'Tis with kindness I would rule;
Severity's the erring fool,
Who harms the tender or excites the wild.
What! trembling yet, and shy? Nay, do not fear;
Sure, sure I'll harm thee not;
My gentlest, thine's a better lot;
So raise those azure eyes with radiant cheer.
Cheer up, then; there, now thou canst go. Retain,
I pray, within thy heart,
Not the unpleasant part
That's past. The other let remain.
To possess genius, the offspring of which ennobles the sentiments, enlarges the affections, kindles the imagination, and gives to us a view of the past, the present, and the future, is one of the highest gifts that the Creator bestows upon man. With acute powers of conception, a sparkling and lively fancy, and a quaintly curious felicity of diction, Mr. Wilson wakes us from our torpidity and coldness to a sense of our capabilities. In personal appearance he is under the middle size; his profile is more striking than his front face; he has a rather pleasing countenance, and is unmixed in race; has fine conversational powers, is genteel in his manners, and is a pleasant speaker upon the platform.