The Indianapolis journal., 1892-10-02
A NEGRO POET.
A Young Man Whose Literary Talent Shows
Itself in Spite Of Unfayorable Environ ment.


Mason. Ill. writes to the Journal concern
ing him in the following appreciative vein:
The old idea that no excellence can come
out OF Africa has long been exploded. Some
diamonds sparkle keenest in the dark. In
the weird story of Doctor Huguet" by lg-
natius DonDelly. the soul OF an educated
white man Is made TO speak from the black
skin of Carolina negro. The incongruity
produces fantastic effect. Whyf Because
| ignorance has always been associated with
darkness, and q white skin has been the in
| dex of intelligence. But time. with tender
| finger, Is erasing the curse of color and
| eradicating from the Intellect of the world
! the opprobrium based Oh the pigments OF
| the flesh alone. As a pleasing confirmation
of these statements, would cite the fol-
lowing incident:
A month or two ago. while in Day ton. o..
l attended a meeting of Western authors
| held In the commodiOus room of the Young
| Mems Christian Association. The pro-
sramme WAS varied and entertaining. some
| writer's of national repute taking part IN
| the exercises. The hall was crowded with
the elite of Day ton. ready to enjoy what
! ever literary repast might await them.
! About half way down the informal pro-
Qramme the presiding officer announced the
reading of poem by Paul Dunbar. Just
the name for q poet thought J. Great was
| the surprise OF the audience to see STEP
| ping lightly down the aisle, between the
| rows of tiutterIng fans and the assembled
| beauty and wit of Dayton, slender
negro lad. az black as the core of Cheops's
pyramid. He ascended the rostrum ith the
| GOODNESS and dignity of q cultured enter
tainer. and delivered q poem in o tone"as
musical as is Apollo's Lutte" He was ap-
| plsuded to the echo between the stanZas,
| and heartily encored at the conclusion. He
| then disappeared from the hall as suddenly
| % he had entered 1t, and many were the
whispered conjectures as to the personality
of the man, and the originality of his
hall n In that
of his age and color could produce q thing
of such evident merit / remained over in
Dayton the next day, and after repeated
inquiries, / succeeded In locating the rising
laureate of the colored race, al called
upon him. He was an elevator in one
of the downtown business blocks. found
him seated in chair on the lower
landing. hastily glancing at the July
Century, and jottlng down notes on
handy pencil-tablet. Not having time to
converse with me there he invited me in.o
the elevator, and during few excursions
from floor TO floor gathered from him the
following facts: His parents were both
slaves, his father having escaped into Can
ada from the South His mother is living
in Dayton, and be is supporting her and
himself on the pitiful sum of S4 per week.
He Is nineteen years OF age. In reply TO
question. he stated that he had been writ
ing rhymes since he was thirteen. His IA
vorite authors are Whittier and James
Whitcomb Riley. Before leaving i re-
quested him TO send me some of his verses
In manuscript. at the same time
courssemenI 1 could. He promised to
comply with my wish, and yesterday
received from him letter incloslnR the
promised sample of his verse. His spirit
seems to be broken. In his letter he says:
MY hopes are no brighter than when you
saw me. am getting on 40 better, and,
what would be impossible. no worse. am
nearer discouraged than have ever been."
Poor Dunbar! lie deserve q better fate.
Dayton, the terminus of the old under
ground railway. should be proud of him.
and yet, with all his natural brilllancy
and capacity for better things, he is
chained like galley slave to the sropes of
g diDgy elevator ct starvation wages.
| Show me q white boy of nineteen who can
| excel, or even equal, lines like these:
| A DRowsY DAY.
| Tho air is dark. the sky is gray,
The misty shadows come and go.
! And here within my dusky room
Each chair looks ghostly In the gloom
! Outside the rain falls cold and slow,
Half ging drops, half binding spray.
| Each slightest sound is magnifed,
| For drowsy quiet holds her reign;
The burnt stick on the fireplace breaks,
The nodding cat with start awakes,
And then to sleep drops of again,
Unheeding Towser at her side.
| look far out across the lawn,
Where huddled stand the silly sheep;
] My work les idle at my hands.
| My thoughts ny out like scattered strands
OF thread-and on the verge of sleep,
| Still half awake, dream and yawn.
| What spirits rise before my eyes,
| How various of kind and forml
| Sweet memories OF days long past,
The dreams of youth that could not last
| Each smiling calm, each raging Storm
| That swept across my early skies.
Half seen. the bare. gaunt fingered boughs
| Before my window sweep and sway,
And chafe in tortures of unrest.
My chin sinks down upon my breast;
cannot work on such a day,
But only sit and dream and browse.
Among other unpublished scraps sent me.
/ find the following neat verses In Western
dialect, almost worthy the pen of Riley or
| Field.
THE OIL TUNES.
| You kin talk about yer antheuis,
An yer arlas an sich,
An yer modern choir spgin'
That you think SO awful rich;
But you Orter heerd US youngsters
IN the times now far away,
A-singin' o. the oil tunes
In the ol-fashioned way.
| There was some o. us sung treble,
An q few o. Us growled bass,
| An the tide o. song flowed smoothly
With its compliment o. grace;
There was sperrit III that music,
An kind q solemn sway,
A-sinsin' o the OIL tunes
remember oft o. standin'
In my hOme-spun pantal0Ons,
On my face the bronze an freckles
o. the suns o. youthful Junes,-
Tbinkin' that no mortal minstrel
Ever ehanted sich q lay
AS the OF tunes We was singtn'
In the oP-fashioned way.
The boys 'ud always lead us,
An the girls 'ud all chime in,
Till the sweetness O. the singin'
Robbed the Iist'nin' soul o. sin;
An ust to tell the parsOn
| Twas as good to sing as pray.
When the people sung the Of tunes
In the ol-fashioned way.
How long agn to hear 1t,
Pourin' forth from soul to soul,
With the treble high an meller,
An the bass's mighty roll:--
| But the times is very Trent,
An the music heere to-day
| Amt the singin o the OF tunes
| In the or-fashioned way.
| Little screechiu' by woman,
| Little squawkin' by a man,
| Then the organs stweedle-twaddIe,
| Jest the empty space TO span,-
| An II you should even think IL,
'Tisnt proper fer to say
| That you want TO hear the OF tunes
In the ol-fashi0ned way.
But think that some bright mornin
| When the tolls OF life Is DER,
An the sun o. heaven arisin'
Glads with light the happy shore,
| shall hear the angel chorus,
| In the realms o. endless day,
| A-singin o. the OF tunes
| In the or-fash0ned way.
Two of a Kind.