SOME SOUTHERN WRITERS

By Kate Alma Orgain

This poet was born in Port Gibson, Mississippi, and was among the first of the Southern writers to recognize the possibilities of negro dialect and character in poetry and fiction, and to picture in poetry the unique relation between the Southern slave and his master.

It is not surprising that there is no general knowledge of this gifted writer, for he passed away after a brief struggle with life, leaving only one collection of poems, which was published after his death by the Century Company, in 1888. Irwin Russell’s grandfather was a Virginian, who moved west to Ohio. Here the father of Irwin was born. He married a New York lady, and going South he settled in Port Gibson, where Irwin and two other children were born. At the outbreak of the Civil War, Irwin’s father cast his lot with the Confederacy, and after the war sent the boy to St. Louis University in St. Louis, conducted by the Jesuit Fathers. Here he became a diligent student, and his young friends called him a “walking encyclopedia.” He also gave evidence of fine mathematical powers. After graduation he returned to Mississippi and began the practice of law. He was in Port Gibson during the yellow fever epidemic in 1878, and he remained through the whole dreadful tragedy of sickness, serving everywhere as needed, a devoted nurse. He never fully rallied from the fearful strain and the harrowing scenes through which he passed, for he was, says W. W. Baskerville, “that rare union of bright mind with frail body through which the keenest appreciation and most exquisite sensibility are developed.”

IRWIN RUSSELL

His father, Dr. William Russell, who had also remained in Port Gibson during the scourge, staying noblyat his post of duty, sank under the strain and died.

This left young Russell entirely dependent upon himself. Joel Chandler Harris says: “Russell always had warm personal friends from whom he could command everything that affection could suggest.” Going to New York, he took some literary matter to Charles Scribner’s Sons, who received him with great personal kindness and encouraged him to adopt the profession of authorship.

The climate, however, was too severe to allow him to work in New York and he fell ill with a low fever. He determined to return to the South and before he was quite recovered, set out to work his passage on a boat bound for New Orleans. He arrived in port very weak and almost penniless, but secured employment on theTimes, and with characteristic disregard of health or personal comfort, threw himself, heart and soul into his work.

Although young, Russell gave remarkable evidence of training in the best of literature. He gave his work hard, painstaking study, and his insight into the peculiarities and pathos and poetry of the negro character was truly wonderful.

Thomas Nelson Page says: “Personally I owe him much. It was the light of his genius, shining through his dialect poems that led my feet in the direction I have since tried to follow.”

Dr. C. A. Smith says: “The appearance of ‘Christmas Night in the Quarters’ meant that Southern literature was now become a true reproduction of Southern conditions.”

Joel Chandler Harris says: “Irwin Russell’s negro character studies rise to the level of what, in a large way, we term literature. I do not know where there could be a more perfect representation of negro character than his operetta, ‘Christmas Night in the Quarters.’ It is inimitable.”

Beginning with the arrival of the negroes who are coming to “Uncle Johnny Booker’s Ball,” this poem says:

“Some take the path with shoes in hand,To traverse muddy bottom-land:Aristocrats their steeds bestride—Four on a mule, behold them ride.And ten great oxen draw apaceThe wagon from ‘de oder place,’With forty guests, whose conversationBetokens glad anticipation.”

“Some take the path with shoes in hand,

To traverse muddy bottom-land:

Aristocrats their steeds bestride—

Four on a mule, behold them ride.

And ten great oxen draw apace

The wagon from ‘de oder place,’

With forty guests, whose conversation

Betokens glad anticipation.”

Arrived at the scene of merriment the dance is preceded by a prayer by “Brudder Brown,” who takes the middle of the floor to “beg a blessin’ on dis dance.”

“O Mahsr! let dis gath’rin’ fin’ a blessin’ in yo’ sight!Don’t jedge us hard fur whut we does—you knows it’s Chris’mus night;An’ all de balunce ob de yeah we does as right’s we kin.Ef dancin’s wrong, O Mahsr; let de time excuse de sin!“We labors in de vineyard, wu’kin’ hard an’ wu’kin’ true;Now, shorely you won’t notus, ef we eats a grape or two,An’ takes a leetle holiday—a leetle restin’ spell,—Bekase, nex’ week, we’ll start in fresh an’ labor twicet as well.“Remember, Mahsr,—min’ dis now,—de sinfulness ob sinIs ’pendin’ ’pon de spirit whut we goes an’ does it in:An’ in a righchis frame ob min’ we’s gwine to dance an’ sing,A feelin’ like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing....“You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we’s doin’ wrong to-night;Kase den we’ll need de blessin’ more’n ef we’s doin’ right;An’ let de blessin’ stay wid us, until we comes to die,An’ goes to keep our Chris’mus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!”...“The rev’rend man is scarcely through,When all the noise begins anew.And with such force assaults the ears,That through the din one hardly hearsOld fiddling ‘Josey’ sound his ‘A’,Correct the pitch, begin to play.”

“O Mahsr! let dis gath’rin’ fin’ a blessin’ in yo’ sight!

Don’t jedge us hard fur whut we does—you knows it’s Chris’mus night;

An’ all de balunce ob de yeah we does as right’s we kin.

Ef dancin’s wrong, O Mahsr; let de time excuse de sin!

“We labors in de vineyard, wu’kin’ hard an’ wu’kin’ true;Now, shorely you won’t notus, ef we eats a grape or two,An’ takes a leetle holiday—a leetle restin’ spell,—Bekase, nex’ week, we’ll start in fresh an’ labor twicet as well.

“We labors in de vineyard, wu’kin’ hard an’ wu’kin’ true;

Now, shorely you won’t notus, ef we eats a grape or two,

An’ takes a leetle holiday—a leetle restin’ spell,—

Bekase, nex’ week, we’ll start in fresh an’ labor twicet as well.

“Remember, Mahsr,—min’ dis now,—de sinfulness ob sinIs ’pendin’ ’pon de spirit whut we goes an’ does it in:An’ in a righchis frame ob min’ we’s gwine to dance an’ sing,A feelin’ like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.

“Remember, Mahsr,—min’ dis now,—de sinfulness ob sin

Is ’pendin’ ’pon de spirit whut we goes an’ does it in:

An’ in a righchis frame ob min’ we’s gwine to dance an’ sing,

A feelin’ like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.

...

“You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we’s doin’ wrong to-night;Kase den we’ll need de blessin’ more’n ef we’s doin’ right;An’ let de blessin’ stay wid us, until we comes to die,An’ goes to keep our Chris’mus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!”

“You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we’s doin’ wrong to-night;

Kase den we’ll need de blessin’ more’n ef we’s doin’ right;

An’ let de blessin’ stay wid us, until we comes to die,

An’ goes to keep our Chris’mus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!”

...

“The rev’rend man is scarcely through,When all the noise begins anew.And with such force assaults the ears,That through the din one hardly hearsOld fiddling ‘Josey’ sound his ‘A’,Correct the pitch, begin to play.”

“The rev’rend man is scarcely through,

When all the noise begins anew.

And with such force assaults the ears,

That through the din one hardly hears

Old fiddling ‘Josey’ sound his ‘A’,

Correct the pitch, begin to play.”

Then the dance begins.

“S’lute yo’ pardners!—scrape perlitely—Don’t be bumpin’ ’gin de res’—Balance all!—now, step out rightly;Alluz dance yo’ lebbel bes’.Fo’wa’d foah!—whoop up, niggers!Back ag’in!—don’t be so slow!—Sw-i-i-ing cornahs!—min’ de figgers!When I hollers, den yo’ go.Top ladies cross ober!Hol’ on, till I takes a dram—Gemmen solo!—yes,I’ssober—Cain’t say how de fiddle am.Hands around!—hol’ up yo’ faces,Don’t be lookin’ at yo’ feet!Swing yo’ pardners to yo’ places!Dat’s de way—dat’s hard to beatSides fo’w’d!—when yo’s ready—Make a bow as low’s you kin!Swing acrosst wid opp’site lady!Now we’ll let you swap ag’in:Ladies change!—shet up dat talkin’;Do yo’ talkin’ arter while!Right an’ lef’!—don’t want no walkin’—Make yo’ steps, an’ show yo’ style!“And so the ‘set’ proceeds—its lengthDetermined by the dancers’ strength;And all agree to yield the palmFor grace and skill to ‘Georgy Sam,’Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high,‘Des watch him!’ is the wond’ring cry—‘De nigger mus’ be, for a fac’,Own cousin to a jumpin’-jack!’On, on the restless fiddle sounds,Still chorused by the curs and hounds;Dance after dance succeeding fast,Till supper is announced at last.That scene—but why attempt to show it?The most inventive modern poet,In fine new words whose hope and trust is,Could form no phrase to do it justice!When supper ends—that is not soon—The fiddle strikes the same old tune;The dancers pound the floor again,With all they have of might and main;Old gossips, almost turning pale,Attend Aunt Cassy’s gruesome taleOf conjurers, and ghosts, and devils,That in the smoke-house hold their revels;Each drowsy baby droops his head,Yet scorns the very thought of bed:—So wears the night, and wears so fast,All wonder when they find it past,And hear the signal sound to goFrom what few cocks are left to crow.”

“S’lute yo’ pardners!—scrape perlitely—

Don’t be bumpin’ ’gin de res’—

Balance all!—now, step out rightly;

Alluz dance yo’ lebbel bes’.

Fo’wa’d foah!—whoop up, niggers!

Back ag’in!—don’t be so slow!—

Sw-i-i-ing cornahs!—min’ de figgers!

When I hollers, den yo’ go.

Top ladies cross ober!

Hol’ on, till I takes a dram—

Gemmen solo!—yes,I’ssober—

Cain’t say how de fiddle am.

Hands around!—hol’ up yo’ faces,

Don’t be lookin’ at yo’ feet!

Swing yo’ pardners to yo’ places!

Dat’s de way—dat’s hard to beat

Sides fo’w’d!—when yo’s ready—

Make a bow as low’s you kin!

Swing acrosst wid opp’site lady!

Now we’ll let you swap ag’in:

Ladies change!—shet up dat talkin’;

Do yo’ talkin’ arter while!

Right an’ lef’!—don’t want no walkin’—

Make yo’ steps, an’ show yo’ style!

“And so the ‘set’ proceeds—its lengthDetermined by the dancers’ strength;And all agree to yield the palmFor grace and skill to ‘Georgy Sam,’Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high,‘Des watch him!’ is the wond’ring cry—‘De nigger mus’ be, for a fac’,Own cousin to a jumpin’-jack!’On, on the restless fiddle sounds,Still chorused by the curs and hounds;Dance after dance succeeding fast,Till supper is announced at last.That scene—but why attempt to show it?The most inventive modern poet,In fine new words whose hope and trust is,Could form no phrase to do it justice!When supper ends—that is not soon—The fiddle strikes the same old tune;The dancers pound the floor again,With all they have of might and main;Old gossips, almost turning pale,Attend Aunt Cassy’s gruesome taleOf conjurers, and ghosts, and devils,That in the smoke-house hold their revels;Each drowsy baby droops his head,Yet scorns the very thought of bed:—So wears the night, and wears so fast,All wonder when they find it past,And hear the signal sound to goFrom what few cocks are left to crow.”

“And so the ‘set’ proceeds—its length

Determined by the dancers’ strength;

And all agree to yield the palm

For grace and skill to ‘Georgy Sam,’

Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high,

‘Des watch him!’ is the wond’ring cry—

‘De nigger mus’ be, for a fac’,

Own cousin to a jumpin’-jack!’

On, on the restless fiddle sounds,

Still chorused by the curs and hounds;

Dance after dance succeeding fast,

Till supper is announced at last.

That scene—but why attempt to show it?

The most inventive modern poet,

In fine new words whose hope and trust is,

Could form no phrase to do it justice!

When supper ends—that is not soon—

The fiddle strikes the same old tune;

The dancers pound the floor again,

With all they have of might and main;

Old gossips, almost turning pale,

Attend Aunt Cassy’s gruesome tale

Of conjurers, and ghosts, and devils,

That in the smoke-house hold their revels;

Each drowsy baby droops his head,

Yet scorns the very thought of bed:—

So wears the night, and wears so fast,

All wonder when they find it past,

And hear the signal sound to go

From what few cocks are left to crow.”

In the wee sma’ hours near daylight Uncle Booker sings the story of the first banjo.

“‘Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,’ said Noah, lookin’ solemn—Fur Noah tuk de ‘Herald,’ and he read de ribber column—An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl’arin’ timber-patches,An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamahNatchez.Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’;An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ and a-pshawin’;But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen:An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’.Now, Noah had done cotched a lot of ebry sort o’ beas’es—Ob all de shows a-trabelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces!He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle—An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle.“Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it come so awful hebby,De ribber riz immejitely, an’ bu’sted thro’ de lebbee;De people all wuz drownded out—’sep’ Noah an’ de critters,An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters....“Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet,Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.“He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin;An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’;He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?“De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’se a singin’;De ha’rs so long and thick an’ strong,—des fit for banjo-stringin’;Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces;An’ sorted ob ’em by the size, f’om little E’s to basses.“He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz ‘Nebber min’ de wedder,”—She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder;Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers;An’ Ham he sot and knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!“Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’;An’ cur’i’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em!—Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!”...The night is spent; and as the dayThrows up the first faint, fresh flash of gray,The guests pursue their homeward way;And through the field beyond the gin.Just as the stars are going in,See Santa Claus departing—grieving—His own dear land of cotton leaving.His work is done; he fain would restWhere people know and love him best.He pauses, listens, looks about;But go he must: “his pass is out.”So, coughing down the rising tears,He climbs the fence and disappears.

“‘Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,’ said Noah, lookin’ solemn—

Fur Noah tuk de ‘Herald,’ and he read de ribber column—

An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl’arin’ timber-patches,

An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamahNatchez.

Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’;

An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ and a-pshawin’;

But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen:

An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot of ebry sort o’ beas’es—

Ob all de shows a-trabelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces!

He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle—

An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle.

“Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it come so awful hebby,De ribber riz immejitely, an’ bu’sted thro’ de lebbee;De people all wuz drownded out—’sep’ Noah an’ de critters,An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.

“Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it come so awful hebby,

De ribber riz immejitely, an’ bu’sted thro’ de lebbee;

De people all wuz drownded out—’sep’ Noah an’ de critters,

An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.

...

“Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet,Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.

“Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet,

Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;

An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,

An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.

“He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin;An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’;He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

“He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin;

An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’;

He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;

An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

“De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’se a singin’;De ha’rs so long and thick an’ strong,—des fit for banjo-stringin’;Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces;An’ sorted ob ’em by the size, f’om little E’s to basses.

“De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’se a singin’;

De ha’rs so long and thick an’ strong,—des fit for banjo-stringin’;

Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces;

An’ sorted ob ’em by the size, f’om little E’s to basses.

“He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz ‘Nebber min’ de wedder,”—She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder;Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers;An’ Ham he sot and knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

“He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz ‘Nebber min’ de wedder,”—

She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder;

Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers;

An’ Ham he sot and knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

“Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’;An’ cur’i’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em!—Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!”

“Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’

Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’;

An’ cur’i’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em!—

Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!”

...

The night is spent; and as the dayThrows up the first faint, fresh flash of gray,The guests pursue their homeward way;And through the field beyond the gin.Just as the stars are going in,See Santa Claus departing—grieving—His own dear land of cotton leaving.His work is done; he fain would restWhere people know and love him best.He pauses, listens, looks about;But go he must: “his pass is out.”So, coughing down the rising tears,He climbs the fence and disappears.

The night is spent; and as the day

Throws up the first faint, fresh flash of gray,

The guests pursue their homeward way;

And through the field beyond the gin.

Just as the stars are going in,

See Santa Claus departing—grieving—

His own dear land of cotton leaving.

His work is done; he fain would rest

Where people know and love him best.

He pauses, listens, looks about;

But go he must: “his pass is out.”

So, coughing down the rising tears,

He climbs the fence and disappears.

Regarding the merits of Irwin Russell’s verses one critic says: “They have all a swinging gait, and you can hear the rythmical pattering of the feet, and see the swaying of the darky figures in the walk round as you read.”

Russell declared the pathos and humor in the character of the real old-fashioned negro of the South afforded an inexhaustible amount of material for both prose and poetry.

Like Sidney Lanier, Russell was passionately fond of music, and became a remarkably skillful performer on the banjo.

He died at the early age of twenty-six: suffering and sorrow and poverty were his till the last. The brief struggle ended in New Orleans, leaving his beautiful contributions to Southern dialect poetry for our heritage.

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