Irwin Russell
Reading edition
Irwin Russell was born, June 3, 1853, at Port Gibson, Mississippi, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar. His restless nature and wayward disposition drove him from one place to another, from dissipation to dissipation, from a not too rugged health to an utter breakdown. In July, 1879, he was forced to leave New York, working his way down to New Orleans on a coast steamer, trying to rehabilitate himself as reporter on the New Orleans Picayune. But illness pursued him and the following December Russell died, cut off, in the midst of his promise, before he had reached his twenty-seventh year.
Although Russell did not take his poetry seriously and though the bulk of it is small, its influence has been large. Thomas Nelson Page and Joel Chandler Harris have acknowledged their indebtedness to him; the creator of Uncle Remus writing, “Irwin Russell was among the first—if not the very first—of Southern writers to appreciate the literary possibilities of the negro character.” He entered their life, appreciated their fresh turns of thought, saw things with that peculiar mixture of reverence and unconscious humor that is so integral a part of negro songs and spirituals. “Blessing the Dance” and “The Song of the Banjo” (from Russell’s operetta Christmas-Night in the Quarters, possibly his best known work) are excellent 56examples; faithful renderings of the mind of the old-fashioned, simple and sententious child of the plantation. In the latter poem the old story of Noah is told, with delightful additions, from the colorful angle of the darky; local in its setting, revealing in its quaint psychology.
A collection of his poems appeared, with an introduction by Joel Chandler Harris, in 1888. In 1917, a more inclusive volume, beautifully printed, with illustrations by E. W. Kemble, was published by The Century Co.; it was entitled Christmas-Night in the Quarters.
Russell died, in an obscure boarding house in New Orleans, December 23, 1879.
BLESSING THE DANCE
(From Christmas-Night in the Quarters)
O Mahsr! let dis gath’rin fin’ a blessin’ in yo’ sight!
Don’t jedge us hard fur what we does—yo’ know it’s Chrismus-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 vin’ya’d, wukin’ hard an’ wukin’ true;
Now, shorely yo’ 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 sinfullness ob sin
Is ’pendin’ ’pon de sperrit what 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.
57It seems to me—indeed it do—I mebbe mout be wrong—
Dat people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along;
Des dance bekase dey’s happy—like de birds hops in de trees,
De pine-top fiddle soundin’ to be bowin’ ob de breeze.
We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul’s prophet king;
We has no harp to soun’ de chords, to holp us out to sing;
But ’cordin’ to de gif’s we has we does de bes’ we knows,
An’ folks don’t ’spise de vi’let-flower bekase it ain’t de rose.
Yes, 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’s stay wid us, untel we comes to die,
An’ goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!
Yes, tell dem preshis anguls we’s a-gwine to jine ’em soon:
Our voices we’s a-trainin’ fur to sing de glory tune;
We’s ready when you wants us, an’ it ain’t no matter when.
O Mahsr! call yo’ chillen soon, an’ take ’em home! Amen.
58
DE FUST BANJO
Go ’way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’.
Keep silence fur yo’ betters! don’t you heah de banjo talkin’?
About de ’possum’s tail she’s gwine to lecter—ladies, listen!
About de ha’r whut isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’:
“Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn—
Fur Noah tuk de “Herald,” an’ he read de ribber column—
An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin’ timber-patches,
An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah Natchez.
Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’;
An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ an’ 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 ob ebry sort o’ beas’es—
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’, 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.
59Den sech anoder fall ob rain! It come so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitly, an’ busted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out—’cep’ Noah an’ de critters,
An’ men he’d hired to wuk de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.
De Ark she kep’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’;
De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’;
De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tel’, whut wid all de fussin’,
You c’u’dn’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ ’roun’ an’ cussin’.
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?
60De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a-singin’;
De ha’r’s so long an’ thick an’ strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin’;
Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday-dinner graces:
An’ sorted ob ’em by de 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 an’ 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’ curi’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em—
Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!