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 Phris tnias -Night 
 
 
 
 in the Quarters 
 
 By ... 
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
Christmas Night 
 in the Quarters 
 
Christmas-Night 
 in the Quarters 
 
 BY 
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 introduction by 
 Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 illustrated by 
 Margaret Dashiell 
 
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 1 
 
 THE DIETZ PRESS, INC. • RICHMOND, VIRGINIA 
 
■Cs' 
 
 R^plcs 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Irwin Russell, First Dialect Author 
 
 WITH Negro life and manners claiming the interest of 
 novelist and playwright, will not the name of Irwin 
 Russell emerge from the obscurity that has all but dimmed 
 the fame of the South' s pioneer writer of Negro dialect? With a 
 constant stream of works bearing on the Negro issuing from the 
 publishing houses, is it not safe to predict that the poems of Irwin 
 Russell will no longer gather dust on library shelves, and that his 
 well-defined ideas of Negro character will again find their way to 
 the reading public? 
 
 Thomas Nelson Page and Joel Chandler Harris acknowledged 
 their debt to Russell, and though Dubose Heyward, Roark Bradford, 
 and Julia Peterkin have struck an original note in fiction about the 
 Negro, no doubt they too would welcome the whimsical Mississippi 
 poet of whom it was said: 
 
 "He couldn' a' talked so nachal 
 
 'Bout niggers in sorrow and joy, 
 Widdouten he had a black mammy 
 To sing to him 'long ez a boy." 
 
 Though not the greatest writer of Negro dialect in America, 
 Irwin Russell was one of the very first to appreciate the true literary 
 possibilities of Negro character and approach his subject with artistic 
 fidelity. To him the Negro was not merely a ludicrous individual 
 suited to caricature, but a well-defined personality, rich in humor 
 and pathos, yet preserving his own peculiar traits in an alien en- 
 vironment. In order to realize just what were Russell's opportuni- 
 ties for observing Negro character, we must gaze back upon a somno- 
 lent little town in Mississippi during the years immediately preceed- 
 ing the Civil War and the dreadful days of Reconstruction. 
 
 The town was Port Gibson, and here it was that Dr. William 
 McNab Russell came to settle, bringing his young wife. And it was 
 here that the Russell family greeted the arrival of Irwin, June the 
 third, 1853. But the infant's sojourn in the "Land of Cotton" was 
 
 [ V J 
 
Irwin Russell^ First Dialect Author 
 
 to be interrupted, for three months later Dr. Russell moved his 
 family to St. Louis, a terrible epidemic of yellow fever having 
 visited Port Gibson. 
 
 Dr. Russell was missed; indeed he had taken a prominent part 
 in the social and professional life of the community. The dread 
 scourge over, however, life became once more a pleasant affair in 
 Port Gibson. Negroes lounged around the plantation stores, crops 
 were discussed, affairs at the "big house" were noised about the slave 
 quarters, while chuckling old "aunties and uncles" doled out bits 
 of quaint philosophy. 
 
 Then came the affair at Fort Sumter, and every town .and hamlet 
 in the South felt the call to arms. Faithful to the land of his 
 adoption. Dr. Russell returned to Port Gibson, and pledged himself 
 to the Confederacy. Seven-year-old Irwin saw the preparations for 
 war going on about him. The Negroes in the fields heard talk of 
 freedom and equal rights, but they didn't quite understand it, so 
 they went on with their singing. The lilt of these songs appealed 
 strongly to Irwin's sense of rhythm, and before long he could rival 
 them at their own game. 
 
 Reading was also a source of keen delight to the child; at the 
 age of four he was often seen, book in hand, intent upon the exploits 
 of some childhood hero. In the Russell household an atmosphere of 
 culture prevailed, and before long Irwin had stumbled upon the 
 English classics. He scribbled no childish verse, however, so his 
 parents had no indication of what path he would tread in the future. 
 His young acquaintances called him "the walking encyclopedia." 
 
 Irwin heard of the surrender at Appomattox Court House, but 
 its only significance for him was that shortly afterwards his family 
 removed to St. Louis once more. Here he entered the University of 
 St. Louis, conducted by the Jesuit Fathers. 
 
 Russell was a studious young fellow, and though his taste for 
 literature was marked in the extreme, he began to excel in mathe- 
 matics. He read Chaucer and Percy's "Reliques", Herrick and the 
 Elizabethan dramatists, and later, Burns, Byron, and Shelly. He once 
 said: "Burns is my idol. He seems to me the greatest man that ever 
 God created, beside whom all other poets are utterly insignificant. 
 In fact, my feelings in this regard are precisely equivalent to those 
 
 [ vi J 
 
Irwin Russelly First Dialect Author 
 
 of the old Scotsman mentioned in 'Library Notes', who was consoled 
 in the hour of death by the thought that he should see Bums." 
 
 Like Stevenson, Irwin Russell was of a delicate constitution, and 
 unable to find adventure on the high road, he sought in reading 
 what the Scotch romancer strove for in his writings. Thus the sea 
 tales of Marryat and the Indian stories of Cooper satisfied the boyish 
 longing for adventure. 
 
 With a catholicity of tastes at variance with his slender years, 
 Irwin savored the works of Smollett and Sterne, Fielding, Dickens, 
 Thackeray, and finally Moliere and Rabelais. In I860 he graduated 
 from St. Louis University, though there is no record of his having 
 taken prizes in any subject. 
 
 Port Gibson had not changed perceptibly in the four years that 
 Irwin had been away. The tempo of the little town had slackened a 
 bit, for Mississippi had suffered greatly during the lean years of war, 
 but the relations between the "white folks" and the Negroes re- 
 mained unaltered. Though they had their freedom, many of the 
 Negroes stayed on with their former masters, accepting what small 
 wages could be spared them. The finances of the planters were at 
 times little better than those of the "poor white", but with the racial 
 pride characteristic of the South, the lines of demarcation were 
 tightly drawn. 
 
 It was during this period that Irwin Russell first gave any con- 
 sideration to Negro dialect as a medium of expression. "It was 
 almost an inspiration" he said in a letter to a friend. "You know 
 I am something of a banjoist. Well, one evening I was sitting in our 
 back yard in old Mississippi 'twanging' on the banjo, when I heard 
 our colored domestic — an old darky of the Aunt Dinah type — singing 
 one of the outlandish camp meeting hymns of which the race is so 
 fond. She was an extremely ' 'ligious' character, and, although seized 
 with the impulse, I hesitated to take up the tune and finish it. 
 
 "I did so, however; and in the dialect I have adopted, which I 
 then thought and still think is in strict conformity to their use of it, 
 I proceeded as one inspired, to compose verse after verse, of the most 
 absurd and extravagant, and, to her, irreverent rime ever before 
 invented, all the while accompanying it on the banjo and imitating 
 the fashion of the plantation Negro. . . I was then about sixteen, 
 
 [ vii ] 
 
Irwin Russell^ First Dialect Author 
 
 and as I had soon after a like inclination to versify, was myself 
 pleased with the performance, and it was accepted by a publisher. 
 I have continued to work the vein indefinitely." 
 
 Though studious and contemplative by nature, Irwin Russell 
 mingled freely in the social life of Port Gibson, and his gift for 
 music and love of amateur theatricals made him always welcome. A 
 born mimic of the plantation Negro, his "take offs" of the latter 
 would keep his friends amused for hours. 
 
 A cousin described him thus at a somewhat later date: "His dis- 
 position was remarkably gentle, his voice low and musical, and his 
 smile exceedingly winning, with an indescribable expression of sad- 
 ness and resignation. His carriage was erect, with a slight stoop of 
 the shoulder and inclination of the head; and he walked with a 
 swinging gait, apparently gazing far off, his long arms dangling by 
 his side. . ." 
 
 A talent for poetry, however, was not looked upon with great 
 favor in the poverty-stricken communities of the South, and the 
 Russell family was no exception to this dictum. Irwin was to 
 study law. 
 
 Now, young Irwin also had a marked aptitude for drawing, so 
 he frequently slipped out of Judge Baldwin's office, indulging in his 
 own theories of art instead of filling his head with Mr. Blackstone's 
 theories of the law. Or he would hurry to some printing he had in 
 mind — he owned a small press and was keenly interested in typogra- 
 phy. However, he did apply himself to his books, and having an 
 extremely retentive mind he was able to pass the bar examination at 
 the age of nineteen. The study of law was to give another literary 
 talent to the world. 
 
 Another spring winged its way to Port Gibson, and yet another. 
 The darkies sang merrily in the fields, and "Marse Irwin", so they 
 called him since his return from St. Louis, was ever among them 
 listening to their humorous sallies. Irwin had written his first poems 
 for the local newspapers, and was already pointed out as the play- 
 boy of the little town. He was frequently seen in the company of a 
 Miss Sally Massey, and before long it was noised about that Irwin 
 was in love. 
 
 Summer with its picnics and frolics was over, and winter was 
 
 [viiiJ 
 
Irwin Russell J First Dialect Author 
 
 close at hand. Then came a red-letter day in Irwin Russell's life, a 
 day fraught with meaning for American literature. Irwin was 
 spending the Christmas holidays at "Greenwood", one of those 
 charming old homes that have since become legendary in the South. 
 From miles around neighbors had gathered for the mirth and revelry. 
 But let one of the participants describe the rest of the scene: 
 
 "Something over half a century ago, Irwin Russell and others, 
 myself included, attended a Christmas celebration at 'Greenwood', 
 the delightfully pleasant home of Mr. Evan Jeffries, made doubly 
 so by the cheerful words of old Greenwood's most charming inmates. 
 On this never-forgettable occasion, Irwin Russell visited the Negro 
 quarters with several friends to witness a Negro dance which was in 
 progress, and there it was the thought entered his brain to put in 
 verse his Negro dialect poem: 'Christmas (Night) in the Quarters.' 
 
 "During the wee small hours, when all had closed their eyes to 
 dream of the pleasant Christmas just past; the talented author, genius 
 and poet, Irwin Russell, sat all alone writing that immortal poem, 
 'Christmas (Night) in the Quarters.' . . . About dawn he rushed 
 into our room where several of us were trying to get .an hour's rest, 
 with his usual pleasant smile, saying as he unfolded several scraps of 
 paper, 'Boys, I want you to read something.' 'Hold a moment,' one 
 of the boys interrupted, 'Have a toddy or an eggnog first.' Having 
 quaffed the foaming glass, he wished us all the return of many more 
 such happy Christmases, and then read the poem in question. We 
 were pleased as well as .amused, and advised that he put the poem in 
 shape for publication, which he later did. . ." 
 
 It is upon this one poem that Irwin Russell's fame chiefly rests. 
 In it one finds the humor, pathos, simplicity, religion, devil-may-care 
 spirit, in fact all that distinguishes the Negro from his white brethren. 
 
 Can one soon forget "Brudder Brown's invocation to the Lord: 
 
 "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, untel we comes to die. 
 An' goes to keep our Christmas wid dem sheriffs in de sky." 
 
 Has ever a more perfect picture of Negro temperament been planned.'^ 
 Joel Chandler Harris says in his introduction to the collected 
 
 [ ix ] 
 
Irwin Russell^ First Dialect Author 
 
 poems, (The Century Co., 1888): "His Negro operetta, 'Christmas 
 Night in the Quarters', is inimitable. It combines the features of a 
 character study with a series of bold and striking plantation pictures 
 that have never been surpassed. In this remarkable group, if I may 
 so term it, the old life before the war is reproduced with ,a fidelity 
 that is marvelous. . ." 
 
 Northern magazines began to recognize Irwin Russell's talent, 
 and the "Bric-a-brac" department of Scribner's published his earliest 
 dialect poems. "Uncle Cap Interviewed", the first of these, appeared 
 in January, 1876. Soon the attentions of H. C. Bunner, Richard 
 Watson Gilder, and Robert Underwood Johnson were focused on 
 the young Mississippi poet, and the name of Irwin Russell was being 
 mentioned along with the contemporary Southern writers who were 
 making literature. 
 
 At this period he said in part, writing to a friend: "In short it 
 occurs to me to write a Negro novel. It is a thing entirely new — 
 nobody has ever tried it. Negro lovers — Negro preachers — Negro 
 'literary and malevolent' 'cieties — Negro saints and Negro sinners 
 — ^think of what mines of humor and pathos, plot and character, 
 sense and non-sense, are here awaiting development! I shall take 
 my little dibble and scratch away on the surface. Though I may not 
 do more than strike 'color', I shall still work con amove. I will at 
 least have all the advantages of opportunity — as I have lived long 
 among the Negroes ( as also long enough away from them to appre- 
 ciate their peculiarities); understand their character, disposition, lan- 
 guage, customs and habits; have studied them; and have them 
 continually before me. . ." 
 
 In the midst of his literary success, Russell again began the 
 practice of law, handling a number of important cases for his old 
 employer, Judge Baldwin. Love had dawned once more in the heart 
 of Irwin Russell. And this was the great love that every man meets 
 but once. "The real love of Irwin Russell's life however, the one 
 who stirred the depths for aye, was not Miss Sallie Massey, but a 
 Miss Dora Donald," says one of the few surviving friends of the 
 poet. "Bold, clever, glib and witty in the presence of other girls, 
 with Miss Donald he was as timid as a schoolboy. It was to her he 
 referred when in New Orleans and near the end he said in speaking 
 
 [ X ] 
 
Irwin Russelly First Dialect Author 
 
 of himself: 'My life has been the romance of a weak young man 
 threaded in with the pure love of ,a mother, a beautiful young girl 
 who hoped to be my wife, and friends who believed in my future. 
 I have watched them lose heart, lose faith, and again and again I 
 have been so stung that I have resolved to save myself in spite of 
 myself. — I never shall.'" 
 
 Then came the summer of 1878. A terrible epidemic of yellow 
 fever raged in Port Gibson, sparing neither young nor old. Irwin 
 Russell worked with untiring zeal nursing the sick and performing 
 the sad offices for the dead. It was an experience that haunted his 
 imagination during the short months to follow. 
 
 The following December Irwin Russell moved to New York, 
 wishing, no doubt, to be in closer touch with the magazine editors. 
 He was received with open arms by the men who had given him 
 steady encouragement, and made a number of new friends. But 
 withal, his stay in New York was fraught with sadness. The boyish 
 spirit in him had been stilled by the ghastly scenes of the epidemic. 
 His health, never of the best, was failing, and he began to indulge 
 a craving for stimulants. The tragedy of his life was deepening. 
 The father whom he idolized died from the effects of overwork the 
 previous summer. No longer could Irwin sing of "niggers in sorrow 
 and joy." He was sorely troubled in body and spirit. Then his 
 health broke completely, and for long weeks he tossed in the delirium 
 of fever. His friends nursed him devotedly, but one day during his 
 convalescence he eluded them, found his way to the docks, and 
 shipped on a vessel bound for New Orleans. 
 
 "Gaunt and weak and wretched as I was, they took me," Russell 
 .afterwards said in New Orleans, "and I did a coal-heaver and fore- 
 man's duty, almost all the way down. Landed here I had no money, 
 no friends, no clothes. I was as black as an imp of Satan and had 
 a very devil of despair in my heart. . ." 
 
 This was in the month of August 1879. Irwin Russell secured a 
 position with The New Orleans Times where he was befriended by 
 Mrs. Catherine Cole, a gifted newspaper writer of the eighties. In 
 her reminiscences of Russell, the latter said: "It was my duty to 
 make up the 'AH Sorts' column, and for weeks at a time he would 
 come daily into my den and scratch off a rhyme or two in inimitable 
 
 [ xi ] 
 
Irwin Russell^ First Dialect Author 
 
 style for the top of my column, and which we wickedly credited to 
 the leading poets of our land. He was gentle and genial, a fellow 
 of infinite jest, and it was no wonder that 'he made friends wherever 
 he went.' He was absolutely without hope for himself — even the 
 wish for himself was dead long since — and it was inexpressibly sad 
 to ihear him speak of himself as of one already dead and all but 
 forgotten by the world. 
 
 "One day, sitting cross-legged on the corner of the office table, he 
 scribbled a last contribution for the 'All Sorts' column and then said 
 'Good-bye. You may not see me again. I fear I shall never look 
 upon you.' It was a morbid, fantastic speech, but true, and Christ- 
 mas Eve, a few days later, we went with our little wreaths of 
 Christmas flowers down into the heart of Franklin street, a wretched, 
 noisy, dirty neighborhood, where all that was mortal of poor Irwin 
 Russell, mere senseless clay, lay in its coffin. . ." 
 
 Irwin Russell died in a shabby rooming house in New Orleans 
 at the age of twenty-six! Irwin Russell, whose life like that of Keats 
 had been a promise and a fulfillment. In the brief years of his 
 career he had created a school to which Thomas Nelson Page, Joel 
 Chandler Harris, and numberless other dialect writers belonged. 
 
 Thomas Nelson Page said in a letter to a friend after the poet's 
 death: "Personally I owe much to him. It was the light of his genius 
 shining through his dialect poems — first of dialect poems then and 
 still first — ^that led my feet in the direction I have tried to follow. . ." 
 
 Irwin Russell, of whom the creator of Uncle Remus wrote: "He 
 possessed, in a remarkable degree, what has been described as the 
 poetical temperament, and though he was little more than twenty-six 
 years old at the time of his death, his sufferings and sorrows made 
 his life a long one. He had at his command everything that affection 
 could suggest; he had loyal friends wherever he went; but, in spite 
 of all this, the waywardness of genius led continually in the direction 
 of suffering and sorrow. In the rush .and hurly-burly of the practical, 
 every-day world, he found himself helpless; and so, after a brief 
 struggle, he died. . ." 
 
 Marse Irwin, who in the too few years of his life could write: 
 
 "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; 
 
 [ xii ] 
 
Irwin RusselL First Dialect Author 
 
 But 'cordin' to the gif s we has we does de be' we knows, 
 An' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flower bekase it ain't de rose. . ." 
 
 Or again, have old blind Ned utter this wise dictum: 
 
 "You's jes' like all musicianers dat learns to play by note; 
 You ain't got music in you, so you has to hab it wrote. . ." 
 
 Yes, stilled was the voice that could sing so merrily to the rollick- 
 ing accompaniment of banjo. Vanished the smile that once height- 
 ened the shadows and lights of a sensitive face. In their stead lines 
 of suffering and sorrow. . . 
 
 To those who appreciate the lasting quality of Irwin Russell's 
 poetry, and who can pause a moment to condole with this sorely 
 tried genius, the following lines will seem most fitting: 
 
 "An' I hopes dey lay him to sleep, seh, 
 
 Some whar' whar' de birds will sing. 
 About him de livelong day, seh, 
 
 An' de flowers will bloom in de spring. . ." 
 
 G. William Nott. 
 
 [ xiii] 
 
Introduction 
 
 THERE are books that are written and published 
 with high hopes and ambitious longings, but this 
 volume is in the nature of a memorial to its author. 
 It represents the results of the brief literary career of 
 Irwin Russell, of Mississippi, who was born at Port 
 Gibson, Mississippi, on the 3d of June, 1853, and who 
 died at New Orleans on the 23d of December, 1879. 
 
 He possessed, in a remarkable degree, what has been 
 described as the poetical temperament, and though he 
 was little more than twenty-six years old at the time 
 of his death, his sufferings and his sorrows made his 
 life a long one. He had at his command everything 
 that affection could suggest; he had loyal friends 
 wherever he went; but, in spite of all this, the way- 
 wardness of genius led continually in the direction of 
 suffering and sorrow. In the rush and hurly-burly 
 of the practical, every-day world, he found himself 
 helpless; and so, after a brief struggle, he died. 
 
 Irwin Russell was among the first — if not the very 
 first — of Southern writers to appreciate the literary 
 possibilities of the Negro character, and of the unique 
 relations existing between the two races before the 
 war, and was among the first to develop them. The 
 opinion of an uncritical mind ought not to go for 
 much, but it seems to me that some of Irwin Russell's 
 Negro-character studies rise to the level of what, in a 
 large way, we term literature His Negro operetta, 
 "Christmas-Night in the Quarters," is inimitable. It 
 
 [ XV ] 
 
Introduction 
 
 combines the features of a character study with a series 
 of bold and striking plantation pictures that have never 
 been surpassed. In this remarkable group, — if I may 
 so term it, — the old life before the war is reproduced 
 with a fidelity that is marvelous. 
 
 But the most wonderful thing about the dialect 
 poetry of Irwin Russell is his accurate conception of 
 the Negro character. The dialect is not always the 
 best, — it is often carelessly written, — but the Negro is 
 there, the old-fashioned, unadulterated Negro, who is 
 still dear to the Southern heart. There is no straining 
 after effect — indeed, the poems produce their result by 
 indirection; but I do not know where could be found 
 to-day a happier or a more perfect representation of 
 Negro character. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 [ xvi] 
 

 
 ■^/^ 
 
 v.oV..f 
 
 Christmas-Night in the Quarters 
 
 When merry Christmas-day is done, 
 And Christmas-night is just begun; 
 While clouds in slow procession drift, 
 To wish the moon-man "Christmas gift," 
 Yet linger overhead, to know 
 What causes all the stir below; 
 At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball 
 The darkies hold high carnival. 
 From all the country-side they throng, 
 With laughter, shouts, and scraps of song,- 
 Their whole deportment plainly showing 
 That to the Frolic they are going. 
 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 
 
 [11 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 The wagon from "de oder place," 
 
 With forty guests, whose conversation 
 
 Betokens glad anticipation. 
 
 Not so with him who drives: old Jim 
 
 Is sagely solemn, hard, and grim. 
 
 And frolics have no joys for him. 
 
 He seldom speaks but to condemn — 
 
 Or utter some wise apothegm — 
 
 Or else, some crabbed thought pursuing, 
 
 Talk to his team, as now he's doing: 
 
 Come up heah. Star! Yee-bawee! 
 
 You alluz is a-laggin' — 
 Mus' be you think I's dead. 
 
 An' dis de huss you's draggin' — 
 You's 'mos' too lazy to draw yo' bref, 
 
 Let 'lone drawin' de waggin. 
 
 Dis team — quit bel'rin', sah! 
 
 De ladies don't submit 'at — 
 Dis team — you ol' fool ox, 
 
 You heah me tell you quit 'at? 
 Dis team's des like de 'Nited States; 
 
 Dafs what I's tryin' to git at! 
 
 De people rides behin', 
 
 De pollytishners haulin' — 
 Sh'u'd be a well-bruk ox. 
 
 To foller dat ar callin' — 
 An' sometimes nuffin won't do dem steers, 
 
 But what dey mus' be stallin'! 
 
 [ 2 J 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 >!>.'!' 
 
 Woo bahgh! Buck-kannon! Yes, sah, 
 Sometimes dey will be stickin'; 
 
 An' den, fus thing dey knows, 
 Dey takes a rale good lickin'. 
 
 De folks gits down: an' den watch out 
 For hommerin' an' kickin'. 
 
 Dey blows upon dey hands, 
 
 Den flings 'em wid de nails up. 
 
 Jumps up an' cracks dey heels, 
 An' pruzently dey sails up. 
 
 An' makes dem oxen hump deysef. 
 By twistin' all dey tails up! 
 
 In this our age of printer's ink 
 ^Tis books that show us how to think — 
 The rule reversed, and set at naught. 
 That held that books were born of thought. 
 
 f 3 J 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 We form our minds by pedants' rules, 
 And all we know is from the schools; 
 And when we work, or ^vhen yve play, 
 We do it in an ordered way — 
 And Nature's self pronounce a ban on, 
 Whene'er she dares trangress a canon. 
 Untrammeled thus the simple race is 
 That "wuks the craps" on cotton places. 
 Original in act and thought. 
 Because unlearned and untaught. 
 Observe them at their Christmas party: 
 How unrestrained their mirth — how hearty! 
 How many things they say and do 
 That never would occur to you! 
 See Brudder Brown — ^whose saving grace 
 Would sanctify a quarter-race — 
 Out on the crowded floor advance. 
 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 what we does — you knows 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 I 
 
 We labors in de vineya'd, wukin' hard an' wukin' 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. 
 
 [ 4 J 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 Remember, Mahsr, — min' dis, now, — de sinfulness ob 
 
 sm 
 
 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-f eelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing. 
 
 It seems to me — indeed it do — I mebbe mout be 
 
 wrong — 
 That 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 de bo win' 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; 
 
 r 5 J 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 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. 
 
 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, untel we conies 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 I 
 
 Amen. 
 
 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. 
 Stop, satisfied, then, with the bow. 
 Rap out the signal dancers know: 
 
 Git yd' pardners^ fust kivattillion! 
 Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high; 
 Tune is: "Oh! dat water-million! 
 Gwine to git to home bime-bye." 
 
 [ 6 ] 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 S'lute yd pardners! — ^scrape perlitely- 
 Don't be bumpin' gin de res' — 
 Balance all! — now, step out rightly; 
 AUuz dance yo' lebbel bes'. 
 Fd'wa'd foah! — whoop up, niggers! 
 Back ag'inf — don't be so slow! — 
 Swing cornahs! — min' de figgers! 
 When I hollers, den yo' go. 
 Top ladies cross ober! 
 
 [ 7 ] 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 HoF on, till I takes a dram — 
 
 Gemmen solo! — yes, Vs sober — 
 
 Cain't say how de fiddle am. 
 
 Hands around! — hoi' up yo' faces. 
 
 Don't be lookin' at yo' feet! 
 
 Swing yd' pardners to yo places! 
 
 Dat's de way — dat's hard to beat. 
 
 Sides fdufd! — when you's ready — 
 
 Make a bow as low's you kin! 
 
 Swing acrost wid opposite lady! 
 
 Now we'll let you swap ag'in: 
 
 Ladies change! — shet up dat talkin'; 
 
 Do yo' talkin' arter while! 
 
 Right ari! lef! — don't want no walkin' — 
 
 Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style! 
 
 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! 
 
 [ ^ ] 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 A! 
 
 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 conjurors, and ghosts, and devils. 
 That in the smoke-house hold their revels; 
 Each drov^sy baby droops his head. 
 Yet scorns the very thought of bed: — 
 So' wears the night, and wears so fast, 
 All wonder w^hen they find it past. 
 And hear the signal sound to go 
 From what few cocks are left to crow. 
 Then, one and all, you hear them shout: 
 "Hi! Booker! fotch de banjo out. 
 An' gib us one song 'fore we goes — 
 One ob de berry bes' you knows!" 
 
 [ 9 ] 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 Responding to the welcome call, 
 He takes the banjo from the wall. 
 And tunes the strings with skill and care. 
 Then strikes them with a master's air, 
 And tells, in melody and rhyme. 
 This legend of the olden time: 
 
 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 the "Herald," an' 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 the 
 
 steamah Natchez. 
 
 or 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 — 
 
 [10 J 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 
 
 - li. 
 
 
 /' /:i^/. "-' 
 
 t/^l> 
 
 ■^r- 
 
 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. 
 
 Den sech anoder fall ob rain! — it comes 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 work 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; tell, whut wid 
 
 all de fussin', 
 You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'round' an' 
 
 cussin'. 
 
 fll J 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de 
 packet, 
 
 Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de 
 rackety 
 
 An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, lie steamed some wood 
 an' bent it, 
 
 An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat wuz in- 
 vented 
 
 He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' 
 
 screws an' aprin; 
 An' fitted in a proper neck — 'twuz berry long an' 
 
 tap'rin'; 
 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'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 wash-day-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! 
 
 fl2J 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 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! 
 
 The night is spent; and as the day 
 Throws up the first faint flash of gray, 
 The guests pursue their homeward way; 
 
 fl3J 
 
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 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. 
 And thus observes a colored youth 
 (The common sentiment, in sooth): 
 "Oh! what a blessin' 'tw'u'd ha' been, 
 Ef Santy had been born a twin! 
 We'd hab two Chrismuses a yeah — 
 Or p'r'aps one brudder'd settle heah!" 
 
 I'UJ 
 
Margaret Dashiell 
 
 IN formal biographical notes Margaret Dashiell can never be 
 captured. A characteristic of her own work sets the key, and any 
 interpretation of her life, of her art, should be of suggestion, 
 rather than in definite expression. 
 
 Surely her early environment played an exceptionally important 
 role in her development, for to the influence of its contradictions her 
 nature responded. Of distinguished English lineage her father, her 
 mother Louisianan, she was born in New Orleans, and brought up 
 there in a high- walled spacious house in the French Quarter. An only 
 daughter, surrounded by every luxury, every care, she unconsciously 
 absorbed all that the cultural background of an old regime could 
 offer. To an Irish governess, whose lovely photograph she treasures, 
 Margaret Dashiell no doubt owes much. From this wise and intuitive 
 teacher she drew the haunting charm of ancient legends, the humour 
 and poetry of an enchanting land. Much of that was later reflected 
 in her paintings of New Orleans, which manifest subtle appreciation 
 of superstitions and traditions ingrained in the daily life of a French 
 Creole town. The foreign atmosphere of that town may throw light 
 upon her deeply rooted feeling for the Roman Catholic Church, its 
 ritual and ceremony ever appealing to her Protestant faith. Deeper 
 still was its effect, for she has always carried into every battle life 
 offered something of the traditional gaiety and gallantry of Old 
 World France. 
 
 As a young girl scarcely grown, Margaret Dashiell, then Margaret 
 May, came with her mother to Richmond. Here she married, and 
 here for a long time she has lived, bound up in the city, in the lives 
 of countless friends. She has become, in very truth, a native and 
 Richmond claims her as its own. Varied has been her career, her 
 interests ranging from active work under Ellen Glasgow's leadership 
 in the S. P. C. A. (she often painted pictures in that cause) to wide 
 fields of study and research. For years she dealt in fine prints and 
 other works of art, thus extending her horizons to contacts with 
 famous artists, with collectors, connoisseurs, among whom she could 
 hold her own so broad her erudition. 
 
 [ 15 ] 
 
Margaret Dashiel 
 
 A brilliant footlight illuminates her small, quaint "Serendipity 
 Shop" on a side street. Mrs. Fiske loved to frequent it, and did so 
 whenever playing at the local theatre. There, between matinee and 
 evening performances, she would journey to lie on the sofa, to rest, 
 relax, and enjoy conversation with a congenial companion, one well 
 versed in lore of the theatre and aware of what great acting can mean. 
 
 Indeed that shop, guarded by the adored fox terrier, Philip, was 
 a scene worthy of any stage. A visit there was an adventure, entrance 
 into a fairy story. Seldom did any one, certainly never a child — Mrs. 
 Dashiell's own small son may have created this insight — depart with- 
 out a lagniappe, a tiny nickel image of St. Joseph in a case her 
 favorite offering. How characteristic that she clung to that Louisiana 
 custom, for to give is to her breath of life. 
 
 Circumstances forced the Dashiell family to many changes of 
 abode. In each setting the same cherished possessions were rearranged 
 to the delight and satisfaction of her friends. Impossible it was to 
 associate her, with her eighteenth century French appearance and 
 quality, apart from the priceless Buddha, the small della Robbia holy 
 water stoup, the exquisite Chinese screen, the Buhl cabinet. Books 
 galore there were, of course, and more intriguing still on the tables 
 gay leather folders and scrap books, heavy with pictures, clippings, 
 quotations. 
 
 From each new home there would at once begin to flow products 
 of her brush and pen. Rare in substance are these jewel-like vignettes 
 of Richmond, and in a few lines pen-and-ink drawings tell the tale 
 with humour, tenderness and grace. Of a by-gone day always the 
 themes.^ — Yes, some even dated from plantation life, but the tech- 
 nique, and this on Stark Young's authority, extremely modern. 
 
 The museums of Richmond in purchasing Margaret Dashiell's 
 work give promise to the future. More and more will she be 
 recognized as a social historian of the nineties, upon which period 
 she concentrated. Into that all but vanished past one who can catch 
 meanings out of the air reached and gathered much that might have 
 been forever lost. Her unique studies, vivid genre scenes, frequently 
 are depicted against backgrounds of authentic churches and houses 
 of tha;t era. 
 
 Through the magic of her art we see again the coloured people. 
 
 fUJ 
 
Margaret Dashiel 
 
 of a far-off time. Her sympathetic understanding of that race is 
 revealed in poignant reading of it. Here are gossips in the alley; 
 there an old butler, directed by the mistress of the house, in prepa- 
 ration for a reunion, hangs a Confederate flag across a portico; 
 drivers of country mule-drawn wagons peddle their wares up and 
 down the quiet streets. Once more, in the parks and gardens, are 
 nurses trundling babies in carriages under embroidered parasols, an 
 infant in lace- trimmed robe, borne in arms, protected by a floating 
 pale blue veil pinned to Mammy's shoulder, children in Mother 
 Hubbard frocks, with curls, sunbonnets and wide hats, with skipping 
 ropes and hoops, small boys with curls also, ,and Windsor ties, in 
 sailor suits, playing with marbles and with tops. Veterans as gray as 
 their uniforms, young women in widows' weeds, alert little pick- 
 aninnies — all move again before us in the flower markets, or on the 
 sunny sidewalks of the town. 
 
 Valuable is this contribution, great the debt Richmond owes to an 
 artist who held intact a rich tradition. 
 
 All honour to Margaret Dashiell! 
 
 Richmond, Virginm. Roberta Trigg. 
 
 [17 ] 
 
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