A Negro Poet

Paul Lawrence Dunbar's "Lyrics of Lowly Life"

Surely there is a poet born to us, a man whose lines are singing ones,
who throws in words all aglow with rich colors, who interprets human
passions, who counts heart throbs, and, incomprehensible as it may seem,
has a subtle humor, is keen, abounding in mother wit, and, to sum it all
up, has an originality quite his own. Paul Laurence Dunbar is the poet's
name, and Mr. Howells says of him: "As far as I could remember, Paul
Dunbar was (or is) the only man of pure African blood and of American
civilization to feel the negro life aesthetically and express it
lyrically." There was, however, a colored woman who, before the
Revolution, really did write good verse, and whose book, principally on
religious subjects, was printed.

As for the story of the life of the author of "Lyrics of Lowly Places,"
his father was a runaway slave from Kentucky who fled to Canada. His
mother, freed by the civil war, came to Dayton, Ohio, where her son was
born. Paul taught himself to read, and delighted in history. The mother
was fond of books and shared her son's "special love for poetry." When
the father, who was a plasterer, died there was a hard fight for both
the boy and his mother with poverty. Then Dayton learned that there was
a colored boy who wrote poetry, and at first it wondered, and then it
admired, and, to the credit of Dayton, the lad found many warm and kind
friends. The reputation of the lad kept growing. There was, as Mr.
Howells writes it, "cordial appreciation, critical recognition," and
then, most kindly, Mr. Howells obtained work for Paul Dunbar more
congenial to his tastes.

Now, what has the fact that Paul Dunbar is a colored man to do with the
subject? Give over any surprise which might arise from a false
prejudice. To put it in the most commonplace manner, there is Paul
Laurence Dunbar's semblance opposite the title page, showing in
photogravure the portrait, and, to use an old Southern expression, it is
that of "a likely field hand." But no Röntgen ray will fill the fibre of
that brain the man possesses. You are conscious of its power, even of
its subtlety, when you read the verses.

There may be divisions as to taste and as to the quality of the verse.
You compliment his pure English verses when you compare them with those
of the great ones, for they hold their own with many a poet of to-day
who has a reputation. In his pure negro songs and those in what may be
called a half dialect Dunbar is simply incomparable. He catches the
peculiarities of his own people, not in language alone, but in their
thoughts. His verses have the singular quality of fixation. You remember
them with scarce a mental effort, and that is one indicative stamp of
what is really good poetry. Extracts from the "Lyrics" might be endless.
Here is one, with a bit of moral to it, which is capital, and note the
banter at the end of it:

# The Dilettanti: A modern Type

> He scribbles some in prose and verse,
>
> And now and then he prints it;
>
> He paints a little-gathers some
>
> Of nature's gold and mints it.
>
> He plays a little, sings a song;
>
> Acts tragic roles, or funny;
>
> He does, because his love is strong,
>
> But not, oh, not for money!
>
> He studies almost everything,
>
> From social art to science;
>
> A thirsty mind, a flowing spring;
>
> Demand and swift compliance.
>
> He looms above the sordid crowd,
>
> At least through friendly lenses,
>
> While his mamma looks pleased and proud,
>
> And kindly pays expenses.
>
> \- From Lyrics of Lowly Life

There is one called "Curtain," which is a quick analysis of a play and a
criticism on the melodrama of to-day:

> **Curtain.**
>
> Villain shows his indiscretion,
>
> Villain's partner makes confession,
>
> Juvenile, with golden tresses,
>
> Finds her pa and dons long dresses,
>
> Scapegrace comes home money-laden'
>
> Hero comforts tearful maiden'
>
> Sonbrette marries loyal chappie;
>
> Villain skips, and all are happy.

You might fancy the swell, who has been in the parquet and bored,
knocking of this octet at his club. In graver manner is this:

> **Conscience and Remorse**
>
> "Good-bye," I said to my conscience --
>
> "Good-bye for aye and aye,"
>
> And I put her hands off harshly,
>
> And turned my face away;
>
> And conscience smitten sorely
>
> Returned not for that day.
>
> But a time came when my spirit
>
> Grew weary of its pace.
>
> And I cried "Come back, my conscience,
>
> I long to see thy face."
>
> And conscience cried, "I cannot;
>
> Remorse sits in my place."

If ever there was a negro who was the eater of the lotus, Paul Dunbar in
his "Song of Summer" shows him. We have no room to quote in full the
deliciously lazy lines. They begin:

> Dis is gospel wenthah sho' --
>
> Hills is sawt o' hazy;
>
> Meddahs level ez a flo'
>
> Calling to de lazy.

And the ending:

> Breeze is blowin' wif perfume,
>
> Jes' enough to tease you;
>
> Hollyhocks is all in bloom.
>
> Smellin' fer to please you --
>
> Go 'way, folks, an let me 'lone,
>
> Times is getting dearah --
>
> Summah's settin' on de th'one
>
> An' I'm a laying near her!

Those musical lines in this bleak weather make you long to be "dreamin'
by de rivah's side." "Accountability" has its funny catch at the end of
it. Some negro is discussing the ways of nature. The idea is that we
have no right to censure folks "about dey habits." The "Squir'ls have
bushtails and the rabbits bobtails." We have our likes and dislikes. You
are firmly convinced that everything is wisely ordained. The ending
reads:

> Nuthin's done, er evah happens, 'dout
>
> Hit's somefin' dat's intended;
>
> Don't keer what you does, you has to,
>
> An' it sholy beats de dickens --
>
> Viney, go put on de kettle. I got one
>
> O' mastah's chickens."

Thanksgiving is near and the "tu'key" is unconscious of his fate, and
Paul Dunbar describes the coming and festival in "Signs of the Times."
Appreciate the wind-up. Do you not see and smell the preparations for
the feast?

> Choppin' suet in the kitchen,
>
> Stonin' raisins in de hall,
>
> Beef a-cookin' fu' de mince meat,
>
> Spices ground-I smell 'em all.
>
> Look hyeah, Tu'key, stop dat gobblin!
>
> You ain' luned de sense ob feah;
>
> You ol' fool, yo' naik's in danjah.
>
> Do you know Thanksgibbin's hyeah?

There is the keenest satire in "An Ante-Bellum Sermon," where the old
colored preacher talks of "Pher-oh" and Moses, who "comes and sets the
Israelites free," and the recurring refrain is "I'm talking about ouah
freedom in a Bibleistic way," and

> Now, don't run an' tell yo' mastahs
>
> Dat I's preaching discontent.

No New Englander, not even Lowell, could have written better the longing
some ancient people have for a return to the old style of singing in the
choir which Paul Dunbar treats of in "Deacon Jones' Grievance":

> \*\*\*The loose an keerless way
>
> At the young folks treat the music,
>
> 'Taint the proper sort o' choir;
>
> Then, I don't believe in Christuns
>
> A-singing hymns for hire.

The poet's comic vein is at its best in "Deacon Jones' Grievance," and
especially in "The Party." There could not be a jollification written in
more engaging rhyme, and then the by-play of the listener who hears the
story of that party! The chorus is inimitable, for the story teller
says:

> \*\*\*We dariced dat way an'
>
> capahed in de mos' redic'lous way,
>
> 'Twell de roostahs in de barnyard
>
> chleahed deir th'oats an' crowed for day.

A true singer of the people, white or black, it makes no matter, has
been found.

New York Times, February 6, 1897

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