Per Year, Qpe Dollar. 
 
 y 
 
SOUTHERN WRITERS SERI S 
 
 In a series of twelve papers the writer proposes 
 to give a tolerably complete survey of that lflterary 
 movement which, beginning about 1870, has e >read 
 over the entire South. Since that time Southern 
 writers have been conspicuous among the chief con 
 tributors to the nation’s literature. There v,' be 
 no attempt to place a final estimate upon thi- con¬ 
 tribution, though some critical opinions wil now 
 and then be offered. The effort will be rat r to 
 present biographical data and literary apj -gela¬ 
 tions—to stimulate the desire for a more in Mate 
 acquaintance with this literature which is so 
 original, and racy of the soil. The series w ap 
 pear as follows: 
 
 No. 1. Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 No. 2. Maurice Thompson. 
 
 No. 3. Sidney Lanier. 
 
 No. 4. Irwin Russell. 
 
 No. 5. Mrs. Margaret J. Preston. 
 
 No. 6. George Washington Cable. 
 
 No. 7. Charles Egbert Craddock. 
 
 No. 8. Richard Malcolm Johnston, 
 
 No. 9. Thomas Nelson Page. 
 
 No. 10. James Lane Allen. 
 
 No. 11. Miss Grace King. 
 
 No. 12. Samuel Minturn Peck. 
 
 These writers may not unfairly be considered 
 typical and representative of the best that has been 
 produced in this new era. 
 
 Southern Writers: Published Monthly. 
 Subscription price, $1 a year. Single copies, 10 
 cents, postage paid. 
 
 Send orders for the whole series or for separate 
 numbers to 
 
 BARBEE 6c SMITH, Agents, 
 
 Nashville, Tenn, 
 
 Copyright, 1896^ 
 
3oel CbanMer Ibarrts. 
 
 IDDLE GEORGIA is the 
 birthplace and home of the 
 raciest and most original 
 kind of Southern humor) (in this 
 quarter native material was earliest 
 recognized and first made use of. A 
 school of writers arose who looked 
 out of their eyes and listened with 
 their ears, who took frank interest in 
 things for their own sake, and had 
 enduring astonishment at the most 
 common. They seized the warm 
 and palpitating facts of everyday 
 existence, and gave them to the 
 world with all the accompaniments 
 of quaint dialect, original humor, 
 and Southern plantation life. 1 'The 
 Middle Georgians are a simple, 
 healthy, homogeneous folk, resem¬ 
 bling for the most part other South¬ 
 erners of like rank and calling in 
 their manners, customs, and general 
 
 1 
 
5oel CbanMer Ibattts* 
 
 way of living. But they have de¬ 
 veloped a certain manly, vigorous, 
 fearless independence of thought 
 and action, and an ever increasing 
 propensity to take a humorous view 
 of life. In their earlier writings it 
 is a homely wit, in which broad hu¬ 
 mor and loud laughter predominate ; 
 but tears are lurking in the corners 
 of the eyes, and genuine sentiment 
 nestles in the heart. In more re¬ 
 cent times the horizon has widened, 
 and there has been a gain in both 
 breadth of view and depth of in¬ 
 sight. Genius and art have com¬ 
 bined to make this classic soil. J 
 It is a small section of country, 
 comprising only a few counties, but 
 with them are indelibly associated 
 the names of A. B. Longstreet, W. 
 T. Thompson, J. J. Hooper, Francis 
 O. Ticknor, Richard Malcolm John¬ 
 ston, Harry Stillwell Edwards, Sid¬ 
 ney Lanier, Maurice Thompson, Joel 
 Chandler Harris, and many other less 
 known writers. If we turn to their 
 characters and scenes, the associa- 
 
 2 
 
3oel GbanDler Ibatds. 
 
 tion is still more intimate. Ransy 
 Sniffle and Ned Brace belong to 
 Baldwin, the scene of “ The Fight,” 
 u The Gander Pulling,” and u The 
 Militia Drill.” In the woods and 
 along the river banks of the same 
 county u The Two Runaways ” 
 were wont at a later day to enjoy 
 their annual escapade. “ Simon 
 Suggs ” was a native of Jasper; 
 “ Major Jones’s Courtship ” took 
 place in Morgan; “ Mr. Absalom 
 Billingslea and Other Georgia 
 Folk” are at home in Hancock; 
 but to^Putnam County was awarded 
 the honor of giving' birth to u Uncle 
 Remus,” a veritable Ethiopian 
 FEsop, philosopher, and gentleman, 
 and to the u Little Boy,” whose 
 inexhaustible curiosity and eager¬ 
 ness to hear a “ story ” have called 
 forth the most valuable and, in the 
 writer’s opinion, the most perma¬ 
 nent contribution to American lit¬ 
 erature ijn the last quarter of this 
 century. 
 
 This school of humorists are not 
 
 3 
 
$oel CbanMcc Ibarrts. 
 
 realists at all in the modern sense; 
 for nothing is farther from their 
 writings than sadness, morbidness, 
 and pessimism. (Naturalism is the 
 term by which their literary method 
 may best be characterized.^ (They 
 look frankly and hearken attentive¬ 
 ly,^'following, at a great distance it 
 may be, Fielding’s and the great 
 master’s plan of holding the mirror 
 lip to nature. But coloring, tone, 
 and substance have been reproduced 
 with such absolute fidelity because 
 the heart is full of hope, the eye 
 bright, and a smile ever playing 
 around the mouth. It is also easy 
 to see that they are to the manner 
 born. “ To be sure,” says Judge 
 Longstreet, “in writing the 
 1 Georgia Scenes ’ I have not con¬ 
 fined myself to strictly veracious 
 historic detail; but there is scarcely 
 one word from the beginning to 
 the end of the book that is not 
 strictly Georgian. The scenes 
 which I describe—as, for instance, 
 ‘ The Gander Pulling’—occurred at 
 
 4 
 
3oel CbanDlet Ibams. 
 
 the very place where I locate them.” 
 Shortly after the appearance of 
 “ The Adventures of Capt. Simon 
 Suggs,” a friend met the original 
 on the streets of Monticello and 
 said: “ Squire Suggs, do you re¬ 
 member Jonce Hooper — little 
 Jonce? ” “Seems to me I do,” 
 replied Mr. Suggs. “ Well, Squire, 
 little Jonce has gone and noveled 
 you.” Mr. Suggs looked serious. 
 “ Gone and noveled me? ” he ex¬ 
 claimed. “Well, I’ll be dangecl! 
 Gone and noveled me ? What 
 could ’a possessed him ? ” Since 
 the Civil War the “ noveling ” 
 process has gone on with enlarged 
 sympathies and greater success. A 
 new figure has been added to the 
 picture, making it more complete— 
 the negro. With the wider view 
 has also come greater freedom of 
 treatment, and no writers in the 
 South have appreciated this mental 
 and artistic liberty more than the 
 Georgians. Each of them has, by 
 means of the simplicity, humor, and 
 
 5 
 
$oel CbanMcr Ibarrts* 
 
 individuality which characterize the 
 school, made a distinct contribution 
 to the sum of human interest and 
 enjoyment. (But the most sympa¬ 
 thetic, the most original, the truest 
 delineator of this larger life—its 
 manners, customs, amusements, 
 dialect, folklore, humor, pathos, and 
 character—is Joel Chandler Harris.) 
 
 His birthplace was Eatonton, the 
 capital of Putnam County, in Middle 
 Georgia, and the date of his birth 
 December 9, 1848. Slight bio- 
 grapical and personal sketches of 
 him have appeared in the Critic , 
 in Literature , and in the Book 
 Buyer , but the best account of his 
 early life is to be found in “ On the 
 Plantation,” one of the most inter¬ 
 esting books that Mr. Harris has 
 written. In this delightful volume 
 it is not easy to tell “where confes¬ 
 sion ends and how far fiction em¬ 
 broiders truth.” But the author has 
 kindly left it to the reader to “ sift 
 the fact from the fiction, and label 
 it to suit himself.” As has been 
 
 6 
 
3oel Gbanfclet Ibarrts, 
 
 said of another romancer, it is not 
 through the accidental circumstan¬ 
 ces of his life that he belongs to 
 history, but through his talent; and 
 his talent is in his books. Our first 
 glimpse of Mr. Harris is in the lit¬ 
 tle post office of Eatonton, which is 
 also a u country store,” and much 
 frequented for both purposes. He 
 is sitting upon a rickety, old, faded 
 green sofa, in a corner of which he 
 used to curl up nearly every day, 
 reading such stray newspapers as 
 he could lay his hands on, and 
 watching the people come and go. 
 His look betrays shyness and sensi¬ 
 tiveness, though it is full of obser¬ 
 vation. He is reading in a Mil- 
 ledgeville paper the announcement 
 of a Mr. Turner, whose acquaint¬ 
 ance he has recently made, that he 
 will begin the publication the fol¬ 
 lowing Tuesday of a weekly news¬ 
 paper, to be called the Country¬ 
 man . It is to be modeled after Mr. 
 Addison’s little paper, the Specta¬ 
 tor , Mr. Goldsmith’s little paper, 
 
 7 
 
3-oel GbanDler Ibarrts* 
 
 the Bee , and Mr. Johnson’s little 
 paper, the Rambler. He has 
 heard of these, for he has had a 
 few terms in the Eatonton Acade¬ 
 my, and read some of the best books 
 of the eighteenth century. When 
 the u Vicar of Wakefield” is men¬ 
 tioned his eye sparkles, for since he 
 was six years of age that wonderful 
 story has been a stimulus to his 
 imagination, and made him eager to 
 read all books. He is proud of his 
 acquaintance with a real editor, and 
 waits with great impatience for the 
 first issue of the Countryman. In 
 the meanwhile we learn that he can¬ 
 not be called a studious lad, or at 
 any rate that he is not at all fond of 
 the books in his desk at the Eaton¬ 
 ton Academy. On the contrary, he 
 is of an adventurous turn of mind, 
 full of all sorts of pranks and 
 capers ; and plenty of people in the 
 little town are ready to declare that 
 he will come to some bad end if he 
 is not more frequently dosed with 
 what the old folks call “ hickory 
 
 8 
 
3-oel Chandler Ibarrls* 
 
 oil.” But he has a strange sympa¬ 
 thy with animals of all kinds, es¬ 
 pecially horses and dogs, and a 
 deeper, tenderer sympathy with ail 
 human beings. 
 
 At last the first issue arrives, and 
 is read from beginning to end—ad¬ 
 vertisements and all. The most im¬ 
 portant thing in it, as it turned out, 
 was the announcement that the edi¬ 
 tor wanted a boy to learn the print¬ 
 ing business. The friendly post¬ 
 master furnished pen, ink, and 
 paper, and the lad applied for the 
 place and got it. Mr. Turner lived I 
 about nine miles from Eatonton, on 
 a plantation of some two thousand 
 acres, which was well supplied with 
 slaves, horses, dogs, and game of 
 different kinds. He was a lover of 
 books, and had a choice collection of 
 two or three thousand volumes. 
 His wealth also enabled him to con¬ 
 duct the only country newspaper in 
 the world, which he did so success¬ 
 fully that it reached a circulation of 
 nearly two thousand copies. On 
 1 * 9 
 
5oel Gbandler Ibarrfs. 
 
 the plantation was a pack of well- 
 trained harriers, with which the lit¬ 
 tle printer hunted rabbits, and a 
 fine hound or two of the Birdsong- 
 breed, with which he chased the red 
 fox. With the negroes he learned 
 to hunt coons, and possums, and 
 from them he heard those stories 
 which have since placed their nar¬ 
 rator in the list of the immortals. 
 The printing office sat deep in a 
 large grove of oaks, full of gray 
 squirrels which kept the solitary 
 typesetter company, running about 
 over the roofs and playing “hide 
 and seek” like children. From his 
 window he watched the partridge 
 and her mate build their artful nest, 
 observed their coquetries, and from 
 her mysteriously skillful manner of 
 drawing one away from her nest or 
 her young he learned one of his 
 earliest and most puzzling lessons 
 in bird craft. The noisy jay, the 
 hammering woodpecker, and the 
 vivacious and tuneful mocking bird 
 lent their accompaniment to the 
 
 10 
 
5oel CbanDler Ibartis* 
 
 clicking of the types. At twelve 
 years o f age, then, Mr. Harris 
 found himself in this ideal situation 
 for the richest and most healthful 
 development of his talents. Type¬ 
 setting came easy, and the lad had 
 the dogs to himself in the late after¬ 
 noon and the books at night, and he 
 made the most of both. The schol¬ 
 arly planter turned him loose to 
 browse at will in his library, only 
 now and then giving a judicious 
 hint. The great Elizabethans first 
 caught his fancy, and quaint old 
 meditative and poetical Sir Thomas 
 Browne became one of his prime 
 favorites, a place he yet holds. He 
 made many friends among the 
 standard authors that only a boy of 
 a peculiar turn of mind would take 
 to his bosom. But no book at any 
 time has ever usurped the place of 
 the inimitable “ Vicar of Wake¬ 
 field ” in his affections—Goethe’s, 
 Scott’s, Irving’s, Thackeray’s, all 
 humanity’s adorable Vicar. Mr. 
 Harris, like Sir Walter, has read it 
 
 11 
 
5oel Chandler Ibattte. 
 
 in youth and in age, and the charm 
 endures. In a recent paper he 
 wrote: “ The first book that ever 
 attracted my attention, and the one 
 that has held it longest, was and is 
 the ‘Vicar of Wakefield.’ The 
 only way to describe my experience 
 with that book is to acknowledge 
 that I am a crank. It touches me 
 more deeply, it gives me the i all- 
 overs ’ more severely than all others. 
 Its simplicity, its air of extreme 
 wonderment, have touched and con¬ 
 tinue to touch me deeply.” These 
 two favorites have since that early 
 period found worthy rivals in the 
 Bible and Shakespeare, and he is 
 specially serious when he talks of 
 his heroes, Lee, Jackson, and Lin¬ 
 coln. Job, Ecclesiastes, and Paul’s 
 writings are his prime favorites; 
 but all good books interest him 
 more or less, though at the present 
 time an ardent young writer on a 
 pilgrimage to this shrine would per¬ 
 haps find Mr. Harris’s library as 
 scantly supplied as Mr. Howells. 
 
 12 
 
Joel GbanDlec Ibarrle. 
 
 found Hawthorne’s. There are 
 only a few books, but they are the 
 best, and they have been read and 
 reread. Emerson, however, is not 
 of this number; his “ queer self- 
 consciousness ” and attitude of self- 
 sufficiency have never appealed to 
 him in any winning- way. “You 
 cannot expect an uncultured Georgia 
 cracker to follow patiently the con¬ 
 volute diagrams of the oversoul,” 
 he will say ; adding, with a quizzic¬ 
 al smile: u You see I am perfectly 
 frank in this, presenting the appear¬ 
 ance of feeling as proud of my lack 
 of taste and culture as a little girl is 
 of her rag doll.” But when culture 
 and individuality are united, as he 
 found them in Lowell, they receive 
 his frankest admiration. u Culture 
 is a very fine thing, indeed,” he 
 wrote of Mr. Lowell on his seven¬ 
 tieth birthday, “but it is never of 
 much account, either in life or in 
 literature, unless it is used as a cat 
 uses a mouse, as a source of mirth 
 and luxury. It is at its finest in 
 
 13 
 
$oel CbanDler 1barris* 
 
 this country when it is grafted on 
 the sturdiness that has made the na¬ 
 tion what it is, and when it is forti¬ 
 fied by the strong common sense 
 that has developed and preserved 
 the republic. This is culture with 
 a definite aim and purpose, 
 and we feel the ardent spirit of it in 
 pretty much everything Mr. Lowell 
 has written.” As for the realists, 
 he admires u immensely ” what is 
 best in them, though he has no 
 fondness for minute psychological 
 analysis. He likes a story and 
 u human nature, humble, fascina¬ 
 ting, plain, common human nature.” 
 “A man is known by the company 
 he keeps,” is a saying with a wider 
 application, I fancy, than is com- 
 ly given to it. I had a friend once 
 —a strong, earnest, meditative, silent 
 man—over the mantel in whose 
 study hung a portrait of William 
 Cullen Bryant. The kinship of na¬ 
 ture could easily be traced between 
 these two and that great American 
 of whom Bryant wrote : 
 
 14 
 
3oel CbanMer ibarrte. 
 
 The wildest storm that sweeps through 
 space, 
 
 And rends the oak with sudden force, 
 Can raise no ripple on his face, 
 
 Or slacken his majestic course. 
 
 I could easily imagine my friend 
 in the heart of some primeval forest 
 —he had a deep and reverent love 
 of nature—repeating his favorite 
 lines : 
 
 Be it ours to meditate, 
 
 In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
 And to the beautiful order of thy works 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
 And so, consciously or unconscious¬ 
 ly, Mr. Harris has imbibed old- 
 fashioned ways of simplicity, nat¬ 
 uralness, and truth from his Shakes¬ 
 peare and Bible ; has had ingrained 
 in the fiber of his being the gentle¬ 
 ness, delicacy, and purity of feeling 
 which distinguish the good Vicar’s 
 author, and has conformed his life 
 to that sentiment of Sir Thomas 
 Browne’s which 11 The Autocrat ” 
 considered the most admirable in 
 any literature : u Every man truly 
 lives so long as he acts his nature 
 
 15 
 
^oel GbanMer Ibarns, 
 
 or some way makes good the facul¬ 
 ties of himself.” 
 
 Among these books he lived for 
 several years, and almost before he 
 knew it he was acquainted with 
 those writers who lend wings to 
 the creative imagination, if its deli¬ 
 cate body has found habitation in a 
 human soul. With the acquisition 
 of knowledge went also hand in 
 hand an observation of life and of 
 nature. As he left his native vil¬ 
 lage in the buggy with Mr. Turner, 
 he had observed how quickly his 
 little companions returned to their 
 marbles after bidding him good-bye ; 
 and he had observed, too, how the 
 high sheriff was u always in town 
 talking politics,” and talking “big¬ 
 ger than anybody.” When he came 
 to the plantation his observant eye 
 took in everything, and the observa¬ 
 tions of the boy became the basis of 
 the lifelong convictions and princi¬ 
 ples of the man. His greatest na¬ 
 ture-gift, sympathy, put him in 
 touch with dog and horse, with 
 
 16 
 
Joel Cbanblet 1barris. 
 
 black runaway and white deserter, 
 with the master and his slaves. 
 These, he observed, treated him 
 with more consideration than they 
 showed to other white people, with 
 the exception of their master. 
 There was nothing they were not 
 ready to do for him at any time of 
 day or night. Taking him into 
 their inner life, they poured a 
 wealth of legendary folklore and 
 story into his retentive ear, and to 
 him revealed their true nature; for 
 it is not a race that plays its tricks, 
 as some one has said of nature, un¬ 
 reservedly before the eyes of every¬ 
 body. 
 
 Mr. Harris has never had the 
 slightest desire to become a man of 
 letters; but the necessity of ex¬ 
 pressing himself in writing came 
 upon him early in life. His first 
 efforts appeared in the Country¬ 
 man , sent in anonymously. Kindly 
 notice and encouragement induced 
 the young writer to throw off dis¬ 
 guise and to write regularly. His 
 1 ** 17 
 
3oel GbanMer Ibarris. 
 
 contributions soon took a wider 
 range, embracing local articles, es¬ 
 says, and poetry. But this idyllic 
 existence was suddenly ended. 
 Sherman’s “ march through 
 Georgia ” brought a corps of his 
 army to the Turner plantation, and 
 when the foragers departed they 
 left little behind them except a 
 changed order of things. The 
 editor-planter called up those of his 
 former slaves that remained, and 
 told them that they were free. The 
 Countryman passed away with the 
 old order, devising, however, a rich 
 legacy to the new. “A larger 
 world beckoned [to the young 
 writer] and he went out into it. 
 And it came about that on every 
 side he found loving hearts to com¬ 
 fort and strong and friendly hands 
 to guide him. He found new asso¬ 
 ciations, and formed new ties. In 
 a humble way he made a name for 
 himself, but the old plantation days 
 still live in his dreams.” The 
 u Wanderjahre ” were few and un- 
 
 18 
 
( 
 
 3oel CbanDlec Ibartle. 
 
 eventful. Now we find him setting 
 his “ string ” on the Macon Daily 
 Telegraph , then in a few months 
 he is in New Orleans as a private 
 secretary of the editor of the Cres¬ 
 cent Monthly , keeping his hand in, 
 however, by writing bright para¬ 
 graphs for the city papers. In a 
 short while he returns to Georgia to 
 
 o 
 
 become the editor of the Forsyth 
 Advertiser , one of the most influen¬ 
 tial weekly papers in the State. In 
 addition to the editorial work, he 
 set the type, worked off the edition 
 on a hand press, and wrapped and 
 directed his papers for the mail. 
 His bubbling humor and pungent 
 criticism of certain abuses in the 
 State were widely copied, and spe¬ 
 cially attracted the attention of Colo¬ 
 nel W. T. Thompson, the author 
 of “ Major Jones’s Courtship” and 
 other humorous books, who at that 
 time was editor of the Savannah 
 Daily Nevus. He offered Mr. Har¬ 
 ris a place on his staff, which was 
 accepted ; and this pleasant associa- 
 
 19 
 
3oel Gbanfcler Ibatris. 
 
 tion lasted from 1871 to 1876. In 
 the latter year a yellow fever epi¬ 
 demic drove him to Atlanta; he 
 became at once a member of the 
 editorial staff of the Constitution , 
 and his literary activity began. 
 And it is altogether fitting, too, that 
 Mr. Harris’s success should be iden¬ 
 tified with this popular journal, for 
 no other newspaper published in the 
 South has given so much attention 
 to literary matters and encourage¬ 
 ment to literary talent. Up to this 
 time Mr. Harris had written, so far 
 as I am aware, but one brief little 
 sketch, a mere incident, which gave 
 any promise of his future line of 
 development and peculiar powers. 
 It appeared in the Countryman at 
 the close of the war—a little sequel 
 to the passing of the Twentieth 
 Army Corps, commanded by Gen¬ 
 eral Slocum, along the road by the 
 Turner plantation. Thinking that 
 the army would take another route, 
 the lonely lad had seated himself on 
 the fence, and before he knew it the 
 
 20 
 
3oel CbanDier Ibarrie. 
 
 troops were upon him. Their 
 good-natured chaff he endured with 
 a kind of stunned calmness till all 
 passed. He then jumped from the 
 fence and made his way home 
 through the fields. u In a corner of 
 the fence, not far from the road, 
 Joe found an old negro woman 
 shivering and moaning. Near her 
 lay an old negro man, his shoulders 
 covered with an old, ragged shawl. 
 
 4 Who is that lying there ? ’ asked V.. 
 Joe. i It my ole man, suh.’ ; What 
 is the matter with him ? ’ 1 He dead, 
 suh ; but bless God, he died free ! ’ ” 
 Just before Mr. Harris went to 
 Atlanta Mr. S. W. Small had be¬ 
 gun to give the Constitution a more 
 than local reputation by means of 
 humorous negro dialect sketches. 
 His resignation shortly afterwards 
 made the proprietors turn for aid to 
 Mr. Harris, who, taking an old ne¬ 
 gro whom he had known on the 
 Turner plantation and making him 
 chief spokesman, brought out in 
 several sketches the contrast be- 
 
 21 
 
3oel CbanDler Ibarde. 
 
 tween the old and the new condi¬ 
 tion of things. But he soon tired of 
 these, and one night he wrote the 
 first sketch in “ Legends of the Plan¬ 
 tation,” in which “ Uncle Remus ” 
 initiates the “ Little Boy,” just as it 
 now appears in his first published 
 volume, entitled, “Uncle Remus: 
 His Songs and Sayings.” Fame 
 came at once, though the invincible 
 modesty of the author still refuses to 
 recognize it. A number of things 
 enhanced the value of this produc¬ 
 tion—the wealth of folklore, the ac- 
 ^ curate and entertaining - dialect, the 
 delightful stories, the exquisite pic¬ 
 ture of “ the dear remembered days.” 
 But the true secret of the power and 
 value of “ Uncle Remus ” and his 
 “ Sayings ” does not lie solely in the 
 artistic and masterly setting and 
 narration. The enduring quality 
 lies there, for he has made a past 
 civilization “ remarkably striking to 
 the mind’s eye,” and shown that 
 rare ability “ to seize the heart of 
 the suggestion, and make a country 
 \ 22 
 
3oel CbanDler Ibatrts. 
 
 famous with a legend.” But under¬ 
 neath the art is the clear view of 
 life, as well as humor, wit, philoso¬ 
 phy, and “ unadulterated human na¬ 
 ture.” We can get little idea of the 
 revelation which Mr. Harris has 
 made of negro life and character 
 without comparing his conception 
 and delineation with the ideal negro 
 of “ My Old Kentucky Home, 
 
 “ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and “Mars 
 Chan ” and “ Meh Lady,” and the 
 impossible negro of the minstrel 
 show, f A few years ago the editor 
 of the Philadelphia Times remarked 
 that u it is doubtful whether the real 
 negro can be got very clearly into 
 literature except by way of minstrel 
 shows and the comic drama.” In 
 answer to this Mr. Harris has truth¬ 
 fully said that “ a representation o 
 negro life and character has never 
 been put upon the stage, nor any¬ 
 thing remotely resembling it; but to 
 all who have any knowledge of the 
 negro, the plantation darky, as he 
 was, is a very attractive figure. ) It 
 
 23 
 
 \ 
 
Joel CbanOlet* Ifoams. 
 
 is a silly trick of the clowns to give 
 him over to burlesque, for his life, 
 though abounding in humor, was 
 concerned with all that the imagina¬ 
 tion of man has made pathetic.” 
 The negro of the minstrel show, 
 black with burnt cork, sleek and 
 saucy, white - eyed, red - lipped, 
 crowned with plug hat, wearing 
 enormous shoes, and carrying a 
 banjo, rises to the dignity of a cari¬ 
 cature only in the external appear¬ 
 ance. The wit reeks with stale. 
 \,beer and the Bowery. Foster’s 
 u My Old Kentucky Home ” is sim¬ 
 ply u Uncle Tom’s Cabin” turned 
 into a song ; and the latter, says Ir¬ 
 win Russell, “ powerfully written as 
 it is, gives no more true idea of ne¬ 
 gro life and character than one could 
 get from the Nautical Almanac, and, 
 like most other political documents, 
 is quite the reverse of true in almost 
 every respect.” These contain the 
 sentiments and the thoughts of artist- 
 philanthropists belonging to a race 
 “ three or four thousand years in ad- 
 
 24 
 
Joel CbanOler Ibarrls. 
 
 vance of them [the negroes] in men¬ 
 tal capacity and moral force.” They 
 do breathe with infinite pathos the 
 homely affection, the sorrows and 
 hopes of everyday life, as these have 
 been developed and conceived by the 
 white race ; but who ever heard that 
 this was a favorite song or that a 
 favorite book in any community of 
 negroes? And so Mr. Page’s “Marse 
 Chan ” and “ Meh Ladv,” and Mr. 
 Allen’s “Two Gentlemen of Ken¬ 
 tucky,” are the answers of genius 
 to genius and art pitted against art 
 in this great controversy, v In them 
 the devotion, the doglike fidelity, 
 and the unselfishness of the negro 
 are used to intensify the pathos of 
 the white man’s situation, just as in 
 the other case the pathos of the ne¬ 
 gro’s situation was utilized to excite 
 the philanthropy of the white man. 
 In both cases the negro is a mere 
 accessory, used to heighten the ef¬ 
 fect. It seems to be almost an im¬ 
 possibility for song writer, novelist, 
 or serious historian to appreciate the 
 
 25 
 
3oel GbanDler Ibarrte* 
 
 f 
 
 nature or understand the condition 
 of the plantation negroes; for oth¬ 
 erwise, how can we account for so 
 glaring a misconception as Mr. 
 Bryce’s, that they remained, up to 
 the eve of emancipation, “ in their 
 notions and habits much what their 
 ancestors were in the forests of the 
 Niger or the Congo.” 
 
 (CThe Southern plantation negro 
 sprang from the child race of hu¬ 
 manity, and possessed only so much 
 civilization as his contact with the 
 white man gave him. Like children, 
 he used smiles, cunning, deceit, du¬ 
 plicity, ingenuity, and all the other 
 wiles by which the weaker seek 
 to accommodate themselves to the 
 stronger. (Brer Rabbit was his hero, 
 and u it is not virtue that triumphs, 
 but helplessness; it is not malice, 
 but mischievousness.”) In the course 
 of time he became remarkable for 
 both inherent and grafted qualities. 
 Gratitude he was distinguished for; 
 hospitality and helpfulness were his 
 natural creed; brutality was con- 
 
 26 
 
Joel CbanDIer Ibards* 
 
 spicuously absent, considering the 
 prodigious depth of his previous 
 degradation. He did not lack cour¬ 
 age, industry, self-denial, or virtue. 
 He did an immense amount of quiet 
 thinking, and, with only such forms 
 of expression as his circumstances 
 furnished, he indulged in paradox, 
 hyperbole, aphorism, sententious 
 comparison, and humor. He treas¬ 
 ured his traditions, was enthusiastic, 
 patient, long-suffering, religious, rev¬ 
 erent. u Is there not poetry in the 
 character?” asked Irwin Russell, 
 the first, perhaps, to conceive and to 
 delineate it with real fidelity to life. 
 Since his all too untimely taking off 
 many have attempted this subject; 
 but no one has equaled the crea¬ 
 tor of u Uncle Remus,” one of the 
 very few creations of American 
 writers worthy of a place in the 
 gallery of the immortals; and he 
 should be hung in the corner with 
 such gentlemen as Col. Newcome 
 and Sir Roger de Coverley, and 
 not very far from Rip Van Win- 
 
 27 
 
r 
 
 5ocl CbanMer Ibartte. 
 
 kle, my Uncle Toby, and Jack Fal- 
 staff. 
 
 Before the war Uncle Remus had 
 always exercised authority over his 
 fellow-servants. He had been the 
 captain of the corn pile, the stoutest 
 at the log rolling, the swiftest with 
 the hoe, the neatest with the plow, 
 the leader of the plantation hands. 
 Now he is an old man whose tall 
 figure and venerable appearance are 
 picturesque in the extreme, but he 
 moves and speaks with the vigor, of 
 perennial youth. He is the embod¬ 
 iment of the quaint and homely hu¬ 
 mor, the picturesque sensitiveness— 
 a curious exaltation of mind and 
 temperament not to be defined by 
 words—and the really poetic imagi¬ 
 nation of the negro race ; and over 
 all is diffused the genuine flavor of 
 the old plantation. With the art to 
 conceal art, the anthor retires behind 
 the scenes and lets this patriarch re¬ 
 veal negro life and character to the 
 world. Now it is under the guise 
 of Brer Rabbit, after his perilous 
 
 28 
 
3oel CbatiDler Ifoatris. 
 
 adventure with the tar baby and nar¬ 
 row escape from Brer Fox as he is 
 seen “ settin’ cross-legged on a chink¬ 
 apin log koamin’ de pitch outen his 
 har wid a chip,” and “ dingin’ back 
 some er his sass, c Bred and bawn in 
 a brier patch, Brer Fox; bred and 
 bawn in a brier patch ! ’ ” Another 
 phase is seen in u Why Brer Possum 
 Loves Peace,” a story of indolent 
 good nature, questionable valor, and 
 nonsensical wisdom : “ I don’ min’ 
 fightin’ no mo’ dan you doz, sez'ee, 
 but I declar’ to grashus ef I kin 
 stall’ ticklin.’ An’ down ter dis day,” 
 continued Uncle Remus, “ down ter 
 dis day, Brer Possum’s boun’ ter 
 s’render w’en you tech him in de 
 short ribs, en he’ll laff ef he knows 
 he’s gwine ter be smashed for it.” 
 This whimsical defense of inborn 
 cowardice has a touch of nature in 
 it which makes it marvelously akin 
 to Sir John’s counterfeiting on 
 Shrewsbury plain. But the pre¬ 
 vailing - interest is centered in Brer 
 Rabbit’s skill in outwitting Brer 
 
 29 
 
3-oe i CbanDler Harris* 
 
 Fox and the other animals, which is 
 managed with such cleverness and 
 good nature that we cannot but sym¬ 
 pathize with the hero, in spite of his 
 utter lack of conscience or convic¬ 
 tion. But the chief merit of these 
 stories, as Mr. Page has remarked, 
 springs directly from the fact that 
 Uncle Remus knows them, is relat¬ 
 ing them, and is vivifying them with 
 his own quaintness and humor, and 
 is impressing us in every phase with 
 his own delightful and lovable per¬ 
 sonality. (~Mr . Harris’s skill in nar¬ 
 rative is well-nigh perfect, and the 
 conversation, in which his books 
 abound, is carried on with absolute 
 naturalness and fidelity to life. The 
 habit of thought as well as of speech 
 is strikingly reproduced. Not a 
 word strikes a false note, not a scene 
 or incident is out of keeping with the 
 spirit of the life presented. No one 
 has more perfectly preserved some 
 of the most important traits of South¬ 
 ern character, nor more enchanting- 
 ly presented some of the most beau- 
 
 30 
 
Joel CbanDler Ibartle. 
 
 tiful phases of Southern civiliza¬ 
 tion. / 
 
 Other phases of negro character, 
 very different from those presented in 
 the “Legends,” appeared in the “Say¬ 
 ings” and in various “Sketches,” 
 which reproduce “ the shrewd ob- 
 ervations, the curious retorts, the 
 homely thrusts, the quaint com¬ 
 ments, and the humorous philosophy 
 of the race of which Uncle Remus 
 is a type.” But in “ Nights with 
 Uncle Remus,” “Daddy Jake the 
 Runaway,” and “Uncle Remus and 
 His Friends” we returned again to 
 the old plantation home; “ daddy,” 
 “mammy,” and the “field hands” 
 lived once more with their happy, 
 smiling faces ; songs floated out upon 
 the summer air, laden with the per¬ 
 fume of rose and honeysuckle and 
 peach blossom, and mingled with 
 the rollicking medley of the mock¬ 
 ing bird ; and we felt that somehow 
 over the whole life the spell of gen¬ 
 ius had been thrown, rendering it 
 immortal. But it is with and through 
 
 31 
 
$oel Cbanbler Ibatris. 
 
 the negro that Mr. Harris has 
 wrought this wonder, for as Mr. 
 Page says : “No man who has ever 
 written has known one-tenth part 
 about the negro that Mr. Harris 
 knows, and for those who hereafter 
 shall wish to find not merely the 
 words, but the real language of the 
 negro of that section, and the habits 
 of mind of all American negroes of 
 the old time, his works will prove 
 the best thesaurus.” 
 
 Again a larger world beckoned to 
 the writer, as to the boy, and he en¬ 
 tered the field of original story-tell¬ 
 ing and wider creative ability with 
 perfect poise and consummate liter¬ 
 ary art in “ Mingo,” a u Cracker ” 
 tragedy, disclosing the pent-up rage 
 of a century against aristocratic 
 neighbors, antipathy to the negro, 
 narrowness and pride, happily turned 
 by Mingo’s gratitude and watchful 
 and protecting love for his young 
 “ Mistiss’s ” fatherless and mother¬ 
 less little girl into a smiling comedy, 
 closing with this pretty picture: 
 
 32 
 
5oel Chandler Ifcatrte. 
 
 “ The sunshine falling gentlv upon 
 his gray hairs, and the little girl 
 clinging to his hand and daintily 
 throwing kisses.” Mingo, drawn 
 with genuine sympathy and true 
 skill, is one of the author’s master¬ 
 pieces ; but we are somehow spe¬ 
 cially attracted to Mrs. Feratia Biv¬ 
 ins, whose u pa would ’a’ bin a rich 
 man, an’ ’a’ owned 7iiggers , if it 
 hadn’t but ’a’ bin bekase he sot his 
 head agin stintin’ of his stomach,” 
 and whose sharp tongue, homely 
 wit, and indignant hate portray the 
 first of a group of the Mrs. Poyser- 
 like women who give spice as well 
 as life to the author’s pages. An¬ 
 other is Mrs. Kendrick in ct Blue 
 Dave ”—of which, by the bye, the 
 author says, u I like c Blue Dave ’ 
 better than all the rest, which is an¬ 
 other way of saying that it is far 
 from the best ”—whose humor con- 
 
 0 
 
 ceals her own emotions, and flashes 
 a calcium light upon the weaknesses 
 of others. “ Well, well, well! ” said 
 Airs. Kendrick, speaking of the quiet, 
 3 33 
 
3oel CbanMcc Ibatrte. 
 
 self-contained, elegant, and rather 
 prim Mrs. Denham. u She always 
 put me in mind of a ghost that can’t 
 be laid on account of its pride. But 
 we’re what the Lord made us, I reck¬ 
 on, and people deceive their looks. 
 My old turkey gobbler is harmless 
 as a hound puppy, but I reckon he’d 
 bust if he didn’t up and strut when 
 strangers are in the front porch.” 
 u Uncle Remus,” u Mingo,” u Blue 
 Dave,” and u Balaam ” belong to the 
 class which “ has nothing but pleas¬ 
 ant memories of the discipline of 
 slavery, and which has all the preju¬ 
 dices of caste and pride of family 
 that were the natural results of the 
 system.” But “ Free Joe ” presents, 
 another phase—this heart tragedy 
 brought about by the inhumanity of 
 man and the pitiless force of circum¬ 
 stances. Nowhere has the helpless 
 wretchedness of the dark side of 
 ‘ slavery been more clearly recognized 
 or more powerfully depicted. Truth 
 demands that the complete picture 
 shall be given, though silly scrib- 
 
 34 
 
3oel CbanMec Ibarrie, 
 
 k f? 
 
 bier or narrow bigot may accuse the 
 author of trying to cater to North¬ 
 ern sentiment. Every now and then' , 
 some Southern writer is subjected 
 to this unmanly and ignoble insult, 
 though much less frequently than 
 formerly. Mr. Maurice Thompson’s 
 poem and Mr. Henry Watterson’s 
 speech on u Lincoln,” Mr. James 
 Lane Allen’s lecture on u The South 
 in Fiction,” and Mr. W. P. Trent’s 
 “ Life of William Gilmore Simms,” 
 seem to produce a mild form of 
 rabies in certain quarters. u What 
 does it matter,” asks Mr. Harris, 
 
 11 whether I am Northern or South¬ 
 ern, if I am true to truth, and true 
 to that larger truth, my own true 
 self? My idea is that truth is more 
 important than sectionalism, and 
 that literature that can be labeled 
 Northern, Southern, Western, or 
 Eastern is not worth labeling at 
 all.” Shutting one’s eyes to facts 
 removes them neither from life nor 
 from history. And so we are spe¬ 
 cially thankful to Mr. Harris for 
 
 35 
 
3oel CbanDler Ibatrfs. 
 
 “ Free Joe,” u Little Compton,” and 
 all those passages in “ On the Plan¬ 
 tation ” and his other writings which 
 lead us to a truer and larger human¬ 
 ity. His skillful manner of convey¬ 
 ing a lesson is admirably done at the 
 close of “Free Joe.” This “black 
 atom drifting hither and thither with¬ 
 out an owner, blown about by all the 
 winds of circumstance, and given 
 over to shiftlessness,” is the person¬ 
 ification of helpless suffering, and 
 yet he chuckles as he slips away 
 from the cabin of the cracker broth¬ 
 er and sister into the night. Micajah 
 Staley, however, the representative 
 of too large a number, says : “ Look 
 at that nigger; look at ’im. He’s 
 pine blank as happy now as a kildee 
 by a mill race. You can’t ’faze ’em. 
 I’d in about give up my t’other hand 
 ef I could stan’ flat-footed an’ grin 
 at trouble like that there nigger.” 
 “Niggers is niggers,” said Miss 
 Becky, smiling grimly, “ an’ you 
 can’t rub it out; yit I lay I’ve seed 
 a heap of white folks lots meaner’n 
 
 36 
 
3oel Cbanbler Ibarrfs. 
 
 Free Joe. He grins—and that’s nig- 
 « ger—but I’ve ketched his underjaw 
 a trimblin’ when Lucindy’s name uz 
 brung up.” He was found dead the 
 next morning,with a smile on his face. 
 “ It was as if he had bowed and 
 smiled when death stood before him, 
 humble to the last.” The world could 
 ill spare woman’s or the artist’s eye. 
 
 Other stories, as “At Teague Po- 
 teet’s,” “Trouble on Lost Moun¬ 
 tain,” and_ “Azalia,” show a steady 
 gain in the range of Mr. Harris’s 
 creative power. The keenest inter¬ 
 est was awakened- when the first 
 part of “At Teague Poteet’s” came 
 out in the Century , May, 1883, and 
 the reader who happened to turn to 
 the Atlantic for the same month 
 and read “ The Harnt That Walks 
 Chilhowee ” must have been sur¬ 
 prised at the revelation which these 
 two admirable stories made of the 
 real and potent romance of the moun¬ 
 tains and valleys of Tennessee and 
 Georgia. This was a longer and 
 more sustained effort than Uncle 
 
 37 
 
3oel CbanDlet Ibatrte. 
 
 Remus had ever attempted. It 
 evinced an eye for local color, ap- * 
 predation of individual characteris¬ 
 tics, and the ability to catch the spirit 
 of a people that could be as open as 
 their valleys or as rugged, enigmat¬ 
 ical, and silent as their mountains. 
 Scene and character were vividly 
 real, and the story was told with 
 consummate art and unflagging in¬ 
 terest till the climax was reached. 
 “Trouble on Lost Mountain ” sus¬ 
 tained his reputation as a story-teller 
 and added the element of tragic 
 power. 
 
 At a first glance it would seem 
 that these, with his previous writ¬ 
 ings, give promise of the fully 
 developed novel with the old plan¬ 
 tation life for a background and the 
 nation for its scope. But it must 
 not be forgotten that Mr. Harris 
 is a hard-working journalist, sel¬ 
 dom missing a day from his desk ; 
 and as Mr. Stedman has pointed out 
 in regard to Bayard Taylor, “ this 
 task of daily writing for the press, 
 
 38 
 
Joel CbanMer Ibattls, 
 
 while a good staff, is a poor crutch; 
 it diffuses the heat of authorship, 
 checks idealism, retards the construc¬ 
 tion of masterpieces.” It is perhaps 
 due to this that the love element in 
 these stories lacks that romantic fer¬ 
 vor and tenderness which make all 
 the world love a lover. They are 
 vivid and dramatic, sparkling with 
 humor and keen observations, and 
 revealing intimate knowledge of hu¬ 
 man hearts. But in “Azalia,” for 
 instance, the Southern general and 
 his mother are rather conventional, 
 and Miss Hallie is insipid, though 
 through them we do catch glimpses 
 of old Southern mansions, with their 
 stately yet simple architecture, ad¬ 
 mirably illustrative of the lives and 
 characters of the owners, and of the 
 unaffected, warm, and gracious old- 
 time hospitality. The Northern la¬ 
 dies, too, admirably described as 
 they are in a few words, are slight 
 sketches rather than true present¬ 
 ments. This story is particularly 
 rich in types, but the real life in its 
 
 39 
 
Joel CbanDlec Ibarris. 
 
 humor and its pathos is in the u char¬ 
 acters.” Mrs. Haley, a lineal de¬ 
 scendant of Mrs. Poyser; William, 
 a little imp of sable hue that might 
 serve as a weather-stained statue of 
 comedy, if he were not so instinct 
 with life; and Emma Jane Stucky 
 —the representative of that inde¬ 
 scribable class of people known as 
 the piny woods u Tackies”—whose 
 u pale, unhealthy-looking face, with 
 sunken eyes, high cheek-bones, and 
 thin lips that seemed never to have 
 troubled themselves to smile — a 
 burnt-out face that had apparently 
 surrendered to the past and had no 
 hope for the future ”—remains in¬ 
 delibly etched upon the memory ? 
 making its mute appeal for human 
 sympathy and helpful and generous 
 pity. Like all genuine humorists, 
 Mr. Harris has his wit always sea¬ 
 soned with love, and a moral purpose 
 underlies all his writings. In the 
 twelve volumes or more which he 
 has published he has preserved tra¬ 
 ditions and legends, photographed a 
 
 40 
 
5oel Cbanbler IDarrte. 
 
 civilization, perpetuated types, cre¬ 
 ated one character. Humor and sym- 
 pathy are his chief qualities, and in 
 everything he is simple and natural. 
 Human character is stripped of tire¬ 
 less details. The people speak their 
 natural language, and act out their 
 little tragedies and comedies accord¬ 
 ing to their nature. u We see therta v 
 share their joys and griefs, laugh at 
 their humor, and in the midst of all, 
 behold, we are taught the lesson of 
 honesty, justice, and mercy.” 
 
 In person Joel Chandler Harris is 
 somewhat under the middle height, 
 compact, broad of shoulder, and rath¬ 
 er rotund about the waist. But he 
 is supple, energetic, and his swing- 
 in of stride still tells of the freedom 
 which the boy enjoyed on the Tur¬ 
 ner plantation. He is the most pro¬ 
 nounced of blondes, with chestnut 
 hair, a mustache of the same color, 
 and sympathetic, laughing blue eyes. 
 Sick or well, he is always in a good 
 humor, and enjoys his work, his 
 friends, and his family. Sprung 
 
 41 
 
$oel Cbanbler 1bard5* 
 
 from a simple, sincere race whose 
 wants were few and whose tastes 
 were easily satisfied, he is very hon¬ 
 est and outspoken in his opinions 
 and convictions, and the whole na% 
 ture of the man tends to earnestness, 
 simplicity, and truth. (“I like peo¬ 
 ple,” he says, “ who are what they 
 are, and are not all the time trying^ 
 to be what somebody else has been.”v 
 In spite of the fame which has come 
 unbidden, he still delights to luxu¬ 
 riate in the quiet restfulness of his 
 semirural home in the little suburb 
 of West End, three miles from the 
 heart of Atlanta ; and we confess that 
 we like best to think of him, as Mr. 
 Brainerd once described him in the 
 Critic, in this typical Southern cot¬ 
 tage nestling in a grove of sweet 
 gum and pine, enlivened by the sing¬ 
 ing of a family of mocking birds that 
 wintered in his garden—and not a 
 bird among them, we imagined, with 
 whose peculiarities he was not fa¬ 
 miliar. In a distant corner of his 
 inclosure a group of brown-eyed 
 
 42 
 
3oel Gbanfcler Ibarrte, 
 
 Jerseys grazed. Hives of bees were 
 placed near a flower garden that 
 sloped down to the bubbling spring 
 at the foot of the road, a few rods 
 distant. The casual visitor, we were 
 told, was apt to be eyed by the dig¬ 
 nified glance of a superb English 
 mastiff, followed by the bark of 
 two of the finest dogs in the coun¬ 
 try—one a bull dog, the other a 
 white English bull terrier. But this 
 was published in 1885, and now Mr. 
 Garsney, in the Book Buyer for 
 March, 1896, tells us that the 44 grove 
 of sweet gums,” the 44 babbling 
 brook,” and the 44 droning bees are 
 all fictions of somebody else’s poetic 
 fancy.” Still Mr. Garsney, in his 
 setting for the author of 44 Uncle 
 Remus,” has the eye of an artist 
 and is himself full of poetry, how¬ 
 ever ruthless he may be with u po¬ 
 etic fancies,” for after placing him 
 “ amid his roses,” he adds: 44 The% 
 roses are his one passion, and under 
 his tender care the garden—the finest 
 rose garden in Atlanta outside of a 
 
 43 
 
Joel GbanMer Ibarrte. 
 
 florist’s domain—blooms with prod¬ 
 igal beauty from May until the mid¬ 
 dle of December. In the early sum¬ 
 mer mornings, when the mocking 
 birds are trying their notes in the, 
 cedar, and the wrens are chirping 
 over their nest in the old mail box 
 at the gate, you can hear the snip¬ 
 ping of the pruning shears, and you 
 know that Joel Chandler Harris is 
 caressing his roses while the dew is 
 \ yet on their healthy leaves.” 
 
 In this home, with its spacious ve¬ 
 randas, generous hearths, and wide, 
 sunny windows, the right man is 
 sure to find a welcome. The house 
 is one in which bric-a-brac, trump¬ 
 ery, and literary litter are conspic¬ 
 uously absent, but evidently a home 
 where wife and children take the 
 place of these inanimate objects of 
 devotion. But here the man Joel 
 Chandler Harris, as Carlyle would 
 have said, is seen at his best. It 
 is here that the usually silent or 
 monosyllabic figure takes on life 
 and shares with another his inner 
 
 44 
 
$ocl CbanDlec Ibatrls. 
 
 wealth of thought and fancy. Mr. 
 Garsney, who had the good fortune 
 to be an inmate of this home for 
 some months, and to whose sketch 
 the writer is indebted for many of 
 these personal remarks and ob¬ 
 servations, thus describes certain 
 rare moments : u It is in the dark¬ 
 ness of a summer evening, on the 
 great front porch of his house, or 
 by his fireside, with no light save 
 that from the flickering coals which 
 he loves to punch and caress, that 
 the man breaks forth into conver¬ 
 sation. I have had in these rare 
 twilight hours the plot of a whole 
 book unfolded to me—a book that 
 is yet in the dim future, but which 
 will make a stir when it appears; 
 I have heard stories innumerable of 
 old plantation life and of happen¬ 
 ings in Georgia during the war; 
 and I have heard through the mouth 
 of this taciturn and unliterary-look- 
 ing man more thrilling stories of 
 colonial life in the South than I 
 had believed the South held. At 
 
 45 
 
3oel Cbanbler Ibarrts. 
 
 these times the slight hesitancy that 
 is usually apparent in his speech dis¬ 
 appears ; his thoughts take words 
 and come forth, tinged by the quaint 
 Georgia dialect, in so original a 
 shape and so full of human nature 
 that one remembers these hours long 
 afterwards as times to be marked 
 with a white stone.” 
 
 But it is only to the chosen com¬ 
 panion that he thus unlocks his 
 treasures. He seldom has more 
 than a word for ordinary acquaint¬ 
 ances, and the ubiquitous interview¬ 
 er he avoids as a deadly plague. 
 From him the autograph fiends 
 get no response, and many amus¬ 
 ing stories are told of his suc¬ 
 cess in eluding sightseers and lion- 
 hunters. No inducement has yet 
 prevailed upon him to appear in 
 public, either as a reader or as a lec¬ 
 turer. U I would not do it for $i,- 
 000,000,” was once his response to 
 an invitation to lecture. Many po¬ 
 sitions of great trust and prominence, 
 we are told, have been refused by 
 
 46 
 
3oel Gbanblet 1barrts» 
 
 him, for he says : “ If the greatest 
 position on the round earth were to 
 be offered me, I wouldn’t take it. 
 The responsibility would kill me in 
 % two weeks. Now I haven’t any care 
 or any troubles, and I have resolved 
 never to worry any more. Life is 
 all a joke to me. Why make it a 
 care ? ” 
 
 To those who are engaged in the 
 pigmy contests for money and place 
 this philosophy will doubtless ap¬ 
 pear tame and unheroic. But for a 
 man of Mr. Harris’s peculiar gifts 
 and temperament it is the highest 
 wisdom. It means the saving for 
 mankind what a few would squan¬ 
 der upon themselves. It means more 
 inimitable stories, and since his suc¬ 
 cess in the past justifies us in expect¬ 
 ing it, and especially since he has 
 reached the age of ripest wisdom 
 and supremest effort on the part of 
 genius, it means, we may hope, 
 a work into which he will put 
 the wealth of his mind and heart, 
 and expand and compress into one 
 
3-oel CbanDlev Harris. 
 
 novel the completest expression of 
 his whole being. But if he should 
 never give us a masterpiece of fiction 
 like his beloved “Vicar of Wake¬ 
 field,” “ Ivanhoe,” “Vanity Fair,” 
 or “ The Scarlet Letter,” we shall 
 still be forever grateful for the fresh 
 and beautiful stories, the delightful 
 humor, the genial, manly philosophy, 
 and the wise and witty sayings in 
 which his writings abound. / His 
 characters have become world pos¬ 
 sessions ; his words are in all our 
 mouths. By virtue of these gifts he 
 will be enrolled in that small but dis¬ 
 tinguished company of humorists, 
 the immortals of the heart and home, 
 whose genius, wisdom, and charity 
 keep fresh and sweet the springs of 
 life, and Uncle Remus will live al¬ 
 ways. ) 
 
 48