Joel Chandler Harris: The Prose Poet of

the South

H. E. HARMAN

Author of "Idle Dreams of an Idle Day"

Born a poet, though choosing to give expression to his overflowing soul through the medium of prose, aptly outlines the place which Joel Chandler Harris holds in the world of letters.

Through all of his writing runs a golden thread of poetry. This cannot be disguised, even in the most desultory conversation of his minor characters; while in many descriptive passages and in climaxes of human experience, poems of the highest inspiration brighten page after page with their mellow glow.

But for this poetic instinct, this inherent tendency to idealize the common things of life, I doubt if the wonderful work of Mr. Harris would ever have reached the high place in literature which it holds today.

As a story teller he had few equals, but his material was crude and the dialect difficult and practically unknown, outside of the South. But when he wove into these stories of negro lore and the crude life of the swamp and the field a thread of poetic inspiration, his pages took on a new lustre. There came up before the reader ideals of beauty which did not seem to belong to the lowly surroundings where the simple plot was laid. The dim fireside of the negro cabin became something different from the original; upon the dusky face of the old slave a new light shone, and down through the sedge-covered field and up the rough hillside of pines and dogwood, there spread a halo of romance, which the reader had never seen or dreamed of before.

In one of his stories of farm life in Georgia, Mr. Harris tells of a wealthy planter who wanted a few acres of original woodland cleared near a village in which he lived. Labor was scarce, but he finally induced a thriftless fellow in the village to do the work-a man who had always been honest, but a kind of dreamer and “ne'er do well."

After a few days the man came to his employer and frankly

confessed that he could not do the work, although he needed the money. Pressed for a reason he said that the first tree he started to cut down was hollow and occupied by two squirrels, who made violent complaint at the destruction of their house. The next was the home of a chipmunk, with a large family; and the third was occupied by at least four pairs of jay-birds. "That piece of woodland is a peopled city, throbbing with life, busy from morning until night. It contains their homes and families, they have built and lived there for years and I have not the heart to destroy what belongs to these helpless creatures." And out of that incident, simple but impressive as it was, Mr. Harris drew inspiration for one of the most graphic pictures in all literature.

Along in 1902 or 1903 I was spending the summer at the Sweetwater Park Hotel, Lithia Springs, Ga., and by appointment Mr. Harris and James Whitcomb Riley spent two weeks there together. I was with them much of the time and can never forget the royal fellowship which existed between these two masters of literature. Riley came down from Indiana chock full of stories and Uncle Joe had one in reply for each the Hoosier poet would tell. For two weeks these rare characters loafed about the broad verandas of the hotel, rarely ever being separated and only occasionally having with them a few select friends as guests of their story telling bees. Riley would tell one of his best ones and hold his sides in laughter as he watched the effect of the story on Uncle Remus. Then "Uncle Joe," as we all called him in those golden days when he was in his prime, would bat his eye a few times, the lips would curl in a suppressed laugh, and he would put over at Riley a story which would make a stoic laugh.

In all my experience I never saw such comradeship between two men. Each seemed absolutely happy in the company of the other. When the short vacation was over and we were coming back to Atlanta to take up the grind again, Mr. Harris told me that the two weeks with Riley would stand out in all the coming years as the happiest he had ever known. One wrote his stories in verse and the other in prose, but both men were poets, full statured, and their place in the world of literary fame is safe and can never be lost.

At that time both men were perhaps at their best, both following literature as a profession; and widely different as they were, in many respects, they were as one when it came to real good fellowship. That devoted friendship kept up as long as the two celebrities lived.

Some years afterwards I met Riley in Miami, Florida, where he spent the last winters of his life, and in discussing the literary work of Mr. Harris he said: "The creator of Uncle Remus is a poet of the highest order. Even his most desultory pages are inspired, while in certain climaxes he reaches the highest form of poetic sentiment. I have often told him this but he resents being called a poet and will hardly admit that he is a good story teller. In all of your southern literature, which burns with the intenseness of the fervor of your climate, no writer has yet arisen whose work will live longer or more tenderly in the hearts of your people."

On the occasion when President Roosevelt and Mr. Carnegie came to Atlanta to pay homage to Mr. Harris, "Uncle Joe" passed through one of the most trying ordeals in all his life. His timidity and a dislike for ostentation made that day one fraught with much anxiety for the dean of "Wren's Nest." But when the President made his celebrated speech at the Piedmont Driving Club and pointed to the blushing creator of The Uncle Remus Stories as one of the greatest authors of this country, a scene was enacted which has no parallel in the literary history of America. Uncle Remus simply got into the procession and could not get out, but the occasion will go down in our literary history as one of rare interest.

In the later years of his life he had a habit of going to the old post office on Marietta Street each morning for his mail. Often we met in that famous old building, and the philosophy of the man was often expressed in his morning greeting. "There is a new type of gold in the sunlight today"-or "the April rain of this morning will awaken many drowsy daffodils"—were among the many expressions he used in those blessed days of his prime. Keen eyed, he sensed some new wonder in nature every morning, and applied it so as to make the day happier. One frosty October morning he remarked:

"This starts Mr. Possum for the persimmon tree and for the wild grapes along the river bank."

Joel Chandler Harris brought into his stories a type of animal life descriptions of which had been attempted before, but without success. Having spent his early days on a farm in South Georgia, he learned from first hand the habits of Brer Fox, Rabbitt, Possum and others; about these lonely and hunted creatures he has woven characteristics both poetic and beautiful. They live and act as human; the master shows us the secret of their souls and forever hereafter these dumb animals will possess a personality which no other writer could have given them. About their lowly and simple existence there hangs a weird charm, full of romantic adventure.

But after all it is his intimate knowledge of the old time negro life and his delineation of the negro character in which the master excels and upon which his reputation will stand. Fortunately he lived through a period which took in the old and the new-the ante bellum days and the years of reform which followed the war. This gave him a broad sweep of vision and he saw and understood the negro of the South, both the old and the new, as perhaps no other writer ever did. His treatment of the old time negro developed all that was best in Mr. Harris as a writer. Here was a character somewhat new in the world of romance. Here was a character he knew and understood and a character he loved, because of fine traits which had never been described. He looked back to the war period and saw the faithfulness of the trusted darky, taking care of his master's home and family while the master was away in the thickest of the fight. Such a character had rarely, if ever, been known in the annals of history. His faithfulness deserved recognition and about the whitened head of the old slave our "Uncle Joe" wove a halo of fame and glory which will never depart from the memory of those our people loved so well.

With this simple character Mr. Harris played and drew from the negro's strange philosophy some of the most charming incidents in all his books. The superstition of "Uncle Remus" worked like a charm with the weird theories of his dumb animal characters. For instance, in the good natured

story of "Why Brer Possum Loves Peace," we learn, "I don't mind fightin' no mo dan you doz, sez'ee, but I declar' if I kin stan' ticklin. And down ter dis day," continued Uncle Remus, "down ter dis day, Brer Possum's boun' ter s'render, when you tech him in de short ribs."

In all of these stories, dealing with the life of the lowly, there is mixed the indefinable charm of the country, of nature, nature's melodies and her secrets. The master knows the note of every song bird, the prophecy of every breeze that blows, the far-away glory of the summer clouds, the secrets of migrating fowls and birds; he paints with consummate artistry a Georgia landscape, the wonder and mystery of night when the moon hangs full over harvest fields; he knows the secret of frost, the mysteries of the swamp with its evergreen trees and vines, the hedgerows of briars and sumac and a thousand other wonders which belong to the limitless world of nature. To one who has lived in the country his pictures are true in every detail, and the master never fails to show you the poetic rainbow of promise that hangs about the most commonplace things. That is the highest of all art and that is the field in which the creator of Uncle Remus has achieved the most.

A vast amount of fine work done by Mr. Harris has never appeared in book-form. The old files of the Atlanta Constitution, upon which he worked for years, contain much of his best work, done when he was in his prime. His editorials were masterpieces of literary craftsmanship, just as were those of the lamented Henry Grady, and they burned with a fierce wish for healing the wounds between the North and the South.

But even considering this loss to the reading world, Mr. Harris left enough that was fine, enough that glowed with inspirational fire and enough that was in the highest sense poetic to make his place safe in the hall of literary worthies. He wrote of the lowly negro life, the silent animal life, of the half ruined fields and homes of his beloved South and lo! whatever he touched took on a glow of artistic beauty. The old briar patch, the half used road, the cabin in the woods, and the inhabitants of these, changed from the commonplace to the poetic under the touch of this wizard's pen. When he