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Commentary: Rise and Fall of ‘‘Slave’’ Creativity 85 I offered for to take you for better or for worse; But I was blind wid lub, your faults I couldn’t see. You is a deal sight worser dan I took you for to be. CHORUS—Oh, Rose, etc. JOHNSON (crosses over to CUFF). Mr. Cuff, I ax your pardon. CUFF. Mr. Johnson, dar’s my hand. An Rose, I’m glad to find my head was harder dan your pan. But dar’s no use to keep up grievances, since love am all by chance. So jest hand down de fiddle, Pete, and let us hab a dance. Come, darks, take your places and I’ll saw the catgut. (They form and go through a reel. CUFF gets excited while ROSE and JOHNSON are dancing, and, jumping up, he breaks the fiddle over JOHNSON’s head. ROSE faints and is caught by SOME ONE. JOHNSON falls at her feet. CUFF stands with uplifted hands.) ALL FORM PICTURE Commentary: Rise and Fall of ‘‘Slave’’ Creativity The New York Knickerbocker interpreted the popularity of minstrels in England as recognition of the New World’s potential for genuinely original cultural achievements. The best of America’s writers had composed in the English idiom, and distinguished as many were, their poetry was not ‘‘peculiarly of America.’’ Now, at last, here was an answer to the Rev. Sydney Smith’s jibe. Most of the minstrel songs were copied from the slaves who, because of their isolation and ignorance, had little contact with European literature. These were most certainly ‘‘strongly of the locality’’ and uniquely American. [J. K.], ‘‘Who Are Our National Poets?’’ Knickerbocker 26 (October 1845): 331–32, 335–36, 341. Foreigners read BRYANT, and HALLECK, and LONGFELLOW, and hearing these called our best poets, and perceiving nothing in their poems which might not just as well have been written in England, or by Englishmen, they infer that as the productions of those who stand highest among our poets have nothing about them which savors peculiarly of America, therefore America has no national poetry; a broad conclusion from narrow premises. . . . Applying this rule to America, in which class of our population must we look for our truly original and American poets? What class is most secluded from foreign influences , receives the narrowest education, travels the shortest distance from home, has the least amount of spare cash, and mixes least with any class above itself? Our negro slaves, to be sure! That is the class in which we must expect to find our original poets, and there we do find them. From that class come the Jim Crows, the Zip MINSTRELSY 86 Coons, and the Dandy Jims, who have electrified the world. From them proceed our only truly national poets. When Burns was discovered, he was immediately taken away from the plough, carried to Edinburgh, and feted and lionized to the ‘‘fulness of satiety.’’ James Crow and Scipio Coon never were discovered, personally; and if they had been, their owners would not have spared them from work. Alas! that poets should be ranked with horses, and provided with owners accordingly! In this, however, our negro poets are not peculiarly unfortunate. . . . Who is the man of genius? He who utters clearly that which is dimly felt by all. He who most vividly represents the sentiment, intellect and taste of the public to which he addresses himself. He to whom all hearts and heads respond. Take our ‘‘national poets,’’ for example, who being unknown individually, we may personify collectively as the American SAMBO. Is not Sambo a genius? All tastes are delighted, all intellects are astonished, all hearts respond to his utterances; at any rate, all pianofortes do, and a hundred thousand of the sweetest voices in christendom. What more convincing proof of genius was ever presented to the world? Is not Sambo the incarnation of the taste, intellect and heart of America, the ladies being the judges? Do not shrink from the answer, most beautiful, accomplished, delicate and refined lady-reader! You cannot hold yourself above him, for you imitate him; you spend days and weeks in learning his tunes; you trill his melodies with your rich voice; you are delighted with his humor, his pathos, his irresistible fun. Say truly, incomparable damsel! is not Sambo the realization of your poetic ideal? But our national melodists have many imitators. Half of the songs published as theirs are, as far as the words are concerned, the productions of...

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