On November 7, 1900, Paul Laurence Dunbar in Washington, D. C., wrote to a friend about how he was spending his time after completing some writing projects. Paul said he planned to relax around the house and play the violin.
I have been idle for just about four hours, and this after finishing a 40,000 word novel and several short stories and bits of verse since the middle of September. I am going to give myself a little vacation for a while right here at home. I shall smoke, and read, and play cards, and make night (and day as well) hideous with my violin. How long this will last it is hard to tell, for it takes only a short time for the bee of unrest to sting me into activity.
Paul Laurence Dunbar to Dr. F., November 7, 1900. "Unpublished Letters of Paul Laurence Dunbar to a Friend." The Crisis (New York, New York). June 1920. Page 74.
Many years later, an essay about Matilda Dunbar described how she maintained her home as a shrine to her son Paul after his death. It mentioned some of his possessions, including a violin.
Mrs. Dunbar resides in the Dayton home from which her poet son fell into "that last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm." That comfortable, commodious home, shaded by magnificent elms, where he fought his losing fight, watched over and tenderly cared for by the devoted mother during the weary months and years of her son's illness. At the open door she greets the visitors with a smile. They come to talk of Paul -- her one great theme -- then she conducts them to his sanctum sanctorum -- "Well, his den," she says -- he named it "Loafing-holt" -- the walls lined with bookshelves filled with his own works and choice bits from noted authors -- photographs of eminent men and women of both races and dainty bits of bric-a-brac. Here is his desk with pens and ink wells, his caps and boots -- his couches piled high with gay sofa pillows, inviting one to "loaf" -- a violin made by Captain Stivers of Steele High School -- all cherished by this loving mother who delights to show them, these silent remembrances of a dear departed one.
Homespun Heroines and Other Women of Distinction, by Hallie Q. Brown. The Aldine Publishing Company (Xenia, Ohio). 1926. Pages 158 - 159.
Captain Charles B. Stivers was the principal of Dayton's Central High School when Paul was a student. In addition to being an educator, he was also a luthier, or a maker of string instruments.
After twenty-three years of faithful work; he resigned the principalship. He hoped to devote himself uninterruptedly to the joys of raising prize melons, and making violins. Captain Stivers had always loved a garden, and the cultivation of his ground in Dayton View became his occupation and pride. What time he was not wandering, pruning-knife in hand, among the trees and bushes, he was upstairs in his workshop cutting and bending thin pieces of fine-grained wood, and fitting them together; beveling, inlaying, polishing, until some months later the product was a beautiful violin. These two occupations, gardening and cabinet-making, kept the last years of the Captain's life happy, and, as he said, "out of mischief."
Some Dayton Saints and Prophets, by Charlotte Reeve Conover. United Brethren Publishing House (Dayton, Ohio). 1907. Pages 205 - 207.
Mr. Jefferson Walters, violinist, and Mr. Henry Ditzel, pianist, played for a few friends at the residence of Capt. Stivers last evening. Both musicians are true artists, were in fine form and delighted their audience. Mr. Walters used a violin made by Capt. Stivers, for the first time, on this occasion. He pronounces it one of the finest violins he has ever used.
"At Captain Stivers'." The Dayton Herald (Dayton, Ohio). November 14, 1902. Page 3.
Paul's poetry often referred to the power of the violin, or fiddle, to bring enjoyment and inspire people to dance.
Jim, de fiddlah, chuned his fiddle, put some rosum on his bow,
Set a pine box on de table, mounted it an' let huh go!
He's a fiddlah, now I tell you, an' he made dat fiddle ring,
'Twell de ol'est an' de lamest had to give deir feet a fling.
Jigs, cotillions, reels an' breakdowns, cordrills an' a waltz er two;
Bless yo' soul, dat music winged 'em an' dem people lak to flew.
Cripple Joe, de old rheumatic, danced dat flo' f'om side to middle,
Th'owed away his crutch an' hopped it; what's rheumatics 'ginst a fiddle?
Excerpt from "The Party," by Paul Laurence Dunbar. Published in Majors and Minors (1895).