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      The Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, 1995, Memorial Issue by Various
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, 1995,
Memorial Issue, by Various

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, 1995, Memorial Issue

Author: Various

Release Date: June 29, 2008 [EBook #206]
Last Updated: January 8, 2013

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. ***




Produced by Judith Boss, John Hamm and David Widger





</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. DAY, 1995, MEMORIAL ISSUE.
    </h1>
    <h2>
      By Various
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      Edited and Assembled by Judith Boss and John Hamm <br /><br /> HTML File by
      David Widger
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> SOJOURNER TRUTH, THE LIBYAN SIBYL by Harriet
        Beecher Stowe </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> RECONSTRUCTION by Frederick Douglass </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> AN APPEAL TO CONGRESS FOR IMPARTIAL SUFFRAGE
        by Frederick Douglas </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE NEGRO EXODUS by James B. Runnion </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> MY ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY by Frederick Douglass
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE GOOPHERED GRAPEVINE by Charles W. Chesnutt
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> PO' SANDY by Charles W. Chesnutt </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> DAVE'S NECKLISS by Charles W. Chesnutt </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE AWAKENING OF THE NEGRO by Booker T.
        Washington </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE STORY OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN by Charles
        Dudley Warner </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> STRIVINGS OF THE NEGRO PEOPLE by W. E.
        Burghardt Du Bois </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH by Charles W. Chesnutt
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE BOUQUET by Charles W. Chesnutt </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE CASE OF THE NEGRO by Booker T. Washington
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> HOT-FOOT HANNIBAL by Charles W. Chesnutt </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> A NEGRO SCHOOLMASTER IN THE NEW SOUTH by W. E.
        Burghardt Du Bois </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE CAPTURE OF A SLAVER by J. Taylor Wood </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> MR. CHARLES W. CHESNUTT'S STORIES by W. D.
        Howells </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> PATHS OF HOPE FOR THE NEGRO by Jerome Dowd
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> SIGNS OF PROGRESS AMONG THE NEGROES by Booker
        T. Washington </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE MARCH OF PROGRESS by Charles W. Chesnutt
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> THE FREEDMEN'S BUREAU by W. E. Burghardt Du
        Bois </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> OF THE TRAINING OF BLACK MEN by W. E.
        Burghardt Du Bois </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE FRUITS OF INDUSTRIAL TRAINING by Booker T.
        Washington </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> THE NEGRO IN THE REGULAR ARMY by Oswald
        Garrison Villard </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> BAXTER'S PROCRUSTES by Charles W. Chesnutt
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> THE HEART OF THE RACE PROBLEM by Quincy Ewing
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> NEGRO SUFFRAGE IN A DEMOCRACY by Ray Stannard
        Baker </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_BIBL"> BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SOURCES &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-
        </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      SOJOURNER TRUTH, THE LIBYAN SIBYL by Harriet Beecher Stowe
    </h2>
    <p>
      Many years ago, the few readers of radical Abolitionist papers must often
      have seen the singular name of Sojourner Truth, announced as a frequent
      speaker at Anti-Slavery meetings, and as travelling on a sort of
      self-appointed agency through the country. I had myself often remarked the
      name, but never met the individual. On one occasion, when our house was
      filled with company, several eminent clergymen being our guests, notice
      was brought up to me that Sojourner Truth was below, and requested an
      interview. Knowing nothing of her but her singular name, I went down,
      prepared to make the interview short, as the pressure of many other
      engagements demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I went into the room, a tall, spare form arose to meet me. She was
      evidently a full-blooded African, and though now aged and worn with many
      hardships, still gave the impression of a physical development which in
      early youth must have been as fine a specimen of the torrid zone as
      Cumberworth's celebrated statuette of the Negro Woman at the Fountain.
      Indeed, she so strongly reminded me of that figure, that, when I recall
      the events of her life, as she narrated them to me, I imagine her as a
      living, breathing impersonation of that work of art.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not recollect ever to have been conversant with any one who had more
      of that silent and subtle power which we call personal presence than this
      woman. In the modern Spiritualistic phraseology, she would be described as
      having a strong sphere. Her tall form, as she rose up before me, is still
      vivid to my mind. She was dressed in some stout, grayish stuff, neat and
      clean, though dusty from travel. On her head, she wore a bright Madras
      handkerchief, arranged as a turban, after the manner of her race. She
      seemed perfectly self-possessed and at her ease,&mdash;in fact, there was
      almost an unconscious superiority, not unmixed with a solemn twinkle of
      humor, in the odd, composed manner in which she looked down on me. Her
      whole air had at times a gloomy sort of drollery which impressed one
      strangely.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So this is YOU," she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," I answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, honey, de Lord bless ye! I jes' thought I'd like to come an' have a
      look at ye. You's heerd o' me, I reckon?" she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I think I have. You go about lecturing, do you not?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, honey, that's what I do. The Lord has made me a sign unto this
      nation, an' I go round a'testifyin', an' showin' on 'em their sins agin my
      people."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, she took a seat, and, stooping over and crossing her arms on
      her knees, she looked down on the floor, and appeared to fall into a sort
      of reverie. Her great gloomy eyes and her dark face seemed to work with
      some undercurrent of feeling; she sighed deeply, and occasionally broke
      out,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "O Lord! O Lord! Oh, the tears, an' the groans, an' the moans! O Lord!"
    </p>
    <p>
      I should have said that she was accompanied by a little grandson of ten
      years,&mdash;the fattest, jolliest woolly-headed little specimen of Africa
      that one can imagine. He was grinning and showing his glistening white
      teeth in a state of perpetual merriment, and at this moment broke out into
      an audible giggle, which disturbed the reverie into which his relative was
      falling.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him with an indulgent sadness, and then at me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Laws, Ma'am, HE don't know nothin' about it&mdash;HE don't. Why, I've
      seen them poor critters, beat an' 'bused an' hunted, brought in all torn,&mdash;ears
      hangin' all in rags, where the dogs been a'bitin' of 'em!"
    </p>
    <p>
      This set off our little African Puck into another giggle, in which he
      seemed perfectly convulsed.
    </p>
    <p>
      She surveyed him soberly, without the slightest irritation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, you may bless the Lord you CAN laugh; but I tell you, 't wa'n't no
      laughin' matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time I thought her manner so original that it might be worth while
      to call down my friends; and she seemed perfectly well pleased with the
      idea. An audience was what she wanted,&mdash;it mattered not whether high
      or low, learned or ignorant. She had things to say, and was ready to say
      them at all times, and to any one.
    </p>
    <p>
      I called down Dr. Beecher, Professor Allen, and two or three other
      clergymen, who, together with my husband and family, made a roomful. No
      princess could have received a drawing-room with more composed dignity
      than Sojourner her audience. She stood among them, calm and erect, as one
      of her own native palm-trees waving alone in the desert. I presented one
      after another to her, and at last said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sojourner, this is Dr. Beecher. He is a very celebrated preacher."
    </p>
    <p>
      "IS he?" she said, offering her hand in a condescending manner, and
      looking down on his white head. "Ye dear lamb, I'm glad to see ye! De Lord
      bless ye! I loves preachers. I'm a kind o' preacher myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are?" said Dr. Beecher. "Do you preach from the Bible?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, honey, can't preach from de Bible,&mdash;can't read a letter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, Sojourner, what do you preach from, then?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Her answer was given with a solemn power of voice, peculiar to herself,
      that hushed every one in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When I preaches, I has jest one text to preach from, an' I always
      preaches from this one. MY text is, 'WHEN I FOUND JESUS.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, you couldn't have a better one," said one of the ministers.
    </p>
    <p>
      She paid no attention to him, but stood and seemed swelling with her own
      thoughts, and then began this narration:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, now, I'll jest have to go back, an' tell ye all about it. Ye see,
      we was all brought over from Africa, father an' mother an' I, an' a lot
      more of us; an' we was sold up an' down, an' hither an' yon; an' I can
      'member, when I was a little thing, not bigger than this 'ere," pointing
      to her grandson, "how my ole mammy would sit out o' doors in the evenin',
      an' look up at the stars an' groan. She'd groan an' groan, an' says I to
      her,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Mammy, what makes you groan so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "an' she'd say,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Matter enough, chile! I'm groanin' to think o' my poor children: they
      don't know where I be, an' I don't know where they be; they looks up at
      the stars, an' I looks up at the stars, but I can't tell where they be.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Now,' she said, 'chile, when you're grown up, you may be sold away from
      your mother an' all your ole friends, an' have great troubles come on ye;
      an' when you has these troubles come on ye, ye jes' go to God, an' He'll
      help ye.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "An' says I to her,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Who is God, anyhow, mammy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "An' says she,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Why, chile, you jes' look up DAR! It's Him that made all DEM!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I didn't mind much 'bout God in them days. I grew up pretty lively
      an' strong, an' could row a boat, or ride a horse, or work round, an' do
      'most anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At last I got sold away to a real hard massa an' missis. Oh, I tell you,
      they WAS hard! 'Peared like I couldn't please 'em, nohow. An' then I
      thought o' what my old mammy told me about God; an' I thought I'd got into
      trouble, sure enough, an' I wanted to find God, an' I heerd some one tell
      a story about a man that met God on a threshin'-floor, an' I thought,
      'Well an' good, I'll have a threshin'-floor, too.' So I went down in the
      lot, an' I threshed down a place real hard, an' I used to go down there
      every day, an' pray an' cry with all my might, a-prayin' to the Lord to
      make my massa an' missis better, but it didn't seem to do no good; an' so
      says I, one day,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'O God, I been a-askin' ye, an' askin' ye, an' askin' ye, for all this
      long time, to make my massa an' missis better, an' you don't do it, an'
      what CAN be the reason? Why, maybe you CAN'T. Well, I shouldn't wonder ef
      you couldn't. Well, now, I tell you, I'll make a bargain with you. Ef
      you'll help me to git away from my massa an' missis, I'll agree to be
      good; but ef you don't help me, I really don't think I can be. Now,' says
      I, 'I want to git away; but the trouble's jest here: ef I try to git away
      in the night, I can't see; an' ef I try to git away in the daytime,
      they'll see me, an' be after me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then the Lord said to me, 'Git up two or three hours afore daylight, an'
      start off.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "An' says I, 'Thank 'ee, Lord! that's a good thought.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "So up I got, about three o'clock in the mornin', an' I started an'
      travelled pretty fast, till, when the sun rose, I was clear away from our
      place an' our folks, an' out o' sight. An' then I begun to think I didn't
      know nothin' where to go. So I kneeled down, and says I,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well, Lord, you've started me out, an' now please to show me where to
      go.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then the Lord made a house appear to me, an' He said to me that I was to
      walk on till I saw that house, an' then go in an' ask the people to take
      me. An' I travelled all day, an' didn't come to the house till late at
      night; but when I saw it, sure enough, I went in, an' I told the folks
      that the Lord sent me; an' they was Quakers, an' real kind they was to me.
      They jes' took me in, an' did for me as kind as ef I'd been one of 'em;
      an' after they'd giv me supper, they took me into a room where there was a
      great, tall, white bed; an' they told me to sleep there. Well, honey, I
      was kind o' skeered when they left me alone with that great white bed;
      'cause I never had been in a bed in my life. It never came into my mind
      they could mean me to sleep in it. An' so I jes' camped down under it, on
      the floor, an' then I slep' pretty well. In the mornin', when they came
      in, they asked me ef I hadn't been asleep; an' I said, 'Yes, I never slep'
      better.' An' they said, 'Why, you haven't been in the bed!' An' says I,
      'Laws, you didn't think o' such a thing as my sleepin' in dat 'ar' BED,
      did you? I never heerd o' such a thing in my life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, ye see, honey, I stayed an' lived with 'em. An' now jes' look here:
      instead o' keepin' my promise an' bein' good, as I told the Lord I would,
      jest as soon as everything got a'goin' easy, I FORGOT ALL ABOUT GOD.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pretty well don't need no help; an' I gin up prayin.' I lived there two
      or three years, an' then the slaves in New York were all set free, an' ole
      massa came to our home to make a visit, an' he asked me ef I didn't want
      to go back an' see the folks on the ole place. An' I told him I did. So he
      said, ef I'd jes' git into the wagon with him, he'd carry me over. Well,
      jest as I was goin' out to git into the wagon, I MET GOD! an' says I, 'O
      God, I didn't know as you was so great!' An' I turned right round an' come
      into the house, an' set down in my room; for 't was God all around me. I
      could feel it burnin', burnin', burnin' all around me, an' goin' through
      me; an' I saw I was so wicked, it seemed as ef it would burn me up. An' I
      said, 'O somebody, somebody, stand between God an' me! for it burns me!'
      Then, honey, when I said so, I felt as it were somethin' like an amberill
      [umbrella] that came between me an' the light, an' I felt it was SOMEBODY,&mdash;somebody
      that stood between me an' God; an' it felt cool, like a shade; an' says I,
      'Who's this that stands between me an' God? Is it old Cato?' He was a
      pious old preacher; but then I seemed to see Cato in the light, an' he was
      all polluted an' vile, like me; an' I said, 'Is it old Sally?' an' then I
      saw her, an' she seemed jes' so. An' then says I, 'WHO is this?' An' then,
      honey, for a while it was like the sun shinin' in a pail o' water, when it
      moves up an' down; for I begun to feel 't was somebody that loved me; an'
      I tried to know him. An' I said, 'I know you! I know you! I know you!'&mdash;an'
      then I said, 'I don't know you! I don't know you! I don't know you!' An'
      when I said, 'I know you, I know you,' the light came; an' when I said, 'I
      don't know you, I don't know you,' it went, jes' like the sun in a pail o'
      water. An' finally somethin' spoke out in me an' said, 'THIS IS JESUS!'
      An' I spoke out with all my might, an' says I, 'THIS IS JESUS! Glory be to
      God!' An' then the whole world grew bright, an' the trees they waved an'
      waved in glory, an' every little bit o' stone on the ground shone like
      glass; an' I shouted an' said, 'Praise, praise, praise to the Lord!' An' I
      begun to feel such a love in my soul as I never felt before,&mdash;love to
      all creatures. An' then, all of a sudden, it stopped, an' I said, 'Dar's
      de white folks, that have abused you an' beat you an' abused your people,&mdash;think
      o' them!' But then there came another rush of love through my soul, an' I
      cried out loud,&mdash;'Lord, Lord, I can love EVEN DE WHITE FOLKS!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Honey, I jes' walked round an' round in a dream. Jesus loved me! I knowed
      it,&mdash;I felt it. Jesus was my Jesus. Jesus would love me always. I
      didn't dare tell nobody; 't was a great secret. Everything had been got
      away from me that I ever had; an' I thought that ef I let white folks know
      about this, maybe they'd get HIM away,&mdash;so I said, 'I'll keep this
      close. I won't let any one know.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "But, Sojourner, had you never been told about Jesus Christ?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, honey. I hadn't heerd no preachin',&mdash;been to no meetin'. Nobody
      hadn't told me. I'd kind o' heerd of Jesus, but thought he was like
      Gineral Lafayette, or some o' them. But one night there was a Methodist
      meetin' somewhere in our parts, an' I went; an' they got up an' begun for
      to tell der 'speriences; an' de fust one begun to speak. I started, 'cause
      he told about Jesus. 'Why,' says I to myself, 'dat man's found him, too!'
      An' another got up an' spoke, an I said, 'He's found him, too!' An'
      finally I said, 'Why, they all know him!' I was so happy! An' then they
      sung this hymn": (Here Sojourner sang, in a strange, cracked voice, but
      evidently with all her soul and might, mispronouncing the English, but
      seeming to derive as much elevation and comfort from bad English as from
      good):&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     'There is a holy city,
       A world of light above,
      Above the stairs and regions,*
       Built by the God of Love.

     "An Everlasting temple,
       And saints arrayed in white
      There serve their great Redeemer
       And dwell with him in light.

     "The meanest child of glory
       Outshines the radiant sun;
      But who can speak the splendor
       Of Jesus on his throne?

     "Is this the man of sorrows
       Who stood at Pilate's bar,
      Condemned by haughty Herod
       And by his men of war?

     "He seems a mighty conqueror,
       Who spoiled the powers below,
      And ransomed many captives
       From everlasting woe.

     "The hosts of saints around him
       Proclaim his work of grace,
      The patriarchs and prophets,
       And all the godly race,

     "Who speak of fiery trials
       And tortures on their way;
      They came from tribulation
       To everlasting day.

     "And what shall be my journey,
       How long I'll stay below,
      Or what shall be my trials,
       Are not for me to know.

     "In every day of trouble
       I'll raise my thoughts on high,
      I'll think of that bright temple
       And crowns above the sky."

   * Starry regions.
</pre>
    <p>
      I put in this whole hymn, because Sojourner, carried away with her own
      feeling, sang it from beginning to end with a triumphant energy that held
      the whole circle around her intently listening. She sang with the strong
      barbaric accent of the native African, and with those indescribable upward
      turns and those deep gutturals which give such a wild, peculiar power to
      the negro singing,&mdash;but above all, with such an overwhelming energy
      of personal appropriation that the hymn seemed to be fused in the furnace
      of her feelings and come out recrystallized as a production of her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is said that Rachel was wont to chant the "Marseillaise" in a manner
      that made her seem, for the time, the very spirit and impersonation of the
      gaunt, wild, hungry, avenging mob which rose against aristocratic
      oppression; and in like manner, Sojourner, singing this hymn, seemed to
      impersonate the fervor of Ethiopia, wild, savage, hunted of all nations,
      but burning after God in her tropic heart, and stretching her scarred
      hands towards the glory to be revealed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, den ye see, after a while, I thought I'd go back an' see de folks
      on de ole place. Well, you know, de law had passed dat de culled folks was
      all free; an' my old missis, she had a daughter married about dis time who
      went to live in Alabama,&mdash;an' what did she do but give her my son, a
      boy about de age of dis yer, for her to take down to Alabama? When I got
      back to de ole place, they told me about it, an' I went right up to see
      ole missis, an' says I,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Missis, have you been an' sent my son away down to Alabama?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes, I have,' says she; 'he's gone to live with your young missis.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Oh, Missis,' says I, 'how could you do it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Poh!' says she, 'what a fuss you make about a little nigger! Got more of
      'em now than you know what to do with.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell you, I stretched up. I felt as tall as the world!
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Missis,' says I, 'I'LL HAVE MY SON BACK AGIN!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "She laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'YOU will, you nigger? How you goin' to do it? You ha'n't got no money."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'No, Missis,&mdash;but GOD has,&mdash;an' you'll see He'll help me!'&mdash;an'
      I turned round an' went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, but I WAS angry to have her speak to me so haughty an' so scornful,
      as ef my chile wasn't worth anything. I said to God, 'O Lord, render unto
      her double!' It was a dreadful prayer, an' I didn't know how true it would
      come.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I didn't rightly know which way to turn; but I went to the Lord,
      an' I said to Him, 'O Lord, ef I was as rich as you be, an' you was as
      poor as I be, I'd help you,&mdash;you KNOW I would; and, oh, do help me!'
      An' I felt sure then that He would.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I talked with people, an' they said I must git the case before a
      grand jury. So I went into the town when they was holdin' a court, to see
      ef I could find any grand jury. An' I stood round the court-house, an'
      when they was a-comin' out, I walked right up to the grandest-lookin' one
      I could see, an' says I to him,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Sir, be you a grand jury?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "An' then he wanted to know why I asked, an' I told him all about it; an'
      he asked me all sorts of questions, an' finally he says to me,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I think, ef you pay me ten dollars, that I'd agree to git your son for
      you.' An' says he, pointin' to a house over the way, 'You go 'long an'
      tell your story to the folks in that house, an' I guess they'll give you
      the money.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I went, an' I told them, an' they gave me twenty dollars; an' then
      I thought to myself, 'Ef ten dollars will git him, twenty dollars will git
      him SARTIN.' So I carried it to the man all out, an' said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Take it all,&mdash;only be sure an' git him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, finally they got the boy brought back; an' then they tried to
      frighten him, an' to make him say that I wasn't his mammy, an' that he
      didn't know me; but they couldn't make it out. They gave him to me, an' I
      took him an' carried him home; an' when I came to take off his clothes,
      there was his poor little back all covered with scars an' hard lumps,
      where they'd flogged him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, you see, honey, I told you how I prayed the Lord to render unto her
      double. Well, it came true; for I was up at ole missis' house not long
      after, an' I heerd 'em readin' a letter to her how her daughter's husband
      had murdered her,&mdash;how he'd thrown her down an' stamped the life out
      of her, when he was in liquor; an' my ole missis, she giv a screech, an'
      fell flat on the floor. Then says I, 'O Lord, I didn't mean all that! You
      took me up too quick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I went in an' tended that poor critter all night. She was out of
      her mind,&mdash;a-cryin', an' callin' for her daughter; an' I held her
      poor ole head on my arm, an' watched for her as ef she'd been my babby.
      An' I watched by her, an' took care on her all through her sickness after
      that, an' she died in my arms, poor thing!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Sojourner, did you always go by this name?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, 'deed! My name was Isabella; but when I left the house of bondage, I
      left everything behind. I wa'n't goin' to keep nothin' of Egypt on me, an'
      so I went to the Lord an' asked Him to give me a new name. And the Lord
      gave me Sojourner, because I was to travel up an' down the land, showin'
      the people their sins, an' bein' a sign unto them. Afterwards I told the
      Lord I wanted another name, 'cause everybody else had two names; and the
      Lord gave me Truth, because I was to declare the truth to the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ye see some ladies have given me a white satin banner," she said, pulling
      out of her pocket and unfolding a white banner, printed with many texts,
      such as, "Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the
      inhabitants thereof," and others of like nature. "Well," she said, "I
      journeys round to camp-meetins, an' wherever folks is, an' I sets up my
      banner, an' then I sings, an' then folks always comes up round me, an'
      then I preaches to 'em. I tells 'em about Jesus, an' I tells 'em about the
      sins of this people. A great many always comes to hear me; an' they're
      right good to me, too, an' say they want to hear me agin."
    </p>
    <p>
      We all thought it likely; and as the company left her, they shook hands
      with her, and thanked her for her very original sermon; and one of the
      ministers was overheard to say to another, "There's more of the gospel in
      that story than in most sermons."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sojourner stayed several days with us, a welcome guest. Her conversation
      was so strong, simple, shrewd, and with such a droll flavoring of humor,
      that the Professor was wont to say of an evening, "Come, I am dull, can't
      you get Sojourner up here to talk a little?" She would come up into the
      parlor, and sit among pictures and ornaments, in her simple stuff gown,
      with her heavy travelling-shoes, the central object of attention both to
      parents and children, always ready to talk or to sing, and putting into
      the common flow of conversation the keen edge of some shrewd remark.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sojourner, what do you think of Women's Rights?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, honey, I's ben to der meetins, an' harked a good deal. Dey wanted
      me for to speak. So I got up. Says I,&mdash;'Sisters, I a'n't clear what
      you'd be after. Ef women want any rights more 'n dey's got, why don't dey
      jes' TAKE 'EM, an' not be talkin' about it?' Some on 'em came round me,
      an' asked why I didn't wear Bloomers. An' I told 'em I had Bloomers enough
      when I was in bondage. You see," she said, "dey used to weave what dey
      called nigger-cloth, an' each one of us got jes' sech a strip, an' had to
      wear it width-wise. Them that was short got along pretty well, but as for
      me"&mdash;She gave an indescribably droll glance at her long limbs and
      then at us, and added,&mdash;"Tell YOU, I had enough of Bloomers in them
      days."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sojourner then proceeded to give her views of the relative capacity of the
      sexes, in her own way.
    </p>
    <p>
      "S'pose a man's mind holds a quart, an' a woman's don't hold but a pint;
      ef her pint is FULL, it's as good as his quart."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sojourner was fond of singing an extraordinary lyric, commencing,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   "I'm on my way to Canada,
     That cold, but happy land;
    The dire effects of Slavery
     I can no longer stand.
    O righteous Father,
     Do look down on me,
    And help me on to Canada,
     Where colored folks are free!"
</pre>
    <p>
      The lyric ran on to state, that, when the fugitive crosses the Canada
      line,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   "The Queen comes down unto the shore,
     With arms extended wide,
    To welcome the poor fugitive
     Safe onto Freedom's side."
</pre>
    <p>
      In the truth thus set forth she seemed to have the most simple faith.
    </p>
    <p>
      But her chief delight was to talk of "glory," and to sing hymns whose
      burden was,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   "O glory, glory, glory,
     Won't you come along with me?"
</pre>
    <p>
      and when left to herself, she would often hum these with great delight,
      nodding her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      On one occasion, I remember her sitting at a window singing and fervently
      keeping time with her head, the little black Puck of a grandson meanwhile
      amusing himself with ornamenting her red-and-yellow turban with green
      dandelion-curls, which shook and trembled with her emotions, causing him
      perfect convulsions of delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sojourner," said the Professor to her, one day, when he heard her
      singing, "you seem to be very sure about heaven."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I be," she answered, triumphantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What makes you so sure there is any heaven?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, 'cause I got such a hankerin' arter it in here," she said,&mdash;giving
      a thump on her breast with her usual energy.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was at the time an invalid in the house, and Sojourner, on learning
      it, felt a mission to go and comfort her. It was curious to see the tall,
      gaunt, dusky figure stalk up to the bed with such an air of conscious
      authority, and take on herself the office of consoler with such a mixture
      of authority and tenderness. She talked as from above,&mdash;and at the
      same time, if a pillow needed changing or any office to be rendered, she
      did it with a strength and handiness that inspired trust. One felt as if
      the dark, strange woman were quite able to take up the invalid in her
      bosom, and bear her as a lamb, both physically and spiritually. There was
      both power and sweetness in that great warm soul and that vigorous frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, Sojourner, true to her name, departed. She had her mission
      elsewhere. Where now she is I know not; but she left deep memories behind
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      To these recollections of my own I will add one more anecdote, related by
      Wendell Phillips.
    </p>
    <p>
      Speaking of the power of Rachel to move and bear down a whole audience by
      a few simple words, he said he never knew but one other human being that
      had that power, and that other was Sojourner Truth. He related a scene of
      which he was witness. It was at a crowded public meeting in Faneuil Hall,
      where Frederick Douglas was one of the chief speakers. Douglas had been
      describing the wrongs of the black race, and as he proceeded, he grew more
      and more excited, and finally ended by saying that they had no hope of
      justice from the whites, no possible hope except in their own right arms.
      It must come to blood; they must fight for themselves, and redeem
      themselves, or it would never be done.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sojourner was sitting, tall and dark, on the very front seat, facing the
      platform; and in the hush of deep feeling, after Douglas sat down, she
      spoke out in her deep, peculiar voice, heard all over the house,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Frederick, IS GOD DEAD?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The effect was perfectly electrical, and thrilled through the whole house,
      changing as by a flash the whole feeling of the audience. Not another word
      she said or needed to say; it was enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is with a sad feeling that one contemplates noble minds and bodies,
      nobly and grandly formed human beings, that have come to us cramped,
      scarred, maimed, out of the prison-house of bondage. One longs to know
      what such beings might have become, if suffered to unfold and expand under
      the kindly developing influences of education.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is the theory of some writers, that to the African is reserved, in the
      later and palmier days of the earth, the full and harmonious development
      of the religious element in man. The African seems to seize on the
      tropical fervor and luxuriance of Scripture imagery as something native;
      he appears to feel himself to be of the same blood with those old burning,
      simple souls, the patriarchs, prophets, and seers, whose impassioned words
      seem only grafted as foreign plants on the cooler stock of the Occidental
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot but think that Sojourner with the same culture might have spoken
      words as eloquent and undying as those of the African Saint Augustine or
      Tertullian. How grand and queenly a woman she might have been, with her
      wonderful physical vigor, her great heaving sea of emotion, her power of
      spiritual conception, her quick penetration, and her boundless energy! We
      might conceive an African type of woman so largely made and moulded, so
      much fuller in all the elements of life, physical and spiritual, that the
      dark hue of the skin should seem only to add an appropriate charm,&mdash;as
      Milton says of his Penseroso, whom he imagines
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        "Black, but such as in esteem
     Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
     Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove
     To set her beauty's praise above
     The sea-nymph's."
</pre>
    <p>
      But though Sojourner Truth has passed away from among us as a wave of the
      sea, her memory still lives in one of the loftiest and most original works
      of modern art, the Libyan Sibyl, by Mr. Story, which attracted so much
      attention in the late World's Exhibition. Some years ago, when visiting
      Rome, I related Sojourner's history to Mr. Story at a breakfast at his
      house. Already had his mind begun to turn to Egypt in search of a type of
      art which should represent a larger and more vigorous development of
      nature than the cold elegance of Greek lines. His glorious Cleopatra was
      then in process of evolution, and his mind was working out the problem of
      her broadly developed nature, of all that slumbering weight and fulness of
      passion with which this statue seems charged, as a heavy thunder-cloud is
      charged with electricity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The history of Sojourner Truth worked in his mind and led him into the
      deeper recesses of the African nature,&mdash;those unexplored depths of
      being and feeling, mighty and dark as the gigantic depths of tropical
      forests, mysterious as the hidden rivers and mines of that burning
      continent whose life-history is yet to be. A few days after, he told me
      that he had conceived the idea of a statue which he should call the Libyan
      Sibyl. Two years subsequently, I revisited Rome, and found the gorgeous
      Cleopatra finished, a thing to marvel at, as the creation of a new style
      of beauty, a new manner of art. Mr. Story requested me to come and repeat
      to him the history of Sojourner Truth, saying that the conception had
      never left him. I did so; and a day or two after, he showed me the clay
      model of the Libyan Sibyl. I have never seen the marble statue; but am
      told by those who have, that it was by far the most impressive work of art
      at the Exhibition.
    </p>
    <p>
      A notice of the two statues from the London "Athenaeum" must supply a
      description which I cannot give.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Cleopatra and the Sibyl are seated, partly draped, with the
      characteristic Egyptian gown, that gathers about the torso and falls
      freely around the limbs; the first is covered to the bosom, the second
      bare to the hips. Queenly Cleopatra rests back against her chair in
      meditative ease, leaning her cheek against one hand, whose elbow the rail
      of the seat sustains; the other is outstretched upon her knee, nipping its
      forefinger upon the thumb thoughtfully, as though some firm, wilful
      purpose filled her brain, as it seems to set those luxurious features to a
      smile as if the whole woman 'would.' Upon her head is the coif, bearing in
      front the mystic uraeus, or twining basilisk of sovereignty, while from
      its sides depend the wide Egyptian lappels, or wings, that fall upon her
      shoulders. The Sibilla Libica has crossed her knees,&mdash;an action
      universally held amongst the ancients as indicative of reticence or
      secrecy, and of power to bind. A secret-keeping looking dame she is, in
      the full-bloom proportions of ripe womanhood, wherein choosing to place
      his figure the sculptor has deftly gone between the disputed point whether
      these women were blooming and wise in youth, or deeply furrowed with age
      and burdened with the knowledge of centuries, as Virgil, Livy, and Gellius
      say. Good artistic example might be quoted on both sides. Her forward
      elbow is propped upon one knee; and to keep her secrets close, for this
      Libyan woman is the closest of all the Sibyls, she rests her shut mouth
      upon one closed palm, as if holding the African mystery deep in the
      brooding brain that looks out through mournful, warning eyes, seen under
      the wide shade of the strange horned (ammonite) crest, that bears the
      mystery of the Tetragrammaton upon its upturned front. Over her full
      bosom, mother of myriads as she was, hangs the same symbol. Her face has a
      Nubian cast, her hair wavy and plaited, as is meet."
    </p>
    <p>
      We hope to see the day when copies both of the Cleopatra and the Libyan
      Sibyl shall adorn the Capitol at Washington.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      RECONSTRUCTION by Frederick Douglass
    </h2>
    <p>
      The assembling of the Second Session of the Thirty-ninth Congress may very
      properly be made the occasion of a few earnest words on the already
      much-worn topic of reconstruction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seldom has any legislative body been the subject of a solicitude more
      intense, or of aspirations more sincere and ardent. There are the best of
      reasons for this profound interest. Questions of vast moment, left
      undecided by the last session of Congress, must be manfully grappled with
      by this. No political skirmishing will avail. The occasion demands
      statesmanship.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether the tremendous war so heroically fought and so victoriously ended
      shall pass into history a miserable failure, barren of permanent results,&mdash;a
      scandalous and shocking waste of blood and treasure,&mdash;a strife for
      empire, as Earl Russell characterized it, of no value to liberty or
      civilization,&mdash;an attempt to re-establish a Union by force, which
      must be the merest mockery of a Union,&mdash;an effort to bring under
      Federal authority States into which no loyal man from the North may safely
      enter, and to bring men into the national councils who deliberate with
      daggers and vote with revolvers, and who do not even conceal their deadly
      hate of the country that conquered them; or whether, on the other hand, we
      shall, as the rightful reward of victory over treason, have a solid
      nation, entirely delivered from all contradictions and social antagonisms,
      based upon loyalty, liberty, and equality, must be determined one way or
      the other by the present session of Congress. The last session really did
      nothing which can be considered final as to these questions. The Civil
      Rights Bill and the Freedmen's Bureau Bill and the proposed constitutional
      amendments, with the amendment already adopted and recognized as the law
      of the land, do not reach the difficulty, and cannot, unless the whole
      structure of the government is changed from a government by States to
      something like a despotic central government, with power to control even
      the municipal regulations of States, and to make them conform to its own
      despotic will. While there remains such an idea as the right of each State
      to control its own local affairs,&mdash;an idea, by the way, more deeply
      rooted in the minds of men of all sections of the country than perhaps any
      one other political idea,&mdash;no general assertion of human rights can
      be of any practical value. To change the character of the government at
      this point is neither possible nor desirable. All that is necessary to be
      done is to make the government consistent with itself, and render the
      rights of the States compatible with the sacred rights of human nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      The arm of the Federal government is long, but it is far too short to
      protect the rights of individuals in the interior of distant States. They
      must have the power to protect themselves, or they will go unprotected,
      spite of all the laws the Federal government can put upon the national
      statute-book.
    </p>
    <p>
      Slavery, like all other great systems of wrong, founded in the depths of
      human selfishness, and existing for ages, has not neglected its own
      conservation. It has steadily exerted an influence upon all around it
      favorable to its own continuance. And to-day it is so strong that it could
      exist, not only without law, but even against law. Custom, manners,
      morals, religion, are all on its side everywhere in the South; and when
      you add the ignorance and servility of the ex-slave to the intelligence
      and accustomed authority of the master, you have the conditions, not out
      of which slavery will again grow, but under which it is impossible for the
      Federal government to wholly destroy it, unless the Federal government be
      armed with despotic power, to blot out State authority, and to station a
      Federal officer at every cross-road. This, of course, cannot be done, and
      ought not even if it could. The true way and the easiest way is to make
      our government entirely consistent with itself, and give to every loyal
      citizen the elective franchise,&mdash;a right and power which will be ever
      present, and will form a wall of fire for his protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the invaluable compensations of the late Rebellion is the highly
      instructive disclosure it made of the true source of danger to republican
      government. Whatever may be tolerated in monarchical and despotic
      governments, no republic is safe that tolerates a privileged class, or
      denies to any of its citizens equal rights and equal means to maintain
      them. What was theory before the war has been made fact by the war.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is cause to be thankful even for rebellion. It is an impressive
      teacher, though a stern and terrible one. In both characters it has come
      to us, and it was perhaps needed in both. It is an instructor never a day
      before its time, for it comes only when all other means of progress and
      enlightenment have failed. Whether the oppressed and despairing bondman,
      no longer able to repress his deep yearnings for manhood, or the tyrant,
      in his pride and impatience, takes the initiative, and strikes the blow
      for a firmer hold and a longer lease of oppression, the result is the
      same,&mdash;society is instructed, or may be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such are the limitations of the common mind, and so thoroughly engrossing
      are the cares of common life, that only the few among men can discern
      through the glitter and dazzle of present prosperity the dark outlines of
      approaching disasters, even though they may have come up to our very
      gates, and are already within striking distance. The yawning seam and
      corroded bolt conceal their defects from the mariner until the storm calls
      all hands to the pumps. Prophets, indeed, were abundant before the war;
      but who cares for prophets while their predictions remain unfulfilled, and
      the calamities of which they tell are masked behind a blinding blaze of
      national prosperity?
    </p>
    <p>
      It is asked, said Henry Clay, on a memorable occasion, Will slavery never
      come to an end? That question, said he, was asked fifty years ago, and it
      has been answered by fifty years of unprecedented prosperity. Spite of the
      eloquence of the earnest Abolitionists,&mdash;poured out against slavery
      during thirty years,&mdash;even they must confess, that, in all the
      probabilities of the case, that system of barbarism would have continued
      its horrors far beyond the limits of the nineteenth century but for the
      Rebellion, and perhaps only have disappeared at last in a fiery conflict,
      even more fierce and bloody than that which has now been suppressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is no disparagement to truth, that it can only prevail where reason
      prevails. War begins where reason ends. The thing worse than rebellion is
      the thing that causes rebellion. What that thing is, we have been taught
      to our cost. It remains now to be seen whether we have the needed courage
      to have that cause entirely removed from the Republic. At any rate, to
      this grand work of national regeneration and entire purification Congress
      must now address Itself, with full purpose that the work shall this time
      be thoroughly done. The deadly upas, root and branch, leaf and fibre, body
      and sap, must be utterly destroyed. The country is evidently not in a
      condition to listen patiently to pleas for postponement, however
      plausible, nor will it permit the responsibility to be shifted to other
      shoulders. Authority and power are here commensurate with the duty
      imposed. There are no cloud-flung shadows to obscure the way. Truth shines
      with brighter light and intenser heat at every moment, and a country torn
      and rent and bleeding implores relief from its distress and agony.
    </p>
    <p>
      If time was at first needed, Congress has now had time. All the requisite
      materials from which to form an intelligent judgment are now before it.
      Whether its members look at the origin, the progress, the termination of
      the war, or at the mockery of a peace now existing, they will find only
      one unbroken chain of argument in favor of a radical policy of
      reconstruction. For the omissions of the last session, some excuses may be
      allowed. A treacherous President stood in the way; and it can be easily
      seen how reluctant good men might be to admit an apostasy which involved
      so much of baseness and ingratitude. It was natural that they should seek
      to save him by bending to him even when he leaned to the side of error.
      But all is changed now. Congress knows now that it must go on without his
      aid, and even against his machinations. The advantage of the present
      session over the last is immense. Where that investigated, this has the
      facts. Where that walked by faith, this may walk by sight. Where that
      halted, this must go forward, and where that failed, this must succeed,
      giving the country whole measures where that gave us half-measures, merely
      as a means of saving the elections in a few doubtful districts. That
      Congress saw what was right, but distrusted the enlightenment of the loyal
      masses; but what was forborne in distrust of the people must now be done
      with a full knowledge that the people expect and require it. The members
      go to Washington fresh from the inspiring presence of the people. In every
      considerable public meeting, and in almost every conceivable way, whether
      at court-house, school-house, or cross-roads, in doors and out, the
      subject has been discussed, and the people have emphatically pronounced in
      favor of a radical policy. Listening to the doctrines of expediency and
      compromise with pity, impatience, and disgust, they have everywhere broken
      into demonstrations of the wildest enthusiasm when a brave word has been
      spoken in favor of equal rights and impartial suffrage. Radicalism, so far
      from being odious, is not the popular passport to power. The men most
      bitterly charged with it go to Congress with the largest majorities, while
      the timid and doubtful are sent by lean majorities, or else left at home.
      The strange controversy between the President and the Congress, at one
      time so threatening, is disposed of by the people. The high reconstructive
      powers which he so confidently, ostentatiously, and haughtily claimed,
      have been disallowed, denounced, and utterly repudiated; while those
      claimed by Congress have been confirmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the spirit and magnitude of the canvass nothing need be said. The
      appeal was to the people, and the verdict was worthy of the tribunal. Upon
      an occasion of his own selection, with the advice and approval of his
      astute Secretary, soon after the members of the Congress had returned to
      their constituents, the President quitted the executive mansion,
      sandwiched himself between two recognized heroes,&mdash;men whom the whole
      country delighted to honor,&mdash;and, with all the advantage which such
      company could give him, stumped the country from the Atlantic to the
      Mississippi, advocating everywhere his policy as against that of Congress.
      It was a strange sight, and perhaps the most disgraceful exhibition ever
      made by any President; but, as no evil is entirely unmixed, good has come
      of this, as from many others. Ambitious, unscrupulous, energetic,
      indefatigable, voluble, and plausible,&mdash;a political gladiator, ready
      for a "set-to" in any crowd,&mdash;he is beaten in his own chosen field,
      and stands to-day before the country as a convicted usurper, a political
      criminal, guilty of a bold and persistent attempt to possess himself of
      the legislative powers solemnly secured to Congress by the Constitution.
      No vindication could be more complete, no condemnation could be more
      absolute and humiliating. Unless reopened by the sword, as recklessly
      threatened in some circles, this question is now closed for all time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without attempting to settle here the metaphysical and somewhat
      theological question (about which so much has already been said and
      written), whether once in the Union means always in the Union,&mdash;agreeably
      to the formula, Once in grace always in grace,&mdash;it is obvious to
      common sense that the rebellious States stand to-day, in point of law,
      precisely where they stood when, exhausted, beaten, conquered, they fell
      powerless at the feet of Federal authority. Their State governments were
      overthrown, and the lives and property of the leaders of the Rebellion
      were forfeited. In reconstructing the institutions of these shattered and
      overthrown States, Congress should begin with a clean slate, and make
      clean work of it. Let there be no hesitation. It would be a cowardly
      deference to a defeated and treacherous President, if any account were
      made of the illegitimate, one-sided, sham governments hurried into
      existence for a malign purpose in the absence of Congress. These pretended
      governments, which were never submitted to the people, and from
      participation in which four millions of the loyal people were excluded by
      Presidential order, should now be treated according to their true
      character, as shams and impositions, and supplanted by true and legitimate
      governments, in the formation of which loyal men, black and white, shall
      participate.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is not, however, within the scope of this paper to point out the
      precise steps to be taken, and the means to be employed. The people are
      less concerned about these than the grand end to be attained. They demand
      such a reconstruction as shall put an end to the present anarchical state
      of things in the late rebellious States,&mdash;where frightful murders and
      wholesale massacres are perpetrated in the very presence of Federal
      soldiers. This horrible business they require shall cease. They want a
      reconstruction such as will protect loyal men, black and white, in their
      persons and property; such a one as will cause Northern industry, Northern
      capital, and Northern civilization to flow into the South, and make a man
      from New England as much at home in Carolina as elsewhere in the Republic.
      No Chinese wall can now be tolerated. The South must be opened to the
      light of law and liberty, and this session of Congress is relied upon to
      accomplish this important work.
    </p>
    <p>
      The plain, common-sense way of doing this work, as intimated at the
      beginning, is simply to establish in the South one law, one government,
      one administration of justice, one condition to the exercise of the
      elective franchise, for men of all races and colors alike. This great
      measure is sought as earnestly by loyal white men as by loyal blacks, and
      is needed alike by both. Let sound political prescience but take the place
      of an unreasoning prejudice, and this will be done.
    </p>
    <p>
      Men denounce the negro for his prominence in this discussion; but it is no
      fault of his that in peace as in war, that in conquering Rebel armies as
      in reconstructing the rebellious States, the right of the negro is the
      true solution of our national troubles. The stern logic of events, which
      goes directly to the point, disdaining all concern for the color or
      features of men, has determined the interests of the country as identical
      with and inseparable from those of the negro.
    </p>
    <p>
      The policy that emancipated and armed the negro&mdash;now seen to have
      been wise and proper by the dullest&mdash;was not certainly more sternly
      demanded than is now the policy of enfranchisement. If with the negro was
      success in war, and without him failure, so in peace it will be found that
      the nation must fall or flourish with the negro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fortunately, the Constitution of the United States knows no distinction
      between citizens on account of color. Neither does it know any difference
      between a citizen of a State and a citizen of the United States.
      Citizenship evidently includes all the rights of citizens, whether State
      or national. If the Constitution knows none, it is clearly no part of the
      duty of a Republican Congress now to institute one. The mistake of the
      last session was the attempt to do this very thing, by a renunciation of
      its power to secure political rights to any class of citizens, with the
      obvious purpose to allow the rebellious States to disfranchise, if they
      should see fit, their colored citizens. This unfortunate blunder must now
      be retrieved, and the emasculated citizenship given to the negro
      supplanted by that contemplated in the Constitution of the United States,
      which declares that the citizens of each State shall enjoy all the rights
      and immunities of citizens of the several States,&mdash;so that a legal
      voter in any State shall be a legal voter in all the States.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      AN APPEAL TO CONGRESS FOR IMPARTIAL SUFFRAGE by Frederick Douglas
    </h2>
    <p>
      A very limited statement of the argument for impartial suffrage, and for
      including the negro in the body politic, would require more space than can
      be reasonably asked here. It is supported by reasons as broad as the
      nature of man, and as numerous as the wants of society. Man is the only
      government-making animal in the world. His right to a participation in the
      production and operation of government is an inference from his nature, as
      direct and self-evident as is his right to acquire property or education.
      It is no less a crime against the manhood of a man, to declare that he
      shall not share in the making and directing of the government under which
      he lives, than to say that he shall not acquire property and education.
      The fundamental and unanswerable argument in favor of the enfranchisement
      of the negro is found in the undisputed fact of his manhood. He is a man,
      and by every fact and argument by which any man can sustain his right to
      vote, the negro can sustain his right equally. It is plain that, if the
      right belongs to any, it belongs to all. The doctrine that some men have
      no rights that others are bound to respect, is a doctrine which we must
      banish as we have banished slavery, from which it emanated. If black men
      have no rights in the eyes of white men, of course the whites can have
      none in the eyes of the blacks. The result is a war of races, and the
      annihilation of all proper human relations.
    </p>
    <p>
      But suffrage for the negro, while easily sustained upon abstract
      principles, demands consideration upon what are recognized as the urgent
      necessities of the case. It is a measure of relief,&mdash;a shield to
      break the force of a blow already descending with violence, and render it
      harmless. The work of destruction has already been set in motion all over
      the South. Peace to the country has literally meant war to the loyal men
      of the South, white and black; and negro suffrage is the measure to arrest
      and put an end to that dreadful strife.
    </p>
    <p>
      Something then, not by way of argument, (for that has been done by Charles
      Sumner, Thaddeus Stevens, Wendell Phillips, Gerrit Smith, and other able
      men,) but rather of statement and appeal.
    </p>
    <p>
      For better or for worse, (as in some of the old marriage ceremonies,) the
      negroes are evidently a permanent part of the American population. They
      are too numerous and useful to be colonized, and too enduring and
      self-perpetuating to disappear by natural causes. Here they are, four
      millions of them, and, for weal or for woe, here they must remain. Their
      history is parallel to that of the country; but while the history of the
      latter has been cheerful and bright with blessings, theirs has been heavy
      and dark with agonies and curses. What O'Connell said of the history of
      Ireland may with greater truth be said of the negro's. It may be "traced
      like a wounded man through a crowd, by the blood." Yet the negroes have
      marvellously survived all the exterminating forces of slavery, and have
      emerged at the end of two hundred and fifty years of bondage, not morose,
      misanthropic, and revengeful, but cheerful, hopeful, and forgiving. They
      now stand before Congress and the country, not complaining of the past,
      but simply asking for a better future. The spectacle of these dusky
      millions thus imploring, not demanding, is touching; and if American
      statesmen could be moved by a simple appeal to the nobler elements of
      human nature, if they had not fallen, seemingly, into the incurable habit
      of weighing and measuring every proposition of reform by some standard of
      profit and loss, doing wrong from choice, and right only from necessity or
      some urgent demand of human selfishness, it would be enough to plead for
      the negroes on the score of past services and sufferings. But no such
      appeal shall be relied on here. Hardships, services, sufferings, and
      sacrifices are all waived. It is true that they came to the relief of the
      country at the hour of its extremest need. It is true that, in many of the
      rebellious States, they were almost the only reliable friends the nation
      had throughout the whole tremendous war. It is true that, notwithstanding
      their alleged ignorance, they were wiser than their masters, and knew
      enough to be loyal, while those masters only knew enough to be rebels and
      traitors. It is true that they fought side by side in the loyal cause with
      our gallant and patriotic white soldiers, and that, but for their help,&mdash;divided
      as the loyal States were,&mdash;the Rebels might have succeeded in
      breaking up the Union, thereby entailing border wars and troubles of
      unknown duration and incalculable calamity. All this and more is true of
      these loyal negroes. Many daring exploits will be told to their credit.
      Impartial history will paint them as men who deserved well of their
      country. It will tell how they forded and swam rivers, with what
      consummate address they evaded the sharp-eyed Rebel pickets, how they
      toiled in the darkness of night through the tangled marshes of briers and
      thorns, barefooted and weary, running the risk of losing their lives, to
      warn our generals of Rebel schemes to surprise and destroy our loyal army.
      It will tell how these poor people, whose rights we still despised,
      behaved to our wounded soldiers, when found cold, hungry, and bleeding on
      the deserted battle-field; how they assisted our escaping prisoners from
      Andersonville, Belle Isle, Castle Thunder, and elsewhere, sharing with
      them their wretched crusts, and otherwise affording them aid and comfort;
      how they promptly responded to the trumpet call for their services,
      fighting against a foe that denied them the rights of civilized warfare,
      and for a government which was without the courage to assert those rights
      and avenge their violation in their behalf; with what gallantry they flung
      themselves upon Rebel fortifications, meeting death as fearlessly as any
      other troops in the service. But upon none of these things is reliance
      placed. These facts speak to the better dispositions of the human heart;
      but they seem of little weight with the opponents of impartial suffrage.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is true that a strong plea for equal suffrage might be addressed to the
      national sense of honor. Something, too, might be said of national
      gratitude. A nation might well hesitate before the temptation to betray
      its allies. There is something immeasurably mean, to say nothing of the
      cruelty, in placing the loyal negroes of the South under the political
      power of their Rebel masters. To make peace with our enemies is all well
      enough; but to prefer our enemies and sacrifice our friends,&mdash;to
      exalt our enemies and cast down our friends,&mdash;to clothe our enemies,
      who sought the destruction of the government, with all political power,
      and leave our friends powerless in their hands,&mdash;is an act which need
      not be characterized here. We asked the negroes to espouse our cause, to
      be our friends, to fight for us, and against their masters; and now, after
      they have done all that we asked them to do,&mdash;helped us to conquer
      their masters, and thereby directed toward themselves the furious hate of
      the vanquished,&mdash;it is proposed in some quarters to turn them over to
      the political control of the common enemy of the government and of the
      negro. But of this let nothing be said in this place. Waiving humanity,
      national honor, the claims of gratitude, the precious satisfaction arising
      from deeds of charity and justice to the weak and defenceless,&mdash;the
      appeal for impartial suffrage addresses itself with great pertinency to
      the darkest, coldest, and flintiest side of the human heart, and would
      wring righteousness from the unfeeling calculations of human selfishness.
    </p>
    <p>
      For in respect to this grand measure it is the good fortune of the negro
      that enlightened selfishness, not less than justice, fights on his side.
      National interest and national duty, if elsewhere separated, are firmly
      united here. The American people can, perhaps, afford to brave the censure
      of surrounding nations for the manifest injustice and meanness of
      excluding its faithful black soldiers from the ballot-box, but it cannot
      afford to allow the moral and mental energies of rapidly increasing
      millions to be consigned to hopeless degradation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Strong as we are, we need the energy that slumbers in the black man's arm
      to make us stronger. We want no longer any heavy-footed, melancholy
      service from the negro. We want the cheerful activity of the quickened
      manhood of these sable millions. Nor can we afford to endure the moral
      blight which the existence of a degraded and hated class must necessarily
      inflict upon any people among whom such a class may exist. Exclude the
      negroes as a class from political rights,&mdash;teach them that the high
      and manly privilege of suffrage is to be enjoyed by white citizens only,&mdash;that
      they may bear the burdens of the state, but that they are to have no part
      in its direction or its honors,&mdash;and you at once deprive them of one
      of the main incentives to manly character and patriotic devotion to the
      interests of the government; in a word, you stamp them as a degraded
      caste,&mdash;you teach them to despise themselves, and all others to
      despise them. Men are so constituted that they largely derive their ideas
      of their abilities and their possibilities from the settled judgments of
      their fellow-men, and especially from such as they read in the
      institutions under which they live. If these bless them, they are blest
      indeed; but if these blast them, they are blasted indeed. Give the negro
      the elective franchise, and you give him at once a powerful motive for all
      noble exertion, and make him a man among men. A character is demanded of
      him, and here as elsewhere demand favors supply. It is nothing against
      this reasoning that all men who vote are not good men or good citizens. It
      is enough that the possession and exercise of the elective franchise is in
      itself an appeal to the nobler elements of manhood, and imposes education
      as essential to the safety of society.
    </p>
    <p>
      To appreciate the full force of this argument, it must be observed, that
      disfranchisement in a republican government based upon the idea of human
      equality and universal suffrage, is a very different thing from
      disfranchisement in governments based upon the idea of the divine right of
      kings, or the entire subjugation of the masses. Masses of men can take
      care of themselves. Besides, the disabilities imposed upon all are
      necessarily without that bitter and stinging element of invidiousness
      which attaches to disfranchisement in a republic. What is common to all
      works no special sense of degradation to any. But in a country like ours,
      where men of all nations, kindred, and tongues are freely enfranchised,
      and allowed to vote, to say to the negro, You shall not vote, is to deal
      his manhood a staggering blow, and to burn into his soul a bitter and
      goading sense of wrong, or else work in him a stupid indifference to all
      the elements of a manly character. As a nation, we cannot afford to have
      amongst us either this indifference and stupidity, or that burning sense
      of wrong. These sable millions are too powerful to be allowed to remain
      either indifferent or discontented. Enfranchise them, and they become
      self-respecting and country-loving citizens. Disfranchise them, and the
      mark of Cain is set upon them less mercifully than upon the first
      murderer, for no man was to hurt him. But this mark of inferiority&mdash;all
      the more palpable because of a difference of color&mdash;not only dooms
      the negro to be a vagabond, but makes him the prey of insult and outrage
      everywhere. While nothing may be urged here as to the past services of the
      negro, it is quite within the line of this appeal to remind the nation of
      the possibility that a time may come when the services of the negro may be
      a second time required. History is said to repeat itself, and, if so,
      having wanted the negro once, we may want him again. Can that
      statesmanship be wise which would leave the negro good ground to hesitate,
      when the exigencies of the country required his prompt assistance? Can
      that be sound statesmanship which leaves millions of men in gloomy
      discontent, and possibly in a state of alienation in the day of national
      trouble? Was not the nation stronger when two hundred thousand sable
      soldiers were hurled against the Rebel fortifications, than it would have
      been without them? Arming the negro was an urgent military necessity three
      years ago,&mdash;are we sure that another quite as pressing may not await
      us? Casting aside all thought of justice and magnanimity, is it wise to
      impose upon the negro all the burdens involved in sustaining government
      against foes within and foes without, to make him equal sharer in all
      sacrifices for the public good, to tax him in peace and conscript him in
      war, and then coldly exclude him from the ballot-box?
    </p>
    <p>
      Look across the sea. Is Ireland, in her present condition, fretful,
      discontented, compelled to support an establishment in which she does not
      believe, and which the vast majority of her people abhor, a source of
      power or of weakness to Great Britain? Is not Austria wise in removing all
      ground of complaint against her on the part of Hungary? And does not the
      Emperor of Russia act wisely, as well as generously, when he not only
      breaks up the bondage of the serf, but extends him all the advantages of
      Russian citizenship? Is the present movement in England in favor of
      manhood suffrage&mdash;for the purpose of bringing four millions of
      British subjects into full sympathy and co-operation with the British
      government&mdash;a wise and humane movement, or otherwise? Is the
      existence of a rebellious element in our borders&mdash;which New Orleans,
      Memphis, and Texas show to be only disarmed, but at heart as malignant as
      ever, only waiting for an opportunity to reassert itself with fire and
      sword&mdash;a reason for leaving four millions of the nation's truest
      friends with just cause of complaint against the Federal government? If
      the doctrine that taxation should go hand in hand with representation can
      be appealed to in behalf of recent traitors and rebels, may it not
      properly be asserted in behalf of a people who have ever been loyal and
      faithful to the government? The answers to these questions are too obvious
      to require statement. Disguise it as we may, we are still a divided
      nation. The Rebel States have still an anti-national policy. Massachusetts
      and South Carolina may draw tears from the eyes of our tender-hearted
      President by walking arm in arm into his Philadelphia Convention, but a
      citizen of Massachusetts is still an alien in the Palmetto State. There is
      that, all over the South, which frightens Yankee industry, capital, and
      skill from its borders. We have crushed the Rebellion, but not its hopes
      or its malign purposes. The South fought for perfect and permanent control
      over the Southern laborer. It was a war of the rich against the poor. They
      who waged it had no objection to the government, while they could use it
      as a means of confirming their power over the laborer. They fought the
      government, not because they hated the government as such, but because
      they found it, as they thought, in the way between them and their one
      grand purpose of rendering permanent and indestructible their authority
      and power over the Southern laborer. Though the battle is for the present
      lost, the hope of gaining this object still exists, and pervades the whole
      South with a feverish excitement. We have thus far only gained a Union
      without unity, marriage without love, victory without peace. The hope of
      gaining by politics what they lost by the sword, is the secret of all this
      Southern unrest; and that hope must be extinguished before national ideas
      and objects can take full possession of the Southern mind. There is but
      one safe and constitutional way to banish that mischievous hope from the
      South, and that is by lifting the laborer beyond the unfriendly political
      designs of his former master. Give the negro the elective franchise, and
      you at once destroy the purely sectional policy, and wheel the Southern
      States into line with national interests and national objects. The last
      and shrewdest turn of Southern politics is a recognition of the necessity
      of getting into Congress immediately, and at any price. The South will
      comply with any conditions but suffrage for the negro. It will swallow all
      the unconstitutional test oaths, repeal all the ordinances of Secession,
      repudiate the Rebel debt, promise to pay the debt incurred in conquering
      its people, pass all the constitutional amendments, if only it can have
      the negro left under its political control. The proposition is as modest
      as that made on the mountain: "All these things will I give unto thee if
      thou wilt fall down and worship me."
    </p>
    <p>
      But why are the Southerners so willing to make these sacrifices? The
      answer plainly is, they see in this policy the only hope of saving
      something of their old sectional peculiarities and power. Once firmly
      seated in Congress, their alliance with Northern Democrats re-established,
      their States restored to their former position inside the Union, they can
      easily find means of keeping the Federal government entirely too busy with
      other important matters to pay much attention to the local affairs of the
      Southern States. Under the potent shield of State Rights, the game would
      be in their own hands. Does any sane man doubt for a moment that the men
      who followed Jefferson Davis through the late terrible Rebellion, often
      marching barefooted and hungry, naked and penniless, and who now only
      profess an enforced loyalty, would plunge this country into a foreign war
      to-day, if they could thereby gain their coveted independence, and their
      still more coveted mastery over the negroes? Plainly enough, the peace not
      less than the prosperity of this country is involved in the great measure
      of impartial suffrage. King Cotton is deposed, but only deposed, and is
      ready to-day to reassert all his ancient pretensions upon the first
      favorable opportunity. Foreign countries abound with his agents. They are
      able, vigilant, devoted. The young men of the South burn with the desire
      to regain what they call the lost cause; the women are noisily malignant
      towards the Federal government. In fact, all the elements of treason and
      rebellion are there under the thinnest disguise which necessity can
      impose.
    </p>
    <p>
      What, then, is the work before Congress? It is to save the people of the
      South from themselves, and the nation from detriment on their account.
      Congress must supplant the evident sectional tendencies of the South by
      national dispositions and tendencies. It must cause national ideas and
      objects to take the lead and control the politics of those States. It must
      cease to recognize the old slave-masters as the only competent persons to
      rule the South. In a word, it must enfranchise the negro, and by means of
      the loyal negroes and the loyal white men of the South build up a national
      party there, and in time bridge the chasm between North and South, so that
      our country may have a common liberty and a common civilization. The new
      wine must be put into new bottles. The lamb may not be trusted with the
      wolf. Loyalty is hardly safe with traitors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Statesmen of America! beware what you do. The ploughshare of rebellion has
      gone through the land beam-deep. The soil is in readiness, and the
      seed-time has come. Nations, not less than individuals, reap as they sow.
      The dreadful calamities of the past few years came not by accident, nor
      unbidden, from the ground. You shudder to-day at the harvest of blood sown
      in the spring-time of the Republic by your patriot fathers. The principle
      of slavery, which they tolerated under the erroneous impression that it
      would soon die out, became at last the dominant principle and power at the
      South. It early mastered the Constitution, became superior to the Union,
      and enthroned itself above the law.
    </p>
    <p>
      Freedom of speech and of the press it slowly but successfully banished
      from the South, dictated its own code of honor and manners to the nation,
      brandished the bludgeon and the bowie-knife over Congressional debate,
      sapped the foundations of loyalty, dried up the springs of patriotism,
      blotted out the testimonies of the fathers against oppression, padlocked
      the pulpit, expelled liberty from its literature, invented nonsensical
      theories about master-races and slave-races of men, and in due season
      produced a Rebellion fierce, foul, and bloody.
    </p>
    <p>
      This evil principle again seeks admission into our body politic. It comes
      now in shape of a denial of political rights to four million loyal colored
      people. The South does not now ask for slavery. It only asks for a large
      degraded caste, which shall have no political rights. This ends the case.
      Statesmen, beware what you do. The destiny of unborn and unnumbered
      generations is in your hands. Will you repeat the mistake of your fathers,
      who sinned ignorantly? or will you profit by the blood-bought wisdom all
      round you, and forever expel every vestige of the old abomination from our
      national borders? As you members of the Thirty-ninth Congress decide, will
      the country be peaceful, united, and happy, or troubled, divided, and
      miserable.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
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    <h2>
      THE NEGRO EXODUS by James B. Runnion
    </h2>
    <p>
      A recent sojourn in the South for a few weeks, chiefly in Louisiana and
      Mississippi, gave the writer an opportunity to inquire into what has been
      so aptly called "the negro exodus." The emigration of blacks to Kansas
      began early in the spring of this year. For a time there was a stampede
      from two or three of the river parishes in Louisiana and as many counties
      opposite in Mississippi. Several thousand negroes (certainly not fewer
      than five thousand, and variously estimated as high as ten thousand) had
      left their cabins before the rush could be stayed or the excitement
      lulled. Early in May most of the negroes who had quit work for the purpose
      of emigrating, but had not succeeded in getting off, were persuaded to
      return to the plantations, and from that time on there have been only
      straggling families and groups that have watched for and seized the first
      opportunity for transportation to the North. There is no doubt, however,
      that there is still a consuming desire among the negroes of the cotton
      districts in these two States to seek new homes, and there are the best
      reasons for believing that the exodus will take a new start next spring,
      after the gathering and conversion of the growing crop. Hundreds of
      negroes who returned from the river-banks for lack of transportation, and
      thousands of others infected with the ruling discontent, are working
      harder in the fields this summer, and practicing more economy and
      self-denial than ever before, in order to have the means next winter and
      spring to pay their way to the "promised land."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We've been working for fourteen long years," said an intelligent negro,
      in reply to a question as to the cause of the prevailing discontent, "and
      we ain't no better off than we was when we commenced." This is the negro
      version of the trouble, which is elaborated on occasion into a harrowing
      story of oppression and plunder.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell you it's all owing to the radical politicians at the North,"
      explained a representative of the type known as the Bourbons; "they've had
      their emissaries down here, and deluded the 'niggers' into a very fever of
      emigration, with the purpose of reducing our basis of representation in
      Congress and increasing that of the Northern States."
    </p>
    <p>
      These are the two extremes of opinion at the South. The first is certainly
      the more reasonable and truthful, though it implies that all the blame
      rests upon the whites, which is not the case; the second, preposterous as
      it will appear to Northern readers, is religiously believed by large
      numbers of the "unreconciled." Between these two extremes there is an
      infinite variety of theories, all more or less governed by the political
      faction to which the various theorizers belong; there are at least a dozen
      of these factions, such as the Bourbons, the conservatives, the native
      white republicans, the carpet-bag republicans, the negro republicans, etc.
      There is a political tinge in almost everything in the extreme Southern
      States. The fact seems to be that the emigration movement among the blacks
      was spontaneous to the extent that they were ready and anxious to go. The
      immediate notion of going may have been inculcated by such circulars,
      issued by railroads and land companies, as are common enough at emigrant
      centres in the North and West, and the exaggeration characteristic of such
      literature may have stimulated the imagination of the negroes far beyond
      anything they are likely to realize in their new homes. Kansas was
      naturally the favorite goal of the negro emigre, for it was associated in
      his mind with the names of Jim Lane and John Brown, which are hallowed to
      him. The timid learned that they could escape what they have come to
      regard as a second bondage, and they flocked together to gain the moral
      support which comes from numbers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Diligent inquiry among representative men, of all classes and from all
      parts of Louisiana, who were in attendance at the constitutional
      convention in New Orleans, and careful observation along the river among
      the land owners and field hands in both Louisiana and Mississippi, left a
      vivid impression of some material and political conditions which fully
      account for the negro exodus. I have dropped the social conditions out of
      the consideration, because I became convinced that the race troubles at
      the South can be solved to the satisfaction of both whites and blacks
      without cultivating any closer social relations than those which now
      prevail. The material conditions which I have in mind are less familiar
      than the political conditions; they are mainly the land-tenure and credit
      systems, and mere modifications (scarcely for the better) of the peculiar
      plantation system of slavery days.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cotton lands at the South are owned now, as they were before the war,
      in large tracts. The land was about all that most of the Southern whites
      had left to them after the war, and they kept it when they could, at the
      first, in the hope that it would yield them a living through the labor of
      the blacks; of late years they have not been able to sell their
      plantations at any fair price, if they desired to do so. The white men
      with capital who went to the South from the North after the war seemed to
      acquire the true Southern ambition to be large land owners and planters;
      and when the ante-bellum owners lost their plantations the land usually
      went in bulk to the city factors who had made them advances from year to
      year, and had taken mortgages on their crops and broad acres. As a
      consequence, the land has never been distributed among the people who
      inhabit and cultivate it, and agricultural labor in the Southern States
      approaches the condition of the factory labor in England and the Eastern
      States more nearly than it does the farm labor of the North and West.
      Nearly every agricultural laborer north of Mason and Dixon's line, if not
      the actual possessor of the land he plows, looks forward to owning a farm
      some time; at the South such an ambition is rare, and small ownership
      still more an exception. The practice of paying day wages was first tried
      after the war; this practice is still in vogue in the sugar and rice
      districts, where laborers are paid from fifty to seventy cents per day,
      with quarters furnished and living guaranteed them at nine or ten cents a
      day. In sections where the wages system prevails, and where there have
      been no political disturbances, the negroes seem to be perfectly
      contented; at all events, the emigration fever has not spread among them.
      But it was found impracticable to maintain the wage system in the cotton
      districts. The negroes themselves fought against it, because it reminded
      them too much of the slave-gang, driven out at daybreak and home at
      sundown. In many cases the planters were forced to abandon it, because
      they had not the means to carry on such huge farming, and they could not
      secure the same liberal advances from capitalists as when they were able
      to mortgage a growing "crop of niggers." Then the system of working on
      shares was tried. This was reasonably fair, and the negro laborers were
      satisfied as long as it lasted. The owners of the land, under this system,
      would furnish the indispensable mule and the farming implements, and take
      one half the product. The planters themselves relinquished this system.
      Some of them contend that the laziness and indifference of the negro made
      the partnership undesirable; many others admit that they were not able to
      advance the negro tenant his supplies pending the growth of the year's
      crop, as it was necessary they should do under the sharing system. Now the
      renting system is almost universal. It yields the land owner a certainty,
      endangered only by the death, sickness, or desertion of the negro tenant;
      but it throws the latter upon his own responsibility, and frequently makes
      him the victim of his own ignorance and the rapacity of the white man. The
      rent of land, on a money basis, varies from six to ten dollars an acre per
      year, while the same land can be bought in large quantities all the way
      from fifteen to thirty dollars per acre, according to location, clearing,
      improvement, richness, etc. When paid in product, the rent varies from
      eighty to one hundred pounds of lint cotton per acre for land that
      produces from two hundred to four hundred pounds of cotton per acre; the
      tenant undertakes to pay from one quarter to one half&mdash;perhaps an
      average of one third&mdash;of his crop for the use of the land, without
      stock, tools, or assistance of any kind. The land owners usually claim
      that they make no money even at these exorbitant figures. If they do not,
      it is because only a portion of their vast possessions is under
      cultivation, because they do no work themselves, and in some cases because
      the negroes do not cultivate and gather as large a crop as they could and
      ought to harvest. It is very certain that the negro tenants, as a class,
      make no money; if they are out of debt at the end of a season, they have
      reason to rejoice.
    </p>
    <p>
      The credit system, which is as universal as the renting system, is even
      more illogical and oppressive. The utter viciousness of both systems in
      their mutual dependence is sufficiently illustrated by the single fact
      that, after fourteen years of freedom and labor on their own account, the
      great mass of the negroes depend for their living on an advance of
      supplies (as they need food, clothing, or tools during the year) upon the
      pledge of their growing crop. This is a generic imitation of the white
      man's improvidence during the slavery times; then the planters mortgaged
      their crops and negroes, and where one used the advances to extend his
      plantation, ten squandered the money. The negro's necessities have
      developed an offensive race, called merchants by courtesy, who keep supply
      stores at the cross-roads and steamboat landings, and live upon extortion.
      These people would be called sharks, harpies, and vampires in any
      Northwestern agricultural community, and they would not survive more than
      one season. The country merchant advances the negro tenant such supplies
      as the negro wants up to a certain amount, previously fixed by contract,
      and charges the negro at least double the value of every article sold to
      him. There is no concealment about the extortion; every store-keeper has
      his cash price and his credit price, and in nearly all cases the latter is
      one hundred per cent. higher than the former. The extortion is justified
      by those who practice it on the ground that their losses by bad debts,
      though their advances are always secured by mortgage on the growing crop,
      overbalance the profits; this assertion is scarcely borne out by the
      comparative opulence of the "merchant" and the pitiful poverty of the
      laborer. Some of the largest and wealthiest planters have sought to
      protect their tenants from the merciless clutches of the contrary
      merchant, who is more frequently than not an Israelite, by advancing
      supplies of necessary articles at reasonable prices. But the necessities
      of the planter, if not his greed, often betray him into plundering the
      negro. The planter himself is generally a victim to usury. He still draws
      on the city factor to the extent of ten dollars a bale upon his estimated
      crop. He pays this factor two and one half per cent. commission for the
      advance, eight per cent. interest for the money, two and one half per
      cent. more for disposing of the crop when consigned to him, and sometimes
      still another commission for the purchase of the supplies. The planter who
      furnishes his tenants with supplies on credit is usually paying an
      interest of fifteen to eighteen per cent. himself, and necessarily takes
      some risk in advancing upon an uncertain crop and to a laborer whom he
      believes to be neither scrupulous nor industrious; these conditions
      necessitate more than the ordinary profit, and in many cases suggest
      exorbitant and unreasonable charges. But whether the negro deals with the
      merchant or the land owner, his extravagance almost invariably exhausts
      his credit, even if it be large. The negro is a sensuous creature, and
      luxurious in his way. The male is an enormous consumer of tobacco and
      whisky; the female has an inordinate love for flummery; both are fond of
      sardines, potted meats, and canned goods generally, and they indulge
      themselves without any other restraint than the refusal of their merchant
      to sell to them. The man who advances supplies watches his negro customers
      constantly; if they are working well and their crop promises to be large,
      he will permit and even encourage them to draw upon him liberally; it is
      only a partial failure of the crop, or some intimation of the negro's
      intention to shirk his obligations, that induces his country factor to
      preach the virtue of self-restraint, or moralize upon the advantages of
      economy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The land owner's rent and the merchant's advances are both secured by a
      chattel mortgage on the tenant's personal property, and by a pledge of the
      growing crop. The hired laborer (for it is common for negroes to work for
      wages for other negroes who rent lands) has also a lien upon the growing
      crops second only to the land owner's; but as the law requires that the
      liens shall be recorded, which the ignorant laborer usually neglects and
      the shrewd merchant never fails to do, the former is generally cheated of
      his security. Among those who usually work for hire are the women, who are
      expert cotton pickers, and the loss of wages which so many of them have
      suffered by reason of the prior lien gained by landlord and merchant has
      helped to make them earnest and effective advocates of emigration. The
      Western farmer considers it hard enough to struggle under one mortgage at
      a reasonable interest; the negro tenant begins his season with three
      mortgages, covering all he owns, his labor for the coming year, and all he
      expects to acquire during that period. He pays one third his product for
      the use of the land; he pays double the value of all he consumes; he pays
      an exorbitant fee for recording the contract by which he pledges his pound
      of flesh; he is charged two or three times as much as he ought to pay for
      ginning his cotton; and, finally, he turns over his crop to be eaten up in
      commissions, if anything still be left to him. It is easy to understand
      why the negro rarely gets ahead in the world. This mortgaging of future
      services, which is practically what a pledge of the growing crop amounts
      to, is in the nature of bondage. It has a tendency to make the negro
      extravagant, reckless, and unscrupulous; he has become convinced from
      previous experience that nothing will be coming to him on the day of
      settlement, and he is frequently actuated by the purpose of getting as
      much as possible and working as little as possible. Cases are numerous in
      which the negro abandons his own crop at picking time, because he knows
      that he has already eaten up its full value; and so he goes to picking for
      wages on some other plantation. In other cases, where negroes have
      acquired mules and farming implements upon which a merchant has secured a
      mortgage in the manner described, they are practically bound to that
      merchant from year to year, in order to retain their property; if he
      removes from one section to another, they must follow him, and rent and
      cultivate lands in his neighborhood. It is only the ignorance, the
      improvidence, and the happy disposition of the negro, under the influence
      of the lazy, drowsy climate, to which he is so well adapted physically,
      that have enabled him to endure these hardships so long. And, though the
      negro is the loser, the white man is not often the gainer, from this false
      plantation and mercantile system. The incidental risk may not be so large
      as the planter and merchant pretend, but the condition of the people is an
      evidence that the extortion they practice yields no better profit in the
      long run than would be gained by competition in fair prices on a cash
      system; and in leading up to a general emigration of the laboring
      population the abuses described will eventually ruin and impoverish those
      who have heretofore been the only beneficiaries thereof. The decay of
      improvements inevitable under annual rentings, the lack of sufficient
      labor to cultivate all the good land, and the universal idleness of the
      rural whites have kept the land owners comparatively poor; the partial
      failure of crops and the unscrupulousness of the negro debtor, engendered
      by the infamous exactions of his creditor, have prevented the merchants,
      as a class, from prospering as much as might be supposed; and, finally,
      the uniform injustice to the laborers induces them to fly to ills they
      know not of, rather than bear those they have. It is a blessing to the
      negro that the laws do not yet provide for a detention of the person in
      the case of debt, or escape would be shut off entirely; as it is, various
      influences and circumstances appertaining to the system in vogue have been
      used to prevent the easy flight of those who desire to go, and have
      detained thousands of blacks for a time who are fretting to quit the
      country.
    </p>
    <p>
      Political oppression has contributed largely to the discontent which is
      the prime cause of the exodus. "Bulldozing" is the term by which all forms
      of this oppression are known. The native whites are generally indisposed
      to confess that the negroes are quitting the country on account of
      political injustice and persecution; even those who freely admit and fitly
      characterize the abuses already described seek to deny, or at least
      belittle, the political abuses. The fact that a large number of negroes
      have emigrated from Madison Parish, Louisiana, where there has never been
      any bulldozing, and where the negroes are in full and undisputed political
      control, is cited as proof that political disturbances cut no figure in
      the case. But the town of Delta, in Madison Parish, is at once on the
      river and the terminus of a railroad that runs back through the interior
      of the State; thus Madison Parish would furnish the natural exit for the
      fugitives from the adjoining counties, where there have been political
      disturbances. It would be just as reasonable to contend that the
      plundering of the negroes has had no influence in driving them away, since
      many of those who have emigrated were among the most prosperous of the
      blacks, as to deny the agency of political persecution. Families that had
      been able to accumulate a certain amount of personal property, in spite of
      the extortionate practices, sold their mules, their implements, their
      cows, their pigs, their sheep, and their household goods for anything they
      would bring,&mdash;frequently as low as one sixth of their value,&mdash;in
      order that they might improve an immediate opportunity to go away; it is
      evident that there must have been some cause outside of extortion in their
      case. There are candid native whites who do not deny, but justify, the
      violent methods which have been employed to disfranchise the negroes, or
      compel them to vote under white dictation, in many parts of Louisiana and
      Mississippi, on the ground that the men who pay the taxes should vote them
      and control the disbursement of the public moneys. The gentlemen who
      advance this argument seem to ignore the fact that the very Northerner
      whom they are seeking to convert to "the Mississippi plan" may himself be
      a taxpayer in some Northern city, where public affairs are controlled by a
      class of voters in every way as ignorant and irresponsible as the blacks,
      but where bulldozing has never yet been suggested as a remedy. For the
      rest, the evidences of political oppression are abundant and convincing.
      The bulldozers as a class are more impecunious and irresponsible than the
      negroes, and, unlike the negroes, they will not work. There has been more
      of the "night-riding," the whippings, the mysterious disappearances, the
      hangings, and the terrorism comprehended in the term bulldozing than has
      been reported by those "abstracts and brief chronicles of the time," the
      Southern newspapers, which are now all of one party, and defer to the
      ruling sentiment among the whites. The exodus has wrung from two or three
      of the more candid and independent journals, however, a virtual confession
      of the fiendish practices of bulldozing in their insistance that these
      practices must be abandoned. The non-resident land owners and the resident
      planters, the city factors and the country merchants of means and
      respectability, have taken no personal part in the terrorizing of the
      negro, but they have tolerated it, and sometimes encouraged it, in order
      to gratify their preference for "white government." The negroes have
      suffered the more because they have not resisted and defended themselves;
      now they have begun to convince those who have persecuted them that, if
      they will not strike back, they can and will run away. No one who is at
      all familiar with the freedman can doubt that the abridgment of his
      political rights has been one of the main causes of the exodus. Voting is
      widely regarded at the North as a disagreeable duty, but the negro looks
      upon it as the highest privilege in life; to be frightened out of the
      exercise of this privilege, or compelled to exercise it in conflict with
      his convictions and preferences, is to suffer from a cruel injustice,
      which the negro will now try to escape, since he has learned that escape
      is possible. The women, though free from personal assaults, suffer from
      the terrorism that prevails in certain districts as much as the men. "We
      might as well starve or freeze to death in Kansas," they say, "as to be
      shot-gunned here." If they talk to you in confidence, they declare that
      the ruling purpose is to escape from the "slaughter-pens" of the South.
      Political persecution, and not the extortion they suffer, is the refrain
      of all the speakers at negro meetings that are held in encouragement and
      aid of the emigration. It is idle to deny that the varied injustice which
      the negroes have suffered as voters is accountable for a large part of
      their universal yearning for new homes, and it will be folly for the
      responsible classes at the South to ignore this fact.
    </p>
    <p>
      As it is the negroes who are fleeing from the South, it is natural to look
      among the dominant class for the injustice which is driving them away; but
      it would be unfair to conclude that the blame rests entirely upon the
      whites, and still more so to leave the impression that there is no
      extenuation for the mistakes and abuses for which the whites are
      responsible. Much of the intimidation of the blacks has been tolerated, if
      not suggested, by a fear of negro uprisings. The apprehension is a legacy
      from the days of slavery, and is more unreasonable now than it was then;
      but still it exists. This is not an excuse, but an explanation. The
      Pharaohs of the time of Moses were in constant dread lest the Hebrews
      under their rule should go over to their enemies, and their dread
      doubtless increased the cruelty of the Egyptians; but, while this dread
      was an extenuation in the eyes of the persecutors, it did not prevent the
      Hebrews from fleeing the persecution. So the blacks are going without
      regard to the justification which the whites may set up for their
      treatment; the only difference between the old and new exodus is that, as
      the writer heard one negro speaker express it, "every black man is his own
      Moses in this exodus." The negro may be lazy; it seems impossible to be
      otherwise in the Southern climate. He may not be willing to work on
      Saturdays, no matter how urgent the necessity; the indulgence in holidays
      is said to be one of the chief drawbacks to the advancement of the
      emancipated serfs of Russia. The blacks are certainly extravagant in their
      way, though the word seems to be almost misused in connection with a race
      who live largely on pork and molasses, and rarely wear more than half a
      dollar's worth of clothes at one time. They have not the instinct of home
      as it prevails among the whites, but incline to a crude and unsystematic
      communism; the negro quarters of the old plantations are all huddled
      together in the centre, and, except where the land owners have interfered
      to encourage a different life, there is still too much promiscuousness in
      the relation of the sexes. The negro, as a rule, has no ambition to become
      a land owner; he prefers to invest his surplus money, when he has any, in
      personal and movable property. In most cases where the blacks have been
      given the opportunity of buying land on long time, and paying yearly
      installments out of the proceeds of their annual crops, they have tired of
      the bargain after a year or two, and abandoned the contract. The negro
      politicians and preachers are not all that reformers and moralists would
      have them; the imitative faculty of the African has betrayed the black
      politician into many of the vicious ways of the white politician, and the
      colored preacher is frequently not above "the pomps and vanity of this
      wicked world." All this is the more unfortunate, as the blacks have a
      child-like confidence in their chosen leaders, founded partly on their
      primitive character, and partly on their distrust of the native whites.
      Both their politicians and their preachers have given abundant evidence of
      their insincerity during the excitement of emigration by blowing hot and
      blowing cold; by talking to the negroes one way, and to the whites
      another; and even to the extent, in some instances, of taking money to use
      their influence for discouraging and impeding emigration. These are some
      of the faults and misfortunes on the part of the blacks which enter into
      the race troubles. The chief blame which attaches to the whites is the
      failure to make a persistent effort, by education and kind treatment, to
      overcome the distrust and cure the faults of the negroes. The whites
      control, because they constitute the "property and intelligence" of the
      South, to use the words of a democratic statesman; this power should have
      been used to gain the confidence of the blacks. Had such a course been
      taken, there would not have been the fear of reenslavement, which actually
      prevails to a considerable extent among the negroes. So long as a portion
      of the whites entertain the conviction that the war of the sections will
      be renewed within a few years, as is the case, the negroes will suspect
      and dread the class who would treat them as enemies in case the war should
      come, and will seek to escape to a section of the country where they would
      not be so treated. Perhaps, too, there would have been a voluntary
      political division among the black voters, had the whites used more
      pacific means to bring it about, and had they themselves set the example.
      And last, but not least, in making up the sum of blame that the whites
      must bear, is their own unwillingness to labor, which gives the rural
      population too much time for mischief and too little sympathy with the
      working classes.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we have traced the causes that have led to the exodus, and described
      the conditions which warrant the belief that there will be a renewal of
      the emigration on a more extended scale next spring, and endeavored to
      distribute the responsibility for the troubles equitably among whites and
      blacks, remedies have naturally suggested themselves to the reader; in
      fact, they are more easily to be thought out than accomplished. A few
      general reflections may be added, however, in order to indicate the
      probable solution of the race troubles that have brought about the exodus,
      if, indeed, the whites and blacks of the South are ever going to live
      together in peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      (1.) It is certain that negro labor is the best the South can have, and
      equally certain that the climate and natural conditions of the South are
      better suited to the negro than any others on this continent. The alluvial
      lands, which many persons believe the negroes alone can cultivate, on
      account of climatic conditions, are so rich that it might literally be
      said it is only necessary to tickle them with a hoe to make them laugh
      back a harvest. The common prosperity of the country&mdash;the
      agricultural interests of the South and the commercial interests of the
      North&mdash;will be best served, therefore, by the continued residence and
      labor of the blacks in the cotton States.
    </p>
    <p>
      (2.) The fact stated in the foregoing paragraph is so well understood at
      the North that the Southern people should dismiss the idea that there is
      any scheming among the Northern people, political or otherwise, to draw
      the black labor away from its natural home. The same fact should also
      influence the people at the North not to be misled by any professional
      philanthropists who may have some self-interest in soliciting aid to
      facilitate negro emigration from the South. The duty of the North in this
      matter is simply to extend protection and assure safe-conduct to the
      negroes, if the Southern whites attempt to impede voluntary emigration by
      either law or violence. Any other course might be cruel to the negro in
      encouraging him to enter on a new life in a strange climate, as well as an
      injustice to the white land owners of the South.
    </p>
    <p>
      (3.) There is danger that the Southern whites will, as a rule,
      misinterpret the meaning of the exodus. Many are inclined to underrate its
      importance, and those who appreciate its significance are apt to look for
      temporary and superficial remedies. The vague promises made at the
      Vicksburg convention, which was controlled by the whites, and called to
      consider the emigration movement, have had no influence with the negroes,
      because they have heard such promises before. Had the convention adopted
      some definite plan of action, such as ex-Governor Foote, of Mississippi,
      submitted, its session might not have been in vain. This plan was to
      establish a committee in every county, composed of men who have the
      confidence of both whites and blacks, that should be auxiliary to the
      public authorities, listen to complaints, and arbitrate, advise,
      conciliate, or prosecute, as each case should demand. It is short-sighted
      for the Southern people to make mere temporary concessions, such as have
      been made in some cases this year, for that course would establish an
      annual strike. It is folly for them to suppose they can stem the tide of
      emigration by influencing the regular lines of steamboats not to carry the
      refugees, for the people of the North will see that the blacks shall not
      be detained in the South against their will. It is unwise for them to
      devise schemes for importing Chinese, or encouraging the immigration of
      white labor as a substitute for negro labor, when they may much better
      bestir themselves to make the present effective labor content.
    </p>
    <p>
      (4.) Education will be the most useful agent to employ in the permanent
      harmonizing of the two races, and the redemption of both from the faults
      and follies which constitute their troubles. It is not the education of
      the negro alone, whose ambition for learning is increasing notably with
      every new generation, but the education of the mass of the young whites,
      that is needed to inculcate more tolerance of color and opinion, to give
      them an aspiration beyond that of riding a horse and hanging a "nigger,"
      and to enable them to set a better example to the imitative blacks in the
      way of work and frugality. The blacks need the education to protect them
      from designing white men; the whites need it to teach them that their own
      interests will be best served by abandoning bulldozing of all kinds.
    </p>
    <p>
      (5.) Reform in the land tenure, by converting the plantation monopolies
      into small holdings; abolition of the credit system, by abandoning the
      laws which sustain it; a diversification of crops; and attention to new
      manufacturing, maritime, and commercial enterprises,&mdash;these are the
      material changes that are most needed. They can be secured only through
      the active and earnest efforts of the whites. The blacks will be found
      responsive.
    </p>
    <p>
      (6.) The hope of the negro exodus at its present stage, or even if it
      shall continue another season, is that the actual loss of the valuable
      labor that has gone, and the prospective loss of more labor that is
      anxious to go, will induce the intelligent and responsible classes at the
      South to overcome their own prejudices, and to compel the extremists,
      irreconcilables, and politicians generally, of all parties, to abandon
      agitation, and give the South equal peace and equal chance for black and
      white.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      MY ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY by Frederick Douglass
    </h2>
    <p>
      In the first narrative of my experience in slavery, written nearly forty
      years ago, and in various writings since, I have given the public what I
      considered very good reasons for withholding the manner of my escape. In
      substance these reasons were, first, that such publication at any time
      during the existence of slavery might be used by the master against the
      slave, and prevent the future escape of any who might adopt the same means
      that I did. The second reason was, if possible, still more binding to
      silence: the publication of details would certainly have put in peril the
      persons and property of those who assisted. Murder itself was not more
      sternly and certainly punished in the State of Maryland than that of
      aiding and abetting the escape of a slave. Many colored men, for no other
      crime than that of giving aid to a fugitive slave, have, like Charles T.
      Torrey, perished in prison. The abolition of slavery in my native State
      and throughout the country, and the lapse of time, render the caution
      hitherto observed no longer necessary. But even since the abolition of
      slavery, I have sometimes thought it well enough to baffle curiosity by
      saying that while slavery existed there were good reasons for not telling
      the manner of my escape, and since slavery had ceased to exist, there was
      no reason for telling it. I shall now, however, cease to avail myself of
      this formula, and, as far as I can, endeavor to satisfy this very natural
      curiosity. I should, perhaps, have yielded to that feeling sooner, had
      there been anything very heroic or thrilling in the incidents connected
      with my escape, for I am sorry to say I have nothing of that sort to tell;
      and yet the courage that could risk betrayal and the bravery which was
      ready to encounter death, if need be, in pursuit of freedom, were
      essential features in the undertaking. My success was due to address
      rather than courage, to good luck rather than bravery. My means of escape
      were provided for me by the very men who were making laws to hold and bind
      me more securely in slavery.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the custom in the State of Maryland to require the free colored
      people to have what were called free papers. These instruments they were
      required to renew very often, and by charging a fee for this writing,
      considerable sums from time to time were collected by the State. In these
      papers the name, age, color, height, and form of the freeman were
      described, together with any scars or other marks upon his person which
      could assist in his identification. This device in some measure defeated
      itself&mdash;since more than one man could be found to answer the same
      general description. Hence many slaves could escape by personating the
      owner of one set of papers; and this was often done as follows: A slave,
      nearly or sufficiently answering the description set forth in the papers,
      would borrow or hire them till by means of them he could escape to a free
      State, and then, by mail or otherwise, would return them to the owner. The
      operation was a hazardous one for the lender as well as for the borrower.
      A failure on the part of the fugitive to send back the papers would
      imperil his benefactor, and the discovery of the papers in possession of
      the wrong man would imperil both the fugitive and his friend. It was,
      therefore, an act of supreme trust on the part of a freeman of color thus
      to put in jeopardy his own liberty that another might be free. It was,
      however, not unfrequently bravely done, and was seldom discovered. I was
      not so fortunate as to resemble any of my free acquaintances sufficiently
      to answer the description of their papers. But I had a friend&mdash;a
      sailor&mdash;who owned a sailor's protection, which answered somewhat the
      purpose of free papers&mdash;describing his person, and certifying to the
      fact that he was a free American sailor. The instrument had at its head
      the American eagle, which gave it the appearance at once of an authorized
      document. This protection, when in my hands, did not describe its bearer
      very accurately. Indeed, it called for a man much darker than myself, and
      close examination of it would have caused my arrest at the start.
    </p>
    <p>
      In order to avoid this fatal scrutiny on the part of railroad officials, I
      arranged with Isaac Rolls, a Baltimore hackman, to bring my baggage to the
      Philadelphia train just on the moment of starting, and jumped upon the car
      myself when the train was in motion. Had I gone into the station and
      offered to purchase a ticket, I should have been instantly and carefully
      examined, and undoubtedly arrested. In choosing this plan I considered the
      jostle of the train, and the natural haste of the conductor, in a train
      crowded with passengers, and relied upon my skill and address in playing
      the sailor, as described in my protection, to do the rest. One element in
      my favor was the kind feeling which prevailed in Baltimore and other
      sea-ports at the time, toward "those who go down to the sea in ships."
      "Free trade and sailors' rights" just then expressed the sentiment of the
      country. In my clothing I was rigged out in sailor style. I had on a red
      shirt and a tarpaulin hat, and a black cravat tied in sailor fashion
      carelessly and loosely about my neck. My knowledge of ships and sailor's
      talk came much to my assistance, for I knew a ship from stem to stern, and
      from keelson to cross-trees, and could talk sailor like an "old salt." I
      was well on the way to Havre de Grace before the conductor came into the
      negro car to collect tickets and examine the papers of his black
      passengers. This was a critical moment in the drama. My whole future
      depended upon the decision of this conductor. Agitated though I was while
      this ceremony was proceeding, still, externally, at least, I was
      apparently calm and self-possessed. He went on with his duty&mdash;examining
      several colored passengers before reaching me. He was somewhat harsh in
      tome and peremptory in manner until he reached me, when, strange enough,
      and to my surprise and relief, his whole manner changed. Seeing that I did
      not readily produce my free papers, as the other colored persons in the
      car had done, he said to me, in friendly contrast with his bearing toward
      the others:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I suppose you have your free papers?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which I answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      "No sir; I never carry my free papers to sea with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But you have something to show that you are a freeman, haven't you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, sir," I answered; "I have a paper with the American Eagle on it, and
      that will carry me around the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this I drew from my deep sailor's pocket my seaman's protection, as
      before described. The merest glance at the paper satisfied him, and he
      took my fare and went on about his business. This moment of time was one
      of the most anxious I ever experienced. Had the conductor looked closely
      at the paper, he could not have failed to discover that it called for a
      very different-looking person from myself, and in that case it would have
      been his duty to arrest me on the instant, and send me back to Baltimore
      from the first station. When he left me with the assurance that I was all
      right, though much relieved, I realized that I was still in great danger:
      I was still in Maryland, and subject to arrest at any moment. I saw on the
      train several persons who would have known me in any other clothes, and I
      feared they might recognize me, even in my sailor "rig," and report me to
      the conductor, who would then subject me to a closer examination, which I
      knew well would be fatal to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though I was not a murderer fleeing from justice, I felt perhaps quite as
      miserable as such a criminal. The train was moving at a very high rate of
      speed for that epoch of railroad travel, but to my anxious mind it was
      moving far too slowly. Minutes were hours, and hours were days during this
      part of my flight. After Maryland, I was to pass through Delaware&mdash;another
      slave State, where slave-catchers generally awaited their prey, for it was
      not in the interior of the State, but on its borders, that these human
      hounds were most vigilant and active. The border lines between slavery and
      freedom were the dangerous ones for the fugitives. The heart of no fox or
      deer, with hungry hounds on his trail in full chase, could have beaten
      more anxiously or noisily than did mine from the time I left Baltimore
      till I reached Philadelphia. The passage of the Susquehanna River at Havre
      de Grace was at that time made by ferry-boat, on board of which I met a
      young colored man by the name of Nichols, who came very near betraying me.
      He was a "hand" on the boat, but, instead of minding his business, he
      insisted upon knowing me, and asking me dangerous questions as to where I
      was going, when I was coming back, etc. I got away from my old and
      inconvenient acquaintance as soon as I could decently do so, and went to
      another part of the boat. Once across the river, I encountered a new
      danger. Only a few days before, I had been at work on a revenue cutter, in
      Mr. Price's ship-yard in Baltimore, under the care of Captain McGowan. On
      the meeting at this point of the two trains, the one going south stopped
      on the track just opposite to the one going north, and it so happened that
      this Captain McGowan sat at a window where he could see me very
      distinctly, and would certainly have recognized me had he looked at me but
      for a second. Fortunately, in the hurry of the moment, he did not see me;
      and the trains soon passed each other on their respective ways. But this
      was not my only hair-breadth escape. A German blacksmith whom I knew well
      was on the train with me, and looked at me very intently, as if he thought
      he had seen me somewhere before in his travels. I really believe he knew
      me, but had no heart to betray me. At any rate, he saw me escaping and
      held his peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last point of imminent danger, and the one I dreaded most, was
      Wilmington. Here we left the train and took the steam-boat for
      Philadelphia. In making the change here I again apprehended arrest, but no
      one disturbed me, and I was soon on the broad and beautiful Delaware,
      speeding away to the Quaker City. On reaching Philadelphia in the
      afternoon, I inquired of a colored man how I could get on to New York. He
      directed me to the William-street depot, and thither I went, taking the
      train that night. I reached New York Tuesday morning, having completed the
      journey in less than twenty-four hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      My free life began on the third of September, 1838. On the morning of the
      fourth of that month, after an anxious and most perilous but safe journey,
      I found myself in the big city of New York, a FREE MAN&mdash;one more
      added to the mighty throng which, like the confused waves of the troubled
      sea, surged to and fro between the lofty walls of Broadway. Though dazzled
      with the wonders which met me on every hand, my thoughts could not be much
      withdrawn from my strange situation. For the moment, the dreams of my
      youth and the hopes of my manhood were completely fulfilled. The bonds
      that had held me to "old master" were broken. No man now had a right to
      call me his slave or assert mastery over me. I was in the rough and tumble
      of an outdoor world, to take my chance with the rest of its busy number. I
      have often been asked how I felt when first I found myself on free soil.
      There is scarcely anything in my experience about which I could not give a
      more satisfactory answer. A new world had opened upon me. If life is more
      than breath and the "quick round of blood," I lived more in that one day
      than in a year of my slave life. It was a time of joyous excitement which
      words can but tamely describe. In a letter written to a friend soon after
      reaching New York, I said: "I felt as one might feel upon escape from a
      den of hungry lions." Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be
      depicted; but gladness and joy, like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen or
      pencil. During ten or fifteen years I had been, as it were, dragging a
      heavy chain which no strength of mine could break; I was not only a slave,
      but a slave for life. I might become a husband, a father, an aged man, but
      through all, from birth to death, from the cradle to the grave, I had felt
      myself doomed. All efforts I had previously made to secure my freedom had
      not only failed, but had seemed only to rivet my fetters the more firmly,
      and to render my escape more difficult. Baffled, entangled, and
      discouraged, I had at times asked myself the question, May not my
      condition after all be God's work, and ordered for a wise purpose, and if
      so, Is not submission my duty? A contest had in fact been going on in my
      mind for a long time, between the clear consciousness of right and the
      plausible make-shifts of theology and superstition. The one held me an
      abject slave&mdash;a prisoner for life, punished for some transgression in
      which I had no lot nor part; and the other counseled me to manly endeavor
      to secure my freedom. This contest was now ended; my chains were broken,
      and the victory brought me unspeakable joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      But my gladness was short-lived, for I was not yet out of the reach and
      power of the slave-holders. I soon found that New York was not quite so
      free or so safe a refuge as I had supposed, and a sense of loneliness and
      insecurity again oppressed me most sadly. I chanced to meet on the street,
      a few hours after my landing, a fugitive slave whom I had once known well
      in slavery. The information received from him alarmed me. The fugitive in
      question was known in Baltimore as "Allender's Jake," but in New York he
      wore the more respectable name of "William Dixon." Jake, in law, was the
      property of Doctor Allender, and Tolly Allender, the son of the doctor,
      had once made an effort to recapture MR. DIXON, but had failed for want of
      evidence to support his claim. Jake told me the circumstances of this
      attempt, and how narrowly he escaped being sent back to slavery and
      torture. He told me that New York was then full of Southerners returning
      from the Northern watering-places; that the colored people of New York
      were not to be trusted; that there were hired men of my own color who
      would betray me for a few dollars; that there were hired men ever on the
      lookout for fugitives; that I must trust no man with my secret; that I
      must not think of going either upon the wharves or into any colored
      boarding-house, for all such places were closely watched; that he was
      himself unable to help me; and, in fact, he seemed while speaking to me to
      fear lest I myself might be a spy and a betrayer. Under this apprehension,
      as I suppose, he showed signs of wishing to be rid of me, and with
      whitewash brush in hand, in search of work, he soon disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      This picture, given by poor "Jake," of New York, was a damper to my
      enthusiasm. My little store of money would soon be exhausted, and since it
      would be unsafe for me to go on the wharves for work, and I had no
      introductions elsewhere, the prospect for me was far from cheerful. I saw
      the wisdom of keeping away from the ship-yards, for, if pursued, as I felt
      certain I should be, Mr. Auld, my "master," would naturally seek me there
      among the calkers. Every door seemed closed against me. I was in the midst
      of an ocean of my fellow-men, and yet a perfect stranger to every one. I
      was without home, without acquaintance, without money, without credit,
      without work, and without any definite knowledge as to what course to
      take, or where to look for succor. In such an extremity, a man had
      something besides his new-born freedom to think of. While wandering about
      the streets of New York, and lodging at least one night among the barrels
      on one of the wharves, I was indeed free&mdash;from slavery, but free from
      food and shelter as well. I kept my secret to myself as long as I could,
      but I was compelled at last to seek some one who would befriend me without
      taking advantage of my destitution to betray me. Such a person I found in
      a sailor named Stuart, a warm-hearted and generous fellow, who, from his
      humble home on Centre street, saw me standing on the opposite sidewalk,
      near the Tombs prison. As he approached me, I ventured a remark to him
      which at once enlisted his interest in me. He took me to his home to spend
      the night, and in the morning went with me to Mr. David Ruggles, the
      secretary of the New York Vigilance Committee, a co-worker with Isaac T.
      Hopper, Lewis and Arthur Tappan, Theodore S. Wright, Samuel Cornish,
      Thomas Downing, Philip A. Bell, and other true men of their time. All
      these (save Mr. Bell, who still lives, and is editor and publisher of a
      paper called the "Elevator," in San Francisco) have finished their work on
      earth. Once in the hands of these brave and wise men, I felt comparatively
      safe. With Mr. Ruggles, on the corner of Lispenard and Church streets, I
      was hidden several days, during which time my intended wife came on from
      Baltimore at my call, to share the burdens of life with me. She was a free
      woman, and came at once on getting the good news of my safety. We were
      married by Rev. J. W. C. Pennington, then a well-known and respected
      Presbyterian minister. I had no money with which to pay the marriage fee,
      but he seemed well pleased with our thanks.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ruggles was the first officer on the "Underground Railroad" whom I met
      after coming North, and was, indeed, the only one with whom I had anything
      to do till I became such an officer myself. Learning that my trade was
      that of a calker, he promptly decided that the best place for me was in
      New Bedford, Mass. He told me that many ships for whaling voyages were
      fitted out there, and that I might there find work at my trade and make a
      good living. So, on the day of the marriage ceremony, we took our little
      luggage to the steamer JOHN W. RICHMOND, which, at that time, was one of
      the line running between New York and Newport, R. I. Forty-three years ago
      colored travelers were not permitted in the cabin, nor allowed abaft the
      paddle-wheels of a steam vessel. They were compelled, whatever the weather
      might be,&mdash;whether cold or hot, wet or dry,&mdash;to spend the night
      on deck. Unjust as this regulation was, it did not trouble us much; we had
      fared much harder before. We arrived at Newport the next morning, and soon
      after an old fashioned stage-coach, with "New Bedford" in large yellow
      letters on its sides, came down to the wharf. I had not money enough to
      pay our fare, and stood hesitating what to do. Fortunately for us, there
      were two Quaker gentlemen who were about to take passage on the stage,&mdash;Friends
      William C. Taber and Joseph Ricketson,&mdash;who at once discerned our
      true situation, and, in a peculiarly quiet way, addressing me, Mr. Taber
      said: "Thee get in." I never obeyed an order with more alacrity, and we
      were soon on our way to our new home. When we reached "Stone Bridge" the
      passengers alighted for breakfast, and paid their fares to the driver. We
      took no breakfast, and, when asked for our fares, I told the driver I
      would make it right with him when we reached New Bedford. I expected some
      objection to this on his part, but he made none. When, however, we reached
      New Bedford, he took our baggage, including three music-books,&mdash;two
      of them collections by Dyer, and one by Shaw,&mdash;and held them until I
      was able to redeem them by paying to him the amount due for our rides.
      This was soon done, for Mr. Nathan Johnson not only received me kindly and
      hospitably, but, on being informed about our baggage, at once loaned me
      the two dollars with which to square accounts with the stage-driver. Mr.
      and Mrs. Nathan Johnson reached a good old age, and now rest from their
      labors. I am under many grateful obligations to them. They not only "took
      me in when a stranger" and "fed me when hungry," but taught me how to make
      an honest living. Thus, in a fortnight after my flight from Maryland, I
      was safe in New Bedford, a citizen of the grand old commonwealth of
      Massachusetts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once initiated into my new life of freedom and assured by Mr. Johnson that
      I need not fear recapture in that city, a comparatively unimportant
      question arose as to the name by which I should be known thereafter in my
      new relation as a free man. The name given me by my dear mother was no
      less pretentious and long than Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey. I
      had, however, while living in Maryland, dispensed with the Augustus
      Washington, and retained only Frederick Bailey. Between Baltimore and New
      Bedford, the better to conceal myself from the slave-hunters, I had parted
      with Bailey and called myself Johnson; but in New Bedford I found that the
      Johnson family was already so numerous as to cause some confusion in
      distinguishing them, hence a change in this name seemed desirable. Nathan
      Johnson, mine host, placed great emphasis upon this necessity, and wished
      me to allow him to select a name for me. I consented, and he called me by
      my present name&mdash;the one by which I have been known for three and
      forty years&mdash;Frederick Douglass. Mr. Johnson had just been reading
      the "Lady of the Lake," and so pleased was he with its great character
      that he wished me to bear his name. Since reading that charming poem
      myself, I have often thought that, considering the noble hospitality and
      manly character of Nathan Johnson&mdash;black man though he was&mdash;he,
      far more than I, illustrated the virtues of the Douglas of Scotland. Sure
      am I that, if any slave-catcher had entered his domicile with a view to my
      recapture, Johnson would have shown himself like him of the "stalwart
      hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      The reader may be surprised at the impressions I had in some way conceived
      of the social and material condition of the people at the North. I had no
      proper idea of the wealth, refinement, enterprise, and high civilization
      of this section of the country. My "Columbian Orator," almost my only
      book, had done nothing to enlighten me concerning Northern society. I had
      been taught that slavery was the bottom fact of all wealth. With this
      foundation idea, I came naturally to the conclusion that poverty must be
      the general condition of the people of the free States. In the country
      from which I came, a white man holding no slaves was usually an ignorant
      and poverty-stricken man, and men of this class were contemptuously called
      "poor white trash." Hence I supposed that, since the non-slave-holders at
      the South were ignorant, poor, and degraded as a class, the
      non-slave-holders at the North must be in a similar condition. I could
      have landed in no part of the United States where I should have found a
      more striking and gratifying contrast, not only to life generally in the
      South, but in the condition of the colored people there, than in New
      Bedford. I was amazed when Mr. Johnson told me that there was nothing in
      the laws or constitution of Massachusetts that would prevent a colored man
      from being governor of the State, if the people should see fit to elect
      him. There, too, the black man's children attended the public schools with
      the white man's children, and apparently without objection from any
      quarter. To impress me with my security from recapture and return to
      slavery, Mr. Johnson assured me that no slave-holder could take a slave
      out of New Bedford; that there were men there who would lay down their
      lives to save me from such a fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fifth day after my arrival, I put on the clothes of a common laborer,
      and went upon the wharves in search of work. On my way down Union street I
      saw a large pile of coal in front of the house of Rev. Ephraim Peabody,
      the Unitarian minister. I went to the kitchen door and asked the privilege
      of bringing in and putting away this coal. "What will you charge?" said
      the lady. "I will leave that to you, madam." "You may put it away," she
      said. I was not long in accomplishing the job, when the dear lady put into
      my hand TWO SILVER HALF-DOLLARS. To understand the emotion which swelled
      my heart as I clasped this money, realizing that I had no master who could
      take it from me,&mdash;THAT IT WAS MINE&mdash;THAT MY HANDS WERE MY OWN,
      and could earn more of the precious coin,&mdash;one must have been in some
      sense himself a slave. My next job was stowing a sloop at Uncle Gid.
      Howland's wharf with a cargo of oil for New York. I was not only a
      freeman, but a free working-man, and no "master" stood ready at the end of
      the week to seize my hard earnings.
    </p>
    <p>
      The season was growing late and work was plenty. Ships were being fitted
      out for whaling, and much wood was used in storing them. The sawing this
      wood was considered a good job. With the help of old Friend Johnson
      (blessings on his memory) I got a saw and "buck," and went at it. When I
      went into a store to buy a cord with which to brace up my saw in the
      frame, I asked for a "fip's" worth of cord. The man behind the counter
      looked rather sharply at me, and said with equal sharpness, "You don't
      belong about here." I was alarmed, and thought I had betrayed myself. A
      fip in Maryland was six and a quarter cents, called fourpence in
      Massachusetts. But no harm came from the "fi'penny-bit" blunder, and I
      confidently and cheerfully went to work with my saw and buck. It was new
      business to me, but I never did better work, or more of it, in the same
      space of time on the plantation for Covey, the negro-breaker, than I did
      for myself in these earliest years of my freedom.
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding the just and humane sentiment of New Bedford three and
      forty years ago, the place was not entirely free from race and color
      prejudice. The good influence of the Roaches, Rodmans, Arnolds, Grinnells,
      and Robesons did not pervade all classes of its people. The test of the
      real civilization of the community came when I applied for work at my
      trade, and then my repulse was emphatic and decisive. It so happened that
      Mr. Rodney French, a wealthy and enterprising citizen, distinguished as an
      anti-slavery man, was fitting out a vessel for a whaling voyage, upon
      which there was a heavy job of calking and coppering to be done. I had
      some skill in both branches, and applied to Mr. French for work. He,
      generous man that he was, told me he would employ me, and I might go at
      once to the vessel. I obeyed him, but upon reaching the float-stage, where
      others [sic] calkers were at work, I was told that every white man would
      leave the ship, in her unfinished condition, if I struck a blow at my
      trade upon her. This uncivil, inhuman, and selfish treatment was not so
      shocking and scandalous in my eyes at the time as it now appears to me.
      Slavery had inured me to hardships that made ordinary trouble sit lightly
      upon me. Could I have worked at my trade I could have earned two dollars a
      day, but as a common laborer I received but one dollar. The difference was
      of great importance to me, but if I could not get two dollars, I was glad
      to get one; and so I went to work for Mr. French as a common laborer. The
      consciousness that I was free&mdash;no longer a slave&mdash;kept me
      cheerful under this, and many similar proscriptions, which I was destined
      to meet in New Bedford and elsewhere on the free soil of Massachusetts.
      For instance, though colored children attended the schools, and were
      treated kindly by their teachers, the New Bedford Lyceum refused, till
      several years after my residence in that city, to allow any colored person
      to attend the lectures delivered in its hall. Not until such men as
      Charles Sumner, Theodore Parker, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Horace Mann
      refused to lecture in their course while there was such a restriction, was
      it abandoned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Becoming satisfied that I could not rely on my trade in New Bedford to
      give me a living, I prepared myself to do any kind of work that came to
      hand. I sawed wood, shoveled coal, dug cellars, moved rubbish from back
      yards, worked on the wharves, loaded and unloaded vessels, and scoured
      their cabins.
    </p>
    <p>
      I afterward got steady work at the brass-foundry owned by Mr. Richmond. My
      duty here was to blow the bellows, swing the crane, and empty the flasks
      in which castings were made; and at times this was hot and heavy work. The
      articles produced here were mostly for ship work, and in the busy season
      the foundry was in operation night and day. I have often worked two nights
      and every working day of the week. My foreman, Mr. Cobb, was a good man,
      and more than once protected me from abuse that one or more of the hands
      was disposed to throw upon me. While in this situation I had little time
      for mental improvement. Hard work, night and day, over a furnace hot
      enough to keep the metal running like water, was more favorable to action
      than thought; yet here I often nailed a newspaper to the post near my
      bellows, and read while I was performing the up and down motion of the
      heavy beam by which the bellows was inflated and discharged. It was the
      pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, and I look back to it now, after
      so many years, with some complacency and a little wonder that I could have
      been so earnest and persevering in any pursuit other than for my daily
      bread. I certainly saw nothing in the conduct of those around to inspire
      me with such interest: they were all devoted exclusively to what their
      hands found to do. I am glad to be able to say that, during my engagement
      in this foundry, no complaint was ever made against me that I did not do
      my work, and do it well. The bellows which I worked by main strength was,
      after I left, moved by a steam-engine.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE GOOPHERED GRAPEVINE by Charles W. Chesnutt
    </h2>
    <p>
      About ten years ago my wife was in poor health, and our family doctor, in
      whose skill and honesty I had implicit confidence, advised a change of
      climate. I was engaged in grape-culture in northern Ohio, and decided to
      look for a locality suitable for carrying on the same business in some
      Southern State. I wrote to a cousin who had gone into the turpentine
      business in central North Carolina, and he assured me that no better place
      could be found in the South than the State and neighborhood in which he
      lived: climate and soil were all that could be asked for, and land could
      be bought for a mere song. A cordial invitation to visit him while I
      looked into the matter was accepted. We found the weather delightful at
      that season, the end of the summer, and were most hospitably entertained.
      Our host placed a horse and buggy at our disposal, and himself acted as
      guide until I got somewhat familiar with the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went several times to look at a place which I thought might suit me. It
      had been at one time a thriving plantation, but shiftless cultivation had
      well-night exhausted the soil. There had been a vineyard of some extent on
      the place, but it had not been attended to since the war, and had fallen
      into utter neglect. The vines&mdash;here partly supported by decayed and
      broken-down arbors, there twining themselves among the branches of the
      slender saplings which had sprung up among them&mdash;grew in wild and
      unpruned luxuriance, and the few scanty grapes which they bore were the
      undisputed prey of the first comer. The site was admirably adapted to
      grape-raising; the soil, with a little attention, could not have been
      better; and with the native grape, the luscious scuppernong, mainly to
      rely upon, I felt sure that I could introduce and cultivate successfully a
      number of other varieties.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day I went over with my wife, to show her the place. We drove between
      the decayed gate-posts&mdash;the gate itself had long since disappeared&mdash;and
      up the straight, sandy lane to the open space where a dwelling-house had
      once stood. But the house had fallen a victim to the fortunes of war, and
      nothing remained of it except the brick pillars upon which the sills had
      rested. We alighted, and walked about the place for a while; but on
      Annie's complaining of weariness I led the way back to the yard, where a
      pine log, lying under a spreading elm, formed a shady though somewhat hard
      seat. One end of the log was already occupied by a venerable-looking
      colored man. He held on his knees a hat full of grapes, over which he was
      smacking his lips with great gusto, and a pile of grape-skins near him
      indicated that the performance was no new thing. He respectfully rose as
      we approached, and was moving away, when I begged him to keep his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't let us disturb you," I said. "There's plenty of room for us all."
    </p>
    <p>
      He resumed his seat with somewhat of embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you live around here?" I asked, anxious to put him at his ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yas, suh. I lives des ober yander, behine de nex' san'-hill, on de
      Lumberton plank-road."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you know anything about the time when this vineyard was cultivated?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lawd bless yer, suh, I knows all about it. Dey ain' na'er a man in dis
      settlement w'at won' tell yer ole Julius McAdoo 'uz bawn an' raise' on dis
      yer same plantation. Is you de Norv'n gemman w'at's gwine ter buy de ole
      vimya'd?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am looking at it," I replied; "but I don't know that I shall care to
      buy unless I can be reasonably sure of making something out of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, suh, you is a stranger ter me, en I is a stranger ter you, en we is
      bofe strangers ter one anudder, but 'f I 'uz in yo' place, I wouldn' buy
      dis vimya'd."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why not?" I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I dunner whe'r you b'lieves in cunj'in er not,&mdash;some er de
      w'ite folks don't, er says dey don't,&mdash;but de truf er de matter is
      dat dis yer ole vimya'd is goophered."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is what?" I asked, not grasping the meaning of this unfamiliar word.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is goophered, cunju'd, bewitch'."
    </p>
    <p>
      He imparted this information with such solemn earnestness, and with such
      an air of confidential mystery, that I felt somewhat interested, while
      Annie was evidently much impressed, and drew closer to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How do you know it is bewitched?" I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wouldn' spec' fer you ter b'lieve me 'less you know all 'bout de fac's.
      But ef you en young miss dere doan' min' lis'n'in' ter a ole nigger run on
      a minute er two w'ile you er restin', I kin 'splain to yer how it all
      happen'."
    </p>
    <p>
      We assured him that we would be glad to hear how it all happened, and he
      began to tell us. At first the current of his memory&mdash;or imagination&mdash;seemed
      somewhat sluggish; but as his embarrassment wore off, his language flowed
      more freely, and the story acquired perspective and coherence. As he
      became more and more absorbed in the narrative, his eyes assumed a dreamy
      expression, and he seemed to lose sight of his auditors, and to be living
      over again in monologue his life on the old plantation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ole Mars Dugal' McAdoo bought dis place long many years befo' de wah, en
      I 'member well w'en he sot out all dis yer part er de plantation in
      scuppernon's. De vimes growed monst'us fas', en Mars Dugal' made a
      thousan' gallon er scuppernon' wine eve'y year.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, ef dey's an'thing a nigger lub, nex' ter 'possum, en chick'n, en
      watermillyums, it's scuppernon's. Dey ain' nuffin dat kin stan' up side'n
      de scuppernon' fer sweetness; sugar ain't a suckumstance ter scuppernon'.
      W'en de season is nigh 'bout ober, en de grapes begin ter swivel up des a
      little wid de wrinkles er ole age,&mdash;w'en de skin git sof' en brown,&mdash;den
      de scuppernon' make you smack yo' lip en roll yo' eye en wush fer mo'; so
      I reckon it ain' very 'stonishin' dat niggers lub scuppernon'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dey wuz a sight er niggers in de naberhood er de vimya'd. Dere wuz ole
      Mars Henry Brayboy's niggers, en ole Mars Dunkin McLean's niggers, en Mars
      Dugal's own niggers; den dey wuz a settlement er free niggers en po'
      buckrahs down by de Wim'l'ton Road, en Mars Dugal' had de only vimya'd in
      de naberhood. I reckon it ain' so much so nowadays, but befo' de wah, in
      slab'ry times, er nigger didn' mine goin' fi' er ten mile in a night, w'en
      dey wuz sump'n good ter eat at de yuther een.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So atter a w'ile Mars Dugal' begin ter miss his scuppernon's. Co'se he
      'cuse' de niggers er it, but dey all 'nied it ter de las'. Mars Dugal' sot
      spring guns en steel traps, en he en de oberseah sot up nights once't er
      twice't, tel one night Mars Dugal'&mdash;he 'uz a monst'us keerless man&mdash;got
      his leg shot full er cow-peas. But somehow er nudder dey couldn' nebber
      ketch none er de niggers. I dunner how it happen, but it happen des like I
      tell yer, en de grapes kep' on a-goin des de same.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But bimeby ole Mars Dugal' fix' up a plan ter stop it. Dey 'uz a cunjuh
      'ooman livin' down mongs' de free niggers on de Wim'l'ton Road, en all de
      darkies fum Rockfish ter Beaver Crick wuz feared uv her. She could wuk de
      mos' powerfulles' kind er goopher,&mdash;could make people hab fits er
      rheumatiz, er make 'em des dwinel away en die; en dey say she went out
      ridin' de niggers at night, for she wuz a witch 'sides bein' a cunjuh
      'ooman. Mars Dugal' hearn 'bout Aun' Peggy's doin's, en begun ter 'flect
      whe'r er no he couldn' git her ter he'p him keep de niggers off'n de
      grapevimes. One day in de spring er de year, ole miss pack' up a basket er
      chick'n en poun'-cake, en a bottle er scuppernon' wine, en Mars Dugal' tuk
      it in his buggy en driv ober ter Aun' Peggy's cabin. He tuk de basket in,
      en had a long talk wid Aun' Peggy. De nex' day Aun' Peggy come up ter de
      vimya'd. De niggers seed her slippin' 'roun', en dey soon foun' out what
      she 'uz doin' dere. Mars Dugal' had hi'ed her ter goopher de grapevimes.
      She sa'ntered 'roun' mongs' de vimes, en tuk a leaf fum dis one, en a
      grape-hull fum dat one, en a grape-seed fum anudder one; en den a little
      twig fum here, en a little pinch er dirt fum dere,&mdash;en put it all in
      a big black bottle, wid a snake's toof en a speckle' hen's gall en some
      ha'rs fum a black cat's tail, en den fill' de bottle wid scuppernon' wine.
      W'en she got de goopher all ready en fix', she tuk 'n went out in de woods
      en buried it under de root uv a red oak tree, en den come back en tole one
      er de niggers she done goopher de grapevimes, en a'er a nigger w'at eat
      dem grapes 'ud be sho ter die inside'n twel' mont's.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Atter dat de niggers let de scuppernon's 'lone, en Mars Dugal' didn' hab
      no 'casion ter fine no mo' fault; en de season wuz mos' gone, w'en a
      strange gemman stop at de plantation one night ter see Mars Dugal' on some
      business; en his coachman, seein' de scuppernon's growin' so nice en
      sweet, slip 'roun' behine de smoke-house, en et all de scuppernon's he
      could hole. Nobody didn' notice it at de time, but dat night, on de way
      home, de gemman's hoss runned away en kill' de coachman. W'en we hearn de
      noos, Aun' Lucy, de cook, she up 'n say she seed de strange nigger eat'n'
      er de scuppernon's behine de smoke-house; en den we knowed de goopher had
      b'en er wukkin. Den one er de nigger chilluns runned away fum de quarters
      one day, en got in de scuppernon's, en died de nex' week. W'ite folks say
      he die' er de fevuh, but de niggers knowed it wuz de goopher. So you k'n
      be sho de darkies didn' hab much ter do wid dem scuppernon' vimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en de scuppernon' season 'uz ober fer dat year, Mars Dugal' foun' he
      had made fifteen hund'ed gallon er wine; en one er de niggers hearn him
      laffin' wid de oberseah fit ter kill, en sayin' dem fifteen hund'ed gallon
      er wine wuz monst'us good intrus' on de ten dollars he laid out on de
      vimya'd. So I 'low ez he paid Aun' Peggy ten dollars fer to goopher de
      grapevimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "De goopher didn' wuk no mo' tel de nex' summer, w'en 'long to'ds de
      middle er de season one er de fiel' han's died; en ez dat lef' Mars Dugal'
      sho't er han's, he went off ter town fer ter buy anudder. He fotch de noo
      nigger home wid 'im. He wuz er ole nigger, er de color er a gingy-cake, en
      ball ez a hoss-apple on de top er his head. He wuz a peart ole nigger,
      do', en could do a big day's wuk.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now it happen dat one er de niggers on de nex' plantation, one er ole
      Mars Henry Brayboy's niggers, had runned away de day befo', en tuk ter de
      swamp, en ole Mars Dugal' en some er de yuther nabor w'ite folks had gone
      out wid dere guns en dere dogs fer ter he'p 'em hunt fer de nigger; en de
      han's on our own plantation wuz all so flusterated dat we fuhgot ter tell
      de noo han' 'bout de goopher on de scuppernon' vimes. Co'se he smell de
      grapes en see de vimes, an atter dahk de fus' thing he done wuz ter slip
      off ter de grapevimes 'dout sayin' nuffin ter nobody. Nex' mawnin' he tole
      some er de niggers 'bout de fine bait er scuppernon' he et de night befo'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en dey tole 'im 'bout de goopher on de grapevimes, he 'uz dat tarrified
      dat he turn pale, en look des like he gwine ter die right in his tracks.
      De oberseah come up en axed w'at 'uz de matter; en w'en dey tole 'im Henry
      be'n eatin' er de scuppernon's, en got de goopher on 'im, he gin Henry a
      big drink er w'iskey, en 'low dat de nex' rainy day he take 'im ober ter
      Aun' Peggy's, en see ef she wouldn' take de goopher off'n him, seein' ez
      he didn' know nuffin erbout it tel he done et de grapes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sho nuff, it rain de nex' day, en de oberseah went ober ter Aun' Peggy's
      wid Henry. En Aun' Peggy say dat bein' ez Henry didn' know 'bout de
      goopher, en et de grapes in ign'ance er de quinseconces, she reckon she
      mought be able fer ter take de goopher off'n him. So she fotch out er
      bottle wid some cunjuh medicine in it, en po'd some out in a go'd fer
      Henry ter drink. He manage ter git it down; he say it tas'e like whiskey
      wid sump'n bitter in it. She 'lowed dat 'ud keep de goopher off'n him tel
      de spring; but w'en de sap begin ter rise in de grapevimes he ha' ter come
      en see her agin, en she tell him w'at e's ter do.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nex' spring, w'en de sap commence' ter rise in de scuppernon' vime, Henry
      tuk a ham one night. Whar'd he git de ham? I doan know; dey wa'nt no hams
      on de plantation 'cep'n' w'at 'uz in de smoke-house, but I never see Henry
      'bout de smoke-house. But ez I wuz a-sayin', he tuk de ham ober ter Aun'
      Peggy's; en Aun' Peggy tole 'im dat w'en Mars Dugal' begin ter prume de
      grapevimes, he mus' go en take 'n scrape off de sap whar it ooze out'n de
      cut een's er de vimes, en 'n'int his ball head wid it; en ef he do dat
      once't a year de goopher wouldn' wuk agin 'im long ez he done it. En bein'
      ez he fotch her de ham, she fix' it so he kin eat all de scuppernon' he
      want.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So Henry 'n'int his head wid de sap out'n de big grapevime des ha'f way
      'twix' de quarters en de big house, en de goopher nebber wuk agin him dat
      summer. But de beatenes' thing you eber see happen ter Henry. Up ter dat
      time he wuz ez ball ez a sweeten' 'tater, but des ez soon ez de young
      leaves begun ter come out on de grapevimes de ha'r begun ter grow out on
      Henry's head, en by de middle er de summer he had de bigges' head er ha'r
      on de plantation. Befo' dat, Henry had tol'able good ha'r 'roun de aidges,
      but soon ez de young grapes begun ter come Henry's ha'r begun ter quirl
      all up in little balls, des like dis yer reg'lar grapy ha'r, en by de time
      de grapes got ripe his head look des like a bunch er grapes. Combin' it
      didn' do no good; he wuk at it ha'f de night wid er Jim Crow <a
      href="#linknote-1" name="linknoteref-1" id="linknoteref-1"><small>1</small></a>,
      en think he git it straighten' out, but in de mawnin' de grapes 'ud be
      dere des de same. So he gin it up, en tried ter keep de grapes down by
      havin' his ha'r cut sho't."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-1" id="linknote-1">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      1 (<a href="#linknoteref-1">return</a>)<br /> [ A small card, resembling a
      curry-comb in construction, and used by negroes in the rural districts
      instead of a comb.]
    </p>
    <p>
      "But dat wa'nt de quares' thing 'bout de goopher. When Henry come ter de
      plantation, he wuz gittin' a little ole an stiff in de j'ints. But dat
      summer he got des ez spry en libely ez any young nigger on de plantation;
      fac' he got so biggity dat Mars Jackson, de oberseah, ha' ter th'eaten ter
      whip 'im, ef he didn' stop cuttin' up his didos en behave hisse'f. But de
      mos' cur'ouses' thing happen' in de fall, when de sap begin ter go down in
      de grapevimes. Fus', when de grapes 'uz gethered, de knots begun ter
      straighten out'n Henry's h'ar; en w'en de leaves begin ter fall, Henry's
      ha'r begin ter drap out; en w'en de vimes 'uz b'ar, Henry's head wuz
      baller 'n it wuz in de spring, en he begin ter git ole en stiff in de
      j'ints ag'in, en paid no mo' tention ter de gals dyoin' er de whole
      winter. En nex' spring, w'en he rub de sap on ag'in, he got young ag'in,
      en so soopl en libely dat none er de young niggers on de plantation
      couldn' jump, ner dance, ner hoe ez much cotton ez Henry. But in de fall
      er de year his grapes begun ter straighten out, en his j'ints ter git
      stiff, en his ha'r drap off, en de rheumatiz begin ter wrastle wid 'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, ef you'd a knowed ole Mars Dugal' McAdoo, you'd a knowed dat it ha'
      ter be a mighty rainy day when he couldn' fine sump'n fer his niggers ter
      do, en it ha' ter be a mighty little hole he couldn' crawl thoo, en ha'
      ter be a monst'us cloudy night w'en a dollar git by him in de dahkness; en
      w'en he see how Henry git young in de spring en ole in de fall, he 'lowed
      ter hisse'f ez how he could make mo' money outen Henry dan by wukkin' him
      in de cotton fiel'. 'Long de nex' spring, atter de sap commence' ter rise,
      en Henry 'n'int 'is head en commence fer ter git young en soopl, Mars
      Dugal' up 'n tuk Henry ter town, en sole 'im fer fifteen hunder' dollars.
      Co'se de man w'at bought Henry didn' know nuffin 'bout de goopher, en Mars
      Dugal' didn' see no 'casion fer ter tell 'im. Long to'ds de fall, w'en de
      sap went down, Henry begin ter git ole again same ez yuzhal, en his noo
      marster begin ter git skeered les'n he gwine ter lose his
      fifteen-hunder'-dollar nigger. He sent fer a mighty fine doctor, but de
      med'cine didn' 'pear ter do no good; de goopher had a good holt. Henry
      tole de doctor 'bout de goopher, but de doctor des laff at 'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "One day in de winter Mars Dugal' went ter town, en wuz santerin' 'long de
      Main Street, when who should he meet but Henry's noo marster. Dey said
      'Hoddy,' en Mars Dugal' ax 'im ter hab a seegyar; en atter dey run on
      awhile 'bout de craps en de weather, Mars Dugal' ax 'im, sorter keerless,
      like ez ef he des thought of it,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'How you like de nigger I sole you las' spring?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Henry's marster shuck his head en knock de ashes off'n his seegyar.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Spec' I made a bad bahgin when I bought dat nigger. Henry done good wuk
      all de summer, but sence de fall set in he 'pears ter be sorter pinin'
      away. Dey ain' nuffin pertickler de matter wid 'im&mdash;leastways de
      doctor say so&mdash;'cep'n' a tech er de rheumatiz; but his ha'r is all
      fell out, en ef he don't pick up his strenk mighty soon, I spec' I'm gwine
      ter lose 'im."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dey smoked on awhile, en bimeby ole mars say, 'Well, a bahgin's a bahgin,
      but you en me is good fren's, en I doan wan' ter see you lose all de money
      you paid fer dat digger [sic]; en ef w'at you say is so, en I ain't
      'sputin' it, he ain't wuf much now. I spec's you wukked him too ha'd dis
      summer, er e'se de swamps down here don't agree wid de san'-hill nigger.
      So you des lemme know, en ef he gits any wusser I'll be willin' ter gib
      yer five hund'ed dollars fer 'im, en take my chances on his livin'.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sho nuff, when Henry begun ter draw up wid de rheumatiz en it look like
      he gwine ter die fer sho, his noo marster sen' fer Mars Dugal', en Mars
      Dugal' gin him what he promus, en brung Henry home ag'in. He tuk good keer
      uv 'im dyoin' er de winter,&mdash;give 'im w'iskey ter rub his rheumatiz,
      en terbacker ter smoke, en all he want ter eat,&mdash;'caze a nigger w'at
      he could make a thousan' dollars a year off'n didn' grow on eve'y
      huckleberry bush.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nex' spring, w'en de sap ris en Henry's ha'r commence' ter sprout, Mars
      Dugal' sole 'im ag'in, down in Robeson County dis time; en he kep' dat
      sellin' business up fer five year er mo'. Henry nebber say nuffin 'bout de
      goopher ter his noo marsters, 'caze he know he gwine ter be tuk good keer
      uv de nex' winter, w'en Mars Dugal' buy him back. En Mars Dugal' made
      'nuff money off'n Henry ter buy anudder plantation ober on Beaver Crick.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But long 'bout de een' er dat five year dey come a stranger ter stop at
      de plantation. De fus' day he 'uz dere he went out wid Mars Dugal' en
      spent all de mawnin' lookin' ober de vimya'd, en atter dinner dey spent
      all de evenin' playin' kya'ds. De niggers soon 'skiver' dat he wuz a
      Yankee, en dat he come down ter Norf C'lina fer ter learn de w'ite folks
      how to raise grapes en make wine. He promus Mars Dugal' he cud make de
      grapevimes b'ar twice't ez many grapes, en dat de noo wine-press he wuz
      a-sellin' would make mo' d'n twice't ez many gallons er wine. En ole Mars
      Dugal' des drunk it all in, des 'peared ter be bewitched wit dat Yankee.
      W'en de darkies see dat Yankee runnin' 'roun de vimya'd en diggin' under
      de grapevimes, dey shuk dere heads, en 'lowed dat dey feared Mars Dugal'
      losin' his min'. Mars Dugal' had all de dirt dug away fum under de roots
      er all de scuppernon' vimes, an' let 'em stan' dat away fer a week er mo'.
      Den dat Yankee made de niggers fix up a mixtry er lime en ashes en manyo,
      en po' it roun' de roots er de grapevimes. Den he 'vise' Mars Dugal' fer
      ter trim de vimes close't, en Mars Dugal' tuck 'n done eve'ything de
      Yankee tole him ter do. Dyoin' all er dis time, mind yer, 'e wuz libbin'
      off'n de fat er de lan', at de big house, en playin' kyards wid Mars
      Dugal' eve'y night; en dey say Mars Dugal' los' mo'n a thousan' dollars
      dyoin' er de week dat Yankee wuz a runnin' de grapevimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en de sap ris nex' spring, ole Henry 'n'inted his head ez yuzhal, en
      his ha'r commence' ter grow des de same ez it done eve'y year. De
      scuppernon' vimes growed monst's fas', en de leaves wuz greener en thicker
      dan dey eber be'n dyowin my rememb'ance; en Henry's ha'r growed out
      thicker dan eber, en he 'peared ter git younger 'n younger, en soopler 'n
      soopler; en seein' ez he wuz sho't er han's dat spring, havin' tuk in
      consid'able noo groun', Mars Dugal' 'cluded he wouldn' sell Henry 'tel he
      git de crap in en de cotton chop'. So he kep' Henry on de plantation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But 'long 'bout time fer de grapes ter come on de scuppernon' vimes, dey
      'peared ter come a change ober dem; de leaves wivered en swivel' up, en de
      young grapes turn' yaller, en bimeby eve'ybody on de plantation could see
      dat de whole vimya'd wuz dyin'. Mars Dugal' tuck 'n water de vimes en done
      all he could, but 't wan' no use: dat Yankee done bus' de watermillyum.
      One time de vimes picked up a bit, en Mars Dugal' thought dey wuz gwine
      ter come out ag'in; but dat Yankee done dug too close unde' de roots, en
      prune de branches too close ter de vime, en all dat lime en ashes done
      burn' de life outen de vimes, en dey des kep' a with'in' en a swivelin'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "All dis time de goopher wuz a-wukkin'. W'en de vimes commence' ter
      wither, Henry commence' ter complain er his rheumatiz, en when de leaves
      begin ter dry up his ha'r commence' ter drap out. When de vimes fresh up a
      bit Henry 'ud git peart agin, en when de vimes wither agin Henry 'ud git
      ole agin, en des kep' gittin' mo' en mo' fitten fer nuffin; he des pined
      away, en fine'ly tuk ter his cabin; en when de big vime whar he got de sap
      ter 'n'int his head withered en turned yaller en died, Henry died too,&mdash;des
      went out sorter like a cannel. Dey didn't 'pear ter be nuffin de matter
      wid 'im, 'cep'n de rheumatiz, but his strenk des dwinel' away 'tel he
      didn' hab ernuff lef' ter draw his bref. De goopher had got de under holt,
      en th'owed Henry fer good en all dat time.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mars Dugal' tuk on might'ly 'bout losin' his vimes en his nigger in de
      same year; en he swo' dat ef he could git hold er dat Yankee he'd wear 'im
      ter a frazzle, en den chaw up de frazzle; en he'd done it, too, for Mars
      Dugal' 'uz a monst'us brash man w'en he once git started. He sot de
      vimya'd out ober agin, but it wuz th'ee er fo' year befo' de vimes got ter
      b'arin' any scuppernon's.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en de wah broke out, Mars Dugal' raise' a comp'ny, en went off ter
      fight de Yankees. He saw he wuz mighty glad dat wah come, en he des want
      ter kill a Yankee fer eve'y dollar he los' 'long er dat grape-raisin'
      Yankee. En I 'spec' he would a done it, too, ef de Yankees hadn'
      s'picioned sump'n, en killed him fus'. Atter de s'render ole miss move'
      ter town, de niggers all scattered 'way fum de plantation, en de vimya'd
      ain' be'n cultervated sence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is that story true?" asked Annie, doubtfully, but seriously, as the old
      man concluded his narrative.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's des ez true ez I'm a-settin' here, miss. Dey's a easy way ter prove
      it: I kin lead de way right ter Henry's grave ober yander in de plantation
      buryin'-groun'. En I tell yer w'at, marster, I wouldn' 'vise yer to buy
      dis yer ole vimya'd, 'caze de goopher's on it yit, en dey ain' no tellin'
      w'en it's gwine ter crap out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I thought you said all the old vines died."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dey did 'pear ter die, but a few ov 'em come out ag'in, en is mixed in
      mongs' de yuthers. I ain' skeered ter eat de grapes, 'caze I knows de old
      vimes fum de noo ones; but wid strangers dey ain' no tellin' w'at might
      happen. I wouldn' 'vise yer ter buy dis vimya'd."
    </p>
    <p>
      I bought the vineyard, nevertheless, and it has been for a long time in a
      thriving condition, and is referred to by the local press as a striking
      illustration of the opportunities open to Northern capital in the
      development of Southern industries. The luscious scuppernong holds first
      rank among our grapes, though we cultivate a great many other varieties,
      and our income from grapes packed and shipped to the Northern markets is
      quite considerable. I have not noticed any developments of the goopher in
      the vineyard, although I have a mild suspicion that our colored assistants
      do not suffer from want of grapes during the season.
    </p>
    <p>
      I found, when I bought the vineyard, that Uncle Julius had occupied a
      cabin on the place for many years, and derived a respectable revenue from
      the neglected grapevines. This, doubtless, accounted for his advice to me
      not to buy the vineyard, though whether it inspired the goopher story I am
      unable to state. I believe, however, that the wages I pay him for his
      services are more than an equivalent for anything he lost by the sale of
      the vineyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PO' SANDY by Charles W. Chesnutt
    </h2>
    <p>
      On the northeast corner of my vineyard in central North Carolina, and
      fronting on the Lumberton plank-road, there stood a small frame house, of
      the simplest construction. It was built of pine lumber, and contained but
      one room, to which one window gave light and one door admission. Its
      weather-beaten sides revealed a virgin innocence of paint. Against one end
      of the house, and occupying half its width, there stood a huge brick
      chimney: the crumbling mortar had left large cracks between the bricks;
      the bricks themselves had begun to scale off in large flakes, leaving the
      chimney sprinkled with unsightly blotches. These evidences of decay were
      but partially concealed by a creeping vine, which extended its slender
      branches hither and thither in an ambitious but futile attempt to cover
      the whole chimney. The wooden shutter, which had once protected the
      unglazed window, had fallen from its hinges, and lay rotting in the rank
      grass and jimson-weeds beneath. This building, I learned when I bought the
      place, had been used as a school-house for several years prior to the
      breaking out of the war, since which time it had remained unoccupied, save
      when some stray cow or vagrant hog had sought shelter within its walls
      from the chill rains and nipping winds of winter.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day my wife requested me to build her a new kitchen. The house erected
      by us, when we first came to live upon the vineyard, contained a very
      conveniently arranged kitchen; but for some occult reason my wife wanted a
      kitchen in the back yard, apart from the dwelling-house, after the usual
      Southern fashion. Of course I had to build it.
    </p>
    <p>
      To save expense, I decided to tear down the old school-house, and use the
      lumber, which was in a good state of preservation, in the construction of
      the new kitchen. Before demolishing the old house, however, I made an
      estimate of the amount of material contained in it, and found that I would
      have to buy several hundred feet of new lumber in order to build the new
      kitchen according to my wife's plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning old Julius McAdoo, our colored coachman, harnessed the gray
      mare to the rockaway, and drove my wife and me over to the saw-mill from
      which I meant to order the new lumber. We drove down the long lane which
      led from our house to the plank-road; following the plank-road for about a
      mile, we turned into a road running through the forest and across the
      swamp to the sawmill beyond. Our carriage jolted over the half-rotted
      corduroy road which traversed the swamp, and then climbed the long hill
      leading to the saw-mill. When we reached the mill, the foreman had gone
      over to a neighboring farm-house, probably to smoke or gossip, and we were
      compelled to await his return before we could transact our business. We
      remained seated in the carriage, a few rods from the mill, and watched the
      leisurely movements of the mill-hands. We had not waited long before a
      huge pine log was placed in position, the machinery of the mill was set in
      motion, and the circular saw began to eat its way through the log, with a
      loud whirr which resounded throughout the vicinity of the mill. The sound
      rose and fell in a sort of rhythmic cadence, which, heard from where we
      sat, was not unpleasing, and not loud enough to prevent conversation. When
      the saw started on its second journey through the log, Julius observed, in
      a lugubrious tone, and with a perceptible shudder:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ugh! but dat des do cuddle my blood!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What's the matter, Uncle Julius?" inquired my wife, who is of a very
      sympathetic turn of mind. "Does the noise affect your nerves?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, Miss Annie," replied the old man, with emotion, "I ain' narvous; but
      dat saw, a-cuttin' en grindin' thoo dat stick er timber, en moanin', en
      groanin', en sweekin', kyars my 'memb'ance back ter ole times, en 'min's
      me er po' Sandy." The pathetic intonation with which he lengthened out the
      "po' Sandy" touched a responsive chord in our own hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who was poor Sandy?" asked my wife, who takes a deep interest in the
      stories of plantation life which she hears from the lips of the older
      colored people. Some of these stories are quaintly humorous; others wildly
      extravagant, revealing the Oriental cast of the negro's imagination; while
      others, poured freely into the sympathetic ear of a Northern-bred woman,
      disclose many a tragic incident of the darker side of slavery.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sandy," said Julius, in reply to my wife's question, "was a nigger w'at
      useter b'long ter ole Mars Marrabo McSwayne. Mars Marrabo's place wuz on
      de yuther side'n de swamp, right nex' ter yo' place. Sandy wuz a monst'us
      good nigger, en could do so many things erbout a plantation, en alluz 'ten
      ter his wuk so well, dat w'en Mars Marrabo's chilluns growed up en married
      off, dey all un 'em wanted dey daddy fer ter gin 'em Sandy fer a weddin'
      present. But Mars Marrabo knowed de res' wouldn' be satisfied ef he gin
      Sandy ter a'er one un 'em; so w'en dey wuz all done married, he fix it by
      'lowin' one er his chilluns ter take Sandy fer a mont' er so, en den
      ernudder for a mont' er so, en so on dat erway tel dey had all had 'im de
      same lenk er time; en den dey would all take him roun' ag'in, 'cep'n oncet
      in a w'ile w'en Mars Marrabo would len' 'im ter some er his yuther
      kinfolks 'roun' de country, w'en dey wuz short er han's; tel bimeby it go
      so Sandy didn' hardly knowed whar he wuz gwine ter stay fum one week's een
      ter de yuther.
    </p>
    <p>
      "One time w'en Sandy wuz lent out ez yushal, a spekilater come erlong wid
      a lot er niggers, en Mars Marrabo swap' Sandy's wife off fer a noo 'oman.
      W'en Sandy come back, Mars Marrabo gin 'im a dollar, en 'lowed he wuz
      monst'us sorry fer ter break up de fambly, but de spekilater had gin 'im
      big boot, en times wuz hard en money skase, en so he wuz bleedst ter make
      de trade. Sandy tuk on some 'bout losin' his wife, but he soon seed dey
      want no use cryin' ober spilt merlasses; en bein' ez he lacked de looks er
      de noo 'ooman, he tuk up wid her atter she b'n on de plantation a mont' er
      so.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sandy en his noo wife got on mighty well tergedder, en de niggers all
      'mence' ter talk about how lovin' dey wuz. W'en Tenie wuz tuk sick oncet,
      Sandy useter set up all night wid 'er, en den go ter wuk in de mawnin' des
      lack he had his reg'lar sleep; en Tenie would 'a done anythin' in de worl'
      for her Sandy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sandy en Tenie hadn' b'en libbin' tergedder fer mo' d'n two mont's befo'
      Mars Marrabo's old uncle, w'at libbed down in Robeson County, sent up ter
      fine out ef Mars Marrabo couldn' len' 'im er hire 'im a good han' fer a
      mont' er so. Sandy's marster wuz one er dese yer easy-gwine folks w'at
      wanter please eve'ybody, en he says yas, he could len' 'im Sandy. En Mars
      Marrabo tole Sandy fer ter git ready ter go down ter Robeson nex' day, fer
      ter stay a mont' er so.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hit wuz monst'us hard on Sandy fer ter take 'im 'way fum Tenie. Hit wuz
      so fur down ter Robeson dat he didn' hab no chance er comin' back ter see
      her tel de time wuz up; he wouldn' a' mine comin' ten er fifteen mile at
      night ter see Tenie, but Mars Marrabo's uncle's plantation wuz mo' d'n
      forty mile off. Sandy wuz mighty sad en cas' down atter w'at Mars Marrabo
      tole 'im, en he says ter Tenie, sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I'm gittin monstus ti'ed er dish yer gwine roun' so much. Here I is lent
      ter Mars Jeems dis mont', en I got ter do so-en-so; en ter Mars Archie de
      nex' mont', en I got ter do so-en-so; den I got ter go ter Miss Jinnie's:
      en hit's Sandy dis en Sandy dat, en Sandy yer en Sandy dere, tel it 'pears
      ter me I ain' got no home, ner no marster, ner no mistiss, ner no nuffin'.
      I can't eben keep a wife: my yuther ole 'oman wuz sole away widout my
      gittin' a chance fer ter tell her good-by; en now I got ter go off en leab
      you, Tenie, en I dunno whe'r I'm eber gwine ter see yer ag'in er no. I
      wisht I wuz a tree, er a stump, er a rock, er sump'n w'at could stay on de
      plantation fer a w'ile.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Atter Sandy got thoo talkin', Tenie didn' say naer word, but des sot dere
      by de fier, studyin' en studyin'. Bimeby she up'n says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Sandy, is I eber tole you I wuz a cunjuh-'ooman?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Co'se Sandy hadn' nebber dremp' er nuffin lack dat, en he made a great
      miration w'en he hear w'at Tenie say. Bimeby Tenie went on:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I ain' goophered nobody, ner done no cunjuh-wuk fer fifteen yer er mo;
      en w'en I got religion I made up my mine I wouldn' wuk no mo' goopher. But
      dey is some things I doan b'lieve it's no sin fer ter do; en ef you doan
      wanter be sent roun' fum pillar ter pos', en ef you doan wanter go down
      ter Robeson, I kin fix things so yer won't haf ter. Ef you'll des say de
      word, I kin turn yer ter w'ateber yer wanter be, en yer kin stay right
      whar yer wanter, ez long ez yer mineter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sandy say he doan keer; he's willin' fer ter do anythin' fer ter stay
      close ter Tenie. Den Tenie ax 'im ef he doan wanter be turnt inter a
      rabbit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sandy say, 'No, de dogs mout git atter me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Shill I turn yer ter a wolf?' sez Tenie.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'No, eve'ybody's skeered er a wolf, en I doan want nobody ter be skeered
      er me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Shill I turn yer ter a mawkin'-bird?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'No, a hawk mout ketch me. I wanter be turnt inter sump'n w'at'll stay in
      one place.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I kin turn yer ter a tree,' sez Tenie. 'You won't hab no mouf ner years,
      but I kin turn yer back oncet in a w'ile, so yer kin git sump'n ter eat,
      en hear w'at's gwine on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Sandy say dat'll do. En so Tenie tuk 'im down by de aidge er de
      swamp, not fur fum de quarters, en turnt 'im inter a big pine-tree, en sot
      'im out mongs' some yuther trees. En de nex' mawnin', ez some er de fiel'
      han's wuz gwine long dere, dey seed a tree w'at dey didn' 'member er
      habbin' seed befo; it wuz monst'us quare, en dey wuz bleedst ter 'low dat
      dey hadn' 'membered right, er e'se one er de saplin's had be'n growin'
      monst'us fas'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Mars Marrabo 'skiver' dat Sandy wuz gone, he 'lowed Sandy had runned
      away. He got de dogs out, but de las' place dey could track Sandy ter wuz
      de foot er dat pine-tree. En dere de dogs stood en barked, en bayed, en
      pawed at de tree, en tried ter climb up on it; en w'en dey wuz tuk roun'
      thoo de swamp ter look fer de scent, dey broke loose en made fer dat tree
      ag'in. It wuz de beatenis' thing de w'ite folks eber hearn of, en Mars
      Marrabo 'lowed dat Sandy must a' clim' up on de tree en jump' off on a
      mule er sump'n, en rid fur 'nuff fer ter spile de scent. Mars Marrabo
      wanted ter 'cuse some er de yuther niggers er heppin Sandy off, but dey
      all 'nied it ter de las'; en eve'ybody knowed Tenie sot too much by Sandy
      fer ter he'p 'im run away whar she couldn' nebber see 'im no mo'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Sandy had be'n gone long 'nuff fer folks ter think he done got clean
      away, Tenie useter go down ter de woods at night en turn 'im back, en den
      dey'd slip up ter de cabin en set by de fire en talk. But dey ha' ter be
      monst'us keerful, er e'se somebody would a seed 'em, en dat would a spile
      de whole thing; so Tenie alluz turnt Sandy back in de mawnin' early, befo'
      anybody wuz a'stirrin'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But Sandy didn' git erlong widout his trials en tribberlations. One day a
      woodpecker come erlong en 'mence' ter peck at de tree; en de nex' time
      Sandy wuz turnt back he had a little roun' hole in his arm, des lack a
      sharp stick be'n stuck in it. Atter dat Tenie sot a sparrer-hawk fer ter
      watch de tree; en w'en de woodpecker come erlong nex' mawnin' fer ter
      finish his nes', he got gobble' up mos' fo' he stuck his bill in de bark.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nudder time, Mars Marrabo sent a nigger out in de woods fer ter chop
      tuppentime boxes. De man chop a box in dish yer tree, en hack' de bark up
      two er th'ee feet, fer ter let de tuppentime run. De nex' time Sandy wuz
      turnt back he had a big skyar on his lef' leg, des lack it be'n skunt; en
      it tuk Tenie nigh 'bout all night fer ter fix a mixtry ter kyo it up.
      Atter dat, Tenie sot a hawnet fer ter watch de tree; en w'en de nigger
      come back ag'in fer ter cut ernudder box on de yuther side'n de tree, de
      hawnet stung 'im so hard dat de ax slip en cut his foot nigh 'bout off.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Tenie see so many things happenin' ter de tree, she 'cluded she'd
      ha' ter turn Sandy ter sump'n e'se; en atter studyin' de matter ober, en
      talkin' wid Sandy one ebenin', she made up her mine fer ter fix up a
      goopher mixtry w'at would turn herse'f en Sandy ter foxes, er sump'n, so
      dey could run away en go some'rs whar dey could be free en lib lack w'ite
      folks.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But dey ain' no tellin' w'at's gwine ter happen in dis worl'. Tenie had
      got de night sot fer her en Sandy ter run away, w'en dat ve'y day one er
      Mars Marrabo's sons rid up ter de big house in his buggy, en say his wife
      wuz monst'us sick, en he want his mammy ter len' 'im a 'ooman fer ter nuss
      his wife. Tenie's mistiss say sen Tenie; she wuz a good nuss. Young mars
      wuz in a tarrible hurry fer ter git back home. Tenie wuz washin' at de big
      house dat day, en her mistiss say she should go right 'long wid her young
      marster. Tenie tried ter make some 'scuse fer ter git away en hide tel
      night, w'en she would have eve'ything fix' up fer her en Sandy; she say
      she wanter go ter her cabin fer ter git her bonnet. Her mistiss say it
      doan matter 'bout de bonnet; her head-hankcher wuz good 'nuff. Den Tenie
      say she wanter git her bes' frock; her mistiss say no, she doan need no
      mo' frock, en w'en dat one got dirty she could git a clean one whar she
      wuz gwine. So Tenie had ter git in de buggy en go 'long wid young Mars
      Dunkin ter his plantation, w'ich wuz mo' d'n twenty mile away; en dey want
      no chance er her seein' Sandy no mo' tel she come back home. De po' gal
      felt monst'us bad erbout de way things wuz gwine on, en she knowed Sandy
      mus' be a wond'rin' why she didn' come en turn 'im back no mo'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'iles Tenie wuz away nussin' young Mars Dunkin's wife, Mars Marrabo tuk
      a notion fer ter buil' 'im a noo kitchen; en bein' ez he had lots er
      timber on his place, he begun ter look 'roun' fer a tree ter hab de lumber
      sawed out'n. En I dunno how it come to be so, but he happen fer ter hit on
      de ve'y tree w'at Sandy wuz turnt inter. Tenie wuz gone, en dey wa'n't
      nobody ner nuffin' fer ter watch de tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      "De two men w'at cut de tree down say dey nebber had sech a time wid a
      tree befo': dey axes would glansh off, en didn' 'pear ter make no progress
      thoo de wood; en of all de creakin', en shakin', en wobblin' you eber see,
      dat tree done it w'en it commence' ter fall. It wuz de beatenis' thing!
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en dey got de tree all trim' up, dey chain it up ter a timber waggin,
      en start fer de saw-mill. But dey had a hard time gittin' de log dere:
      fus' dey got stuck in de mud w'en dey wuz gwine crosst de swamp, en it wuz
      two er th'ee hours befo' dey could git out. W'en dey start' on ag'in, de
      chain kep' a-comin' loose, en dey had ter keep a-stoppin' en a-stoppin'
      fer ter hitch de log up ag'in. W'en dey commence' ter climb de hill ter de
      saw-mill, de log broke loose, en roll down de hill en in mongs' de trees,
      en hit tuk nigh 'bout half a day mo' ter git it haul' up ter de saw-mill.
    </p>
    <p>
      "De nex' mawnin' atter de day de tree wuz haul' ter de saw-mill, Tenie
      come home. W'en she got back ter her cabin, de fus' thing she done wuz ter
      run down ter de woods en see how Sandy wuz gittin' on. W'en she seed de
      stump standin' dere, wid de sap runnin' out'n it, en de limbs layin'
      scattered roun', she nigh 'bout went out'n her mine. She run ter her
      cabin, en got her goopher mixtry, en den foller de track er de timber
      waggin ter de saw-mill. She knowed Sandy couldn' lib mo' d'n a minute er
      so ef she turn' him back, fer he wuz all chop' up so he'd a be'n bleedst
      ter die. But she wanted ter turn 'im back long ernuff fer ter 'splain ter
      'im dat she hadn' went off a-purpose, en lef' 'im ter be chop' down en
      sawed up. She didn' want Sandy ter die wid no hard feelin's to'ds her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "De han's at de saw-mill had des got de big log on de kerridge, en wuz
      startin' up de saw, w'en dey seed a 'oman runnin up de hill, all out er
      bref, cryin' en gwine on des lack she wuz plumb 'stracted. It wuz Tenie;
      she come right inter de mill, en th'owed herse'f on de log, right in front
      er de saw, a-hollerin' en cryin' ter her Sandy ter fergib her, en not ter
      think hard er her, fer it wa'n't no fault er hern. Den Tenie 'membered de
      tree didn' hab no years, en she wuz gittin' ready fer ter wuk her goopher
      mixtry so ez ter turn Sandy back, w'en de mill-hands kotch holt er her en
      tied her arms wid a rope, en fasten' her to one er de posts in de
      saw-mill; en den dey started de saw up ag'in, en cut de log up inter bo'ds
      en scantlin's right befo' her eyes. But it wuz mighty hard wuk; fer of all
      de sweekin', en moanin', en groanin', dat log done it w'iles de saw wuz
      a-cuttin' thoo it. De saw wuz one er dese yer ole-timey, up-en-down saws,
      en hit tuk longer dem days ter saw a log 'en it do now. Dey greased de
      saw, but dat didn' stop de fuss; hit kep' right on, tel finely dey got de
      log all sawed up.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en de oberseah w'at run de saw-mill come fum brekfas', de han's up en
      tell him 'bout de crazy 'ooman&mdash;ez dey s'posed she wuz&mdash;w'at had
      come runnin' in de saw-mill, a-hollerin' en gwine on, en tried ter th'ow
      herse'f befo' de saw. En de oberseah sent two er th'ee er de han's fer ter
      take Tenie back ter her marster's plantation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tenie 'peared ter be out'n her mine fer a long time, en her marster ha'
      ter lock her up in de smoke-'ouse tel she got ober her spells. Mars
      Marrabo wuz monst'us mad, en hit would a made yo' flesh crawl fer ter hear
      him cuss, caze he say de spekilater w'at he got Tenie fum had fooled 'im
      by wukkin' a crazy 'oman off on him. Wiles Tenie wuz lock up in de
      smoke-'ouse, Mars Marrabo tuk'n' haul de lumber fum de saw-mill, en put up
      his noo kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Tenie got quiet' down, so she could be 'lowed ter go 'roun' de
      plantation, she up'n tole her marster all erbout Sandy en de pine-tree; en
      w'en Mars Marrabo hearn it, he 'lowed she wuz de wuss 'stracted nigger he
      eber hearn of. He didn' know w'at ter do wid Tenie: fus' he thought he'd
      put her in de po'-house; but finely, seein' ez she didn' do no harm ter
      nobody ner nuffin', but des went roun' moanin', en groanin', en shakin'
      her head, he 'cluded ter let her stay on de plantation en nuss de little
      nigger chilluns w'en dey mammies wuz ter wuk in de cotton-fiel'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "De noo kitchen Mars Marrabo buil' wuzn' much use, fer it hadn' be'n put
      up long befo' de niggers 'mence' ter notice quare things erbout it. Dey
      could hear sump'n moanin' en groanin' 'bout de kitchen in de night-time,
      en w'en de win' would blow dey could hear sump'n a-hollerin' en sweekin'
      lack hit wuz in great pain en sufferin'. En hit got so atter a w'ile dat
      hit wuz all Mars Marrabo's wife could do ter git a 'ooman ter stay in de
      kitchen in de daytime long ernuff ter do de cookin'; en dey wa'n't naer
      nigger on de plantation w'at wouldn' rudder take forty dan ter go 'bout
      dat kitchen atter dark,&mdash;dat is, 'cep'n Tenie; she didn' pear ter
      mine de ha'nts. She useter slip 'roun' at night, en set on de kitchen
      steps, en lean up agin de do'-jamb, en run on ter herse'f wid some kine er
      foolishness w'at nobody couldn' make out; fer Mars Marrabo had th'eaten'
      ter sen' her off'n de plantation ef she say anything ter any er de yuther
      niggers 'bout de pine-tree. But somehow er nudder de niggers foun' out all
      'bout it, en dey knowed de kitchen wuz ha'anted by Sandy's sperrit. En
      bimeby hit got so Mars Marrabo's wife herse'f wuz skeered ter go out in de
      yard atter dark.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en it come ter dat, Mars Marrabo tuk 'n' to' de kitchen down, en use'
      de lumber fer ter buil' dat ole school-'ouse w'at youer talkin' 'bout
      pullin' down. De school-'ouse wuzn' use' 'cep'n' in de daytime, en on dark
      nights folks gwine 'long de road would hear quare soun's en see quare
      things. Po' ole Tenie useter go down dere at night, en wander 'roun' de
      school-'ouse; en de niggers all 'lowed she went fer ter talk wid Sandy's
      sperrit. En one winter mawnin', w'en one er de boys went ter school early
      fer ter start de fire, w'at should he fine but po' ole Tenie, layin' on de
      flo', stiff, en cole, en dead. Dere didn' 'pear ter be nuffin' pertickler
      de matter wid her,&mdash;she had des grieve' herse'f ter def fer her
      Sandy. Mars Marrabo didn' shed no tears. He thought Tenie wuz crazy, en
      dey wa'n't no tellin' w'at she mout do nex'; en dey ain' much room in dis
      worl' fer crazy w'ite folks, let 'lone a crazy nigger.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hit wa'n't long atter dat befo' Mars Marrabo sole a piece er his track er
      lan' ter Mars Dugal' McAdoo,&mdash;MY ole marster,&mdash;en dat's how de
      ole school-house happen to be on yo' place. W'en de wah broke out, de
      school stop', en de ole school-'ouse be'n stannin' empty ever sence,&mdash;dat
      is, 'cep'n' fer de ha'nts. En folks sez dat de ole school-'ouse, er any
      yuther house w'at got any er dat lumber in it w'at wuz sawed out'n de tree
      w'at Sandy wuz turnt inter, is gwine ter be ha'nted tel de las' piece er
      plank is rotted en crumble' inter dus'."
    </p>
    <p>
      Annie had listened to this gruesome narrative with strained attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What a system it was," she exclaimed, when Julius had finished, "under
      which such things were possible!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What things?" I asked, in amazement. "Are you seriously considering the
      possibility of a man's being turned into a tree?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, no," she replied quickly, "not that;" and then she added absently,
      and with a dim look in her fine eyes, "Poor Tenie!"
    </p>
    <p>
      We ordered the lumber, and returned home. That night, after we had gone to
      bed, and my wife had to all appearances been sound asleep for half an
      hour, she startled me out of an incipient doze by exclaiming suddenly,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "John, I don't believe I want my new kitchen built out of the lumber in
      that old school-house."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You wouldn't for a moment allow yourself," I replied, with some asperity,
      "to be influenced by that absurdly impossible yarn which Julius was
      spinning to-day?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know the story is absurd," she replied dreamily, "and I am not so silly
      as to believe it. But I don't think I should ever be able to take any
      pleasure in that kitchen if it were built out of that lumber. Besides, I
      think the kitchen would look better and last longer if the lumber were all
      new."
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course she had her way. I bought the new lumber, though not without
      grumbling. A week or two later I was called away from home on business. On
      my return, after an absence of several days, my wife remarked to me,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "John, there has been a split in the Sandy Run Colored Baptist Church, on
      the temperance question. About half the members have come out from the
      main body, and set up for themselves. Uncle Julius is one of the seceders,
      and he came to me yesterday and asked if they might not hold their
      meetings in the old school-house for the present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hope you didn't let the old rascal have it," I returned, with some
      warmth. I had just received a bill for the new lumber I had bought.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," she replied, "I could not refuse him the use of the house for so
      good a purpose."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I'll venture to say," I continued, "that you subscribed something
      toward the support of the new church?"
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not attempt to deny it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are they going to do about the ghost?" I asked, somewhat curious to
      know how Julius would get around this obstacle.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh," replied Annie, "Uncle Julius says that ghosts never disturb
      religious worship, but that if Sandy's spirit SHOULD happen to stray into
      meeting by mistake, no doubt the preaching would do it good."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      DAVE'S NECKLISS by Charles W. Chesnutt
    </h2>
    <p>
      "Have some dinner, Uncle Julius?" said my wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a Sunday afternoon in early autumn. Our two women-servants had gone
      to a camp-meeting some miles away, and would not return until evening. My
      wife had served the dinner, and we were just rising from the table, when
      Julius came up the lane, and, taking off his hat, seated himself on the
      piazza.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man glanced through the open door at the dinner-table, and his
      eyes rested lovingly upon a large sugar-cured ham, from which several
      slices had been cut, exposing a rich pink expanse that would have appealed
      strongly to the appetite of any hungry Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thanky, Miss Annie," he said, after a momentary hesitation, "I dunno ez I
      keers ef I does tas'e a piece er dat ham, ef yer'll cut me off a slice un
      it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," said Annie, "I won't. Just sit down to the table and help yourself;
      eat all you want, and don't be bashful."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julius drew a chair up to the table, while my wife and I went out on the
      piazza. Julius was in my employment; he took his meals with his own
      family, but when he happened to be about our house at meal-times, my wife
      never let him go away hungry.
    </p>
    <p>
      I threw myself into a hammock, from which I could see Julius through an
      open window. He ate with evident relish, devoting his attention chiefly to
      the ham, slice after slice of which disappeared in the spacious cavity of
      his mouth. At first the old man ate rapidly, but after the edge of his
      appetite had been taken off he proceeded in a more leisurely manner. When
      he had cut the sixth slice of ham (I kept count of them from a lazy
      curiosity to see how much he COULD eat) I saw him lay it on his plate; as
      he adjusted the knife and fork to cut it into smaller pieces, he paused,
      as if struck by a sudden thought, and a tear rolled down his rugged cheek
      and fell upon the slice of ham before him. But the emotion, whatever the
      thought that caused it, was transitory, and in a moment he continued his
      dinner. When he was through eating, he came out on the porch, and resumed
      his seat with the satisfied expression of countenance that usually follows
      a good dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Julius," I said, "you seemed to be affected by something, a moment ago.
      Was the mustard so strong that it moved you to tears?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, suh, it wa'n't de mustard; I wuz studyin' 'bout Dave."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who was Dave, and what about him?" I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conditions were all favorable to story-telling. There was an autumnal
      languor in the air, and a dreamy haze softened the dark green of the
      distant pines and the deep blue of the Southern sky. The generous meal he
      had made had put the old man in a very good humor. He was not always so,
      for his curiously undeveloped nature was subject to moods which were
      almost childish in their variableness. It was only now and then that we
      were able to study, through the medium of his recollection, the simple but
      intensely human inner life of slavery. His way of looking at the past
      seemed very strange to us; his view of certain sides of life was
      essentially different from ours. He never indulged in any regrets for the
      Arcadian joyousness and irresponsibility which was a somewhat popular
      conception of slavery; his had not been the lot of the petted
      house-servant, but that of the toiling field-hand. While he mentioned with
      a warm appreciation the acts of kindness which those in authority had
      shown to him and his people, he would speak of a cruel deed, not with the
      indignation of one accustomed to quick feeling and spontaneous expression,
      but with a furtive disapproval which suggested to us a doubt in his own
      mind as to whether he had a right to think or to feel, and presented to us
      the curious psychological spectacle of a mind enslaved long after the
      shackles had been struck off from the limbs of its possessor. Whether the
      sacred name of liberty ever set his soul aglow with a generous fire;
      whether he had more than the most elementary ideas of love, friendship,
      patriotism, religion,&mdash;things which are half, and the better half, of
      life to us; whether he even realized, except in a vague, uncertain way,
      his own degradation, I do not know. I fear not; and if not, then centuries
      of repression had borne their legitimate fruit. But in the simple human
      feeling, and still more in the undertone of sadness, which pervaded his
      stories, I thought I could see a spark which, fanned by favoring breezes
      and fed by the memories of the past, might become in his children's
      children a glowing flame of sensibility, alive to every thrill of human
      happiness or human woe.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave use' ter b'long ter my ole marster," said Julius; "he wuz raise' on
      dis yer plantation, en I kin 'member all erbout 'im, fer I wuz ole 'nuff
      ter chop cotton w'en it all happen'. Dave wuz a tall man, en monst'us
      strong: he could do mo' wuk in a day dan any yuther two niggers on de
      plantation. He wuz one er dese yer solemn kine er men, en nebber run on
      wid much foolishness, like de yuther darkies. He use' ter go out in de
      woods en pray; en w'en he hear de han's on de plantation cussin' en gwine
      on wid dere dancin' en foolishness, he use' ter tell 'em 'bout religion en
      jedgmen'-day, w'en dey would haf ter gin account fer eve'y idle word en
      all dey yuther sinful kyarin's-on.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave had l'arn' how ter read de Bible. Dey wuz a free nigger boy in de
      settlement w'at wuz monst'us smart, en could write en cipher, en wuz alluz
      readin' books er papers. En Dave had hi'ed dis free boy fer ter l'arn 'im
      how ter read. Hit wuz 'g'in de law, but co'se none er de niggers didn' say
      nuffin ter de w'ite folks 'bout it. Howsomedever, one day Mars Walker&mdash;he
      wuz de oberseah&mdash;foun' out Dave could read. Mars Walker wa'n't nuffin
      but a po' bockrah, en folks said he couldn' read ner write hisse'f, en
      co'se he didn' lack ter see a nigger w'at knowed mo' d'n he did; so he
      went en tole Mars Dugal'. Mars Dugal' sont fer Dave, en ax' 'im 'bout it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave didn't hardly knowed w'at ter do; but he couldn' tell no lie, so he
      'fessed he could read de Bible a little by spellin' out de words. Mars
      Dugal' look' mighty solemn.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Dis yer is a se'ious matter,' sezee; 'it's 'g'in de law ter l'arn
      niggers how ter read, er 'low 'em ter hab books. But w'at yer l'arn out'n
      dat Bible, Dave?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave wa'n't no fool, ef he wuz a nigger, en sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Marster, I l'arns dat it's a sin fer ter steal, er ter lie, er fer ter
      want w'at doan b'long ter yer; en I l'arns fer ter love de Lawd en ter
      'bey my marster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mars Dugal' sorter smile' en laf' ter hisse'f, like he 'uz might'ly
      tickle' 'bout sump'n, en sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Doan 'pear ter me lack readin' de Bible done yer much harm, Dave. Dat's
      w'at I wants all my niggers fer ter know. Yer keep right on readin', en
      tell de yuther han's w'at yer be'n tellin' me. How would yer lack fer ter
      preach ter de niggers on Sunday?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave say he'd be glad fer ter do w'at he could. So Mars Dugal' tole de
      oberseah fer ter let Dave preach ter de niggers, en tell 'em w'at wuz in
      de Bible, en it would he'p ter keep 'em fum stealin' er runnin' erway.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So Dave 'mence' ter preach, en done de han's on de plantation a heap er
      good, en most un 'em lef' off dey wicked ways, en 'mence' ter love ter
      hear 'bout God, en religion, en de Bible; en dey done dey wuk better, en
      didn' gib de oberseah but mighty little trouble fer ter manage 'em.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave wuz one er dese yer men w'at didn' keer much fer de gals,&mdash;leastways
      he didn' tel Dilsey come ter de plantation. Dilsey wuz a monst'us peart,
      good-lookin', gingybread-colored gal,&mdash;one er dese yer high-steppin'
      gals w'at hol's dey heads up, en won' stan' no foolishness fum no man. She
      had b'long' ter a gemman over on Rockfish, w'at died, en whose 'state ha'
      ter be sol' fer ter pay his debts. En Mars Dugal' had b'en ter de oction,
      en w'en he seed dis gal a-cryin' en gwine on 'bout bein' sol' erway fum
      her ole mammy, Aun' Mahaly, Mars Dugal' bid 'em bofe in, en fotch 'em ober
      ter our plantation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "De young nigger men on de plantation wuz des wil' atter Dilsey, but it
      didn' do no good, en none un 'em couldn' git Dilsey fer dey junesey,<a
      href="#linknote-2" name="linknoteref-2" id="linknoteref-2"><small>2</small></a>
      'tel Dave 'mence' fer ter go roun' Aun' Mahaly's cabin. Dey wuz a
      fine-lookin' couple, Dave en Dilsey wuz, bofe tall, en well-shape', en
      soopl'. En dey sot a heap by one ernudder. Mars Dugal' seed 'em tergedder
      one Sunday, en de nex' time he seed Dave atter dat, sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave, w'en yer en Dilsey gits ready fer ter git married, I ain' got no
      rejections. Dey's a poun' er so er chawin'-terbacker up at de house, en I
      reckon yo' mist'iss kin fine a frock en a ribbin er two fer Dilsey. Youer
      bofe good niggers, en yer neenter be feared er bein' sol' 'way fum one
      ernudder long ez I owns dis plantation; en I 'spec's ter own it fer a long
      time yit.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-2" id="linknote-2">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      2 (<a href="#linknoteref-2">return</a>)<br /> [ Sweetheart.]
    </p>
    <p>
      "But dere wuz one man on de plantation w'at didn' lack ter see Dave en
      Dilsey tergedder ez much ez ole marster did. W'en Mars Dugal' went ter de
      sale whar he got Dilsey en Mahaly, he bought ernudder han', by de name er
      Wiley. Wiley wuz one er dese yer shiny-eyed, double-headed little niggers,
      sha'p ez a steel trap, en sly ez de fox w'at keep out'n it. Dis yer Wiley
      had be'n pesterin' Dilsey 'fo' she come ter our plantation, en had nigh
      'bout worried de life out'n her. She didn' keer nuffin fer 'im, but he
      pestered her so she ha' ter th'eaten ter tell her marster fer ter make
      Wiley let her 'lone. W'en he come ober to our place it wuz des ez bad,
      'tel bimeby Wiley seed dat Dilsey had got ter thinkin' a heap 'bout Dave,
      en den he sorter hilt off aw'ile, en purten' lack he gin Dilsey up. But he
      wuz one er dese yer 'ceitful niggers, en w'ile he wuz laffin' en jokin'
      wid de yuther han's 'bout Dave en Dilsey, he wuz settin' a trap fer ter
      ketch Dave en git Dilsey back fer hisse'f.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave en Dilsey made up dere min's fer ter git married long 'bout
      Christmas time, w'en dey'd hab mo' time fer a weddin'. But 'long 'bout two
      weeks befo' dat time ole mars 'mence' ter lose a heap er bacon. Eve'y
      night er so somebody 'ud steal a side er bacon, er a ham, er a shoulder,
      er sump'n, fum one er de smoke-'ouses. De smoke-'ouses wuz lock', but
      somebody had a key, en manage' ter git in some way er 'nudder. Dey's mo'
      ways 'n one ter skin a cat, en dey's mo' d'n one way ter git in a
      smoke-'ouse,&mdash;leastways dat's w'at I hearn say. Folks w'at had bacon
      fer ter sell didn' hab no trouble 'bout gittin' rid un it. Hit wuz 'g'in'
      de law fer ter buy things fum slabes; but Lawd! dat law didn' 'mount ter a
      hill er peas. Eve'y week er so one er dese yer big covered waggins would
      come 'long de road, peddlin' terbacker en w'iskey. Dey wuz a sight er room
      in one er dem big waggins, en it wuz monst'us easy fer ter swop off bacon
      fer sump'n ter chaw er ter wa'm yer up in de winter-time. I s'pose de
      peddlers didn' knowed dey wuz breakin' de law, caze de niggers alluz went
      at night, en stayed on de dark side er de waggin; en it wuz mighty hard
      fer ter tell W'AT kine er folks dey wuz.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Atter two er th'ee hund'ed er meat had be'n stole', Mars Walker call all
      de niggers up one ebenin', en tol' 'em dat de fus' nigger he cot stealin'
      bacon on dat plantation would git sump'n fer ter 'member it by long ez he
      lib'. En he say he'd gin fi' dollars ter de nigger w'at 'skiver' de rogue.
      Mars Walker say he s'picion' one er two er de niggers, but he couldn' tell
      fer sho, en co'se dey all 'nied it w'en he 'cuse em un it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dey wa'n't no bacon stole' fer a week er so, 'tel one dark night w'en
      somebody tuk a ham fum one er de smoke-'ouses. Mars Walker des cusst awful
      w'en he foun' out de ham wuz gone, en say he gwine ter sarch all de
      niggers' cabins; w'en dis yer Wiley I wuz tellin' yer 'bout up'n say he
      s'picion' who tuk de ham, fer he seed Dave comin' 'cross de plantation fum
      to'ds de smoke-'ouse de night befo'. W'en Mars Walker hearn dis fum Wiley,
      he went en sarch' Dave's cabin, en foun' de ham hid under de flo'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eve'ybody wuz 'stonish'; but dere wuz de ham. Co'se Dave 'nied it ter de
      las', but dere wuz de ham. Mars Walker say it wuz des ez he 'spected: he
      didn' b'lieve in dese yer readin' en prayin' niggers; it wuz all 'pocrisy,
      en sarve' Mars Dugal' right fer 'lowin' Dave ter be readin' books w'en it
      wuz 'g'in de law.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Mars Dugal' hearn 'bout de ham, he say he wuz might'ly 'ceived en
      disapp'inted in Dave. He say he wouldn' nebber hab no mo' conferdence in
      no nigger, en Mars Walker could do des ez he wuz a mineter wid Dave er any
      er de res' er de niggers. So Mars Walker tuk'n tied Dave up en gin 'im
      forty; en den he got some er dis yer wire clof w'at dey uses fer ter make
      sifters out'n, en tuk'n wrap' it roun' de ham en fasten it tergedder at de
      little een'. Den he tuk Dave down ter de blacksmif-shop, en had Unker
      Silas, de plantation black-smif, fasten a chain ter de ham, en den fasten
      de yuther een' er de chain roun' Dave's neck. En den he says ter Dave,
      sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Now, suh, yer'll wear dat neckliss fer de nex' six mont's; en I 'spec's
      yer ner none er de yuther niggers on dis plantation won' steal no mo'
      bacon dyoin' er dat time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, it des 'peared ez if fum dat time Dave didn' hab nuffin but
      trouble. De niggers all turnt ag'in' 'im, caze he be'n de 'casion er Mars
      Dugal' turnin' 'em all ober ter Mars Walker. Mars Dugal' wa'n't a bad
      marster hisse'f, but Mars Walker wuz hard ez a rock. Dave kep' on sayin'
      he didn' take de ham, but none un 'em didn' b'lieve 'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dilsey wa'n't on de plantation w'en Dave wuz 'cused er stealin' de bacon.
      Ole mist'iss had sont her ter town fer a week er so fer ter wait on one er
      her darters w'at had a young baby, en she didn' fine out nuffin 'bout
      Dave's trouble 'tel she got back ter de plantation. Dave had patien'ly
      endyoed de finger er scawn, en all de hard words w'at de niggers pile' on
      'im, caze he wuz sho' Dilsey would stan' by 'im, en wouldn' b'lieve he wuz
      a rogue, ner none er de yuther tales de darkies wuz tellin' 'bout 'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Dilsey come back fum town, en got down fum behine de buggy whar she
      be'n ridin' wid ole mars, de fus' nigger 'ooman she met says ter her,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Is yer seed Dave, Dilsey?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, I ain' seed Dave,' says Dilsey.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yer des oughter look at dat nigger; reckon yer wouldn' want 'im fer yo'
      junesey no mo'. Mars Walker cotch 'im stealin' bacon, en gone en fasten' a
      ham roun' his neck, so he can't git it off'n hisse'f. He sut'nly do look
      quare.' En den de 'ooman bus' out laffin' fit ter kill herse'f. W'en she
      got thoo laffin' she up'n tole Dilsey all 'bout de ham, en all de yuther
      lies w'at de niggers be'n tellin' on Dave.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Dilsey started down ter de quarters, who should she meet but Dave,
      comin' in fum de cotton-fiel'. She turnt her head ter one side, en purten'
      lack she didn' seed Dave.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Dilsey!' sezee.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dilsey walk' right on, en didn' notice 'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'OH, Dilsey!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dilsey didn' paid no 'tention ter 'im, en den Dave knowed some er de
      niggers be'n tellin' her 'bout de ham. He felt monst'us bad, but he 'lowed
      ef he could des git Dilsey fer ter listen ter 'im fer a minute er so, he
      could make her b'lieve he didn' stole de bacon. It wuz a week er two befo'
      he could git a chance ter speak ter her ag'in; but fine'ly he cotch her
      down by de spring one day, en sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Dilsey, w'at fer yer won' speak ter me, en purten' lack yer doan see me?
      Dilsey, yer knows me too well fer ter b'lieve I'd steal, er do dis yuther
      wick'ness de niggers is all layin' ter me,&mdash;yer KNOWS I wouldn' do
      dat, Dilsey. Yer ain' gwine back on yo' Dave, is yer?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "But w'at Dave say didn' hab no 'fec' on Dilsey. Dem lies folks b'en
      tellin' her had p'isen' her min' 'g'in' Dave.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I doan wanter talk ter no nigger,' says she, 'w'at be'n whip' fer
      stealin', en w'at gwine roun' wid sich a lookin' thing ez dat hung roun'
      his neck. I's a 'spectable gal, I is. W'at yer call dat, Dave? Is dat a
      cha'm fer ter keep off witches, er is it a noo kine er neckliss yer got?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Po' Dave didn' knowed w'at ter do. De las' one he had 'pended on fer ter
      stan' by 'im had gone back on 'im, en dey didn' 'pear ter be nuffin mo'
      wuf libbin' fer. He couldn' hol' no mo' pra'r-meetin's, fer Mars Walker
      wouldn' 'low 'im ter preach, en de darkies wouldn' 'a' listen' ter 'im ef
      he had preach'. He didn' eben hab his Bible fer ter comfort hisse'f wid,
      fer Mars Walker had tuk it erway fum 'im en burnt it up, en say ef he
      ketch any mo' niggers wid Bibles on de plantation he'd do 'em wuss'n he
      done Dave.
    </p>
    <p>
      "En ter make it still harder fer Dave, Dilsey tuk up wid Wiley. Dave could
      see him gwine up ter Aun' Mahaly's cabin, en settin' out on de bench in de
      moonlight wid Dilsey, en singin' sinful songs en playin' de banjer. Dave
      use' ter scrouch down behine de bushes, en wonder w'at de Lawd sen' 'im
      all dem tribberlations fer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But all er Dave's yuther troubles wa'n't nuffin side er dat ham. He had
      wrap' de chain roun' wid a rag, so it didn' hurt his neck; but w'eneber he
      went ter wuk, dat ham would be in his way; he had ter do his task,
      howsomedever, des de same ez ef he didn' hab de ham. W'eneber he went ter
      lay down, dat ham would be in de way. Ef he turn ober in his sleep, dat
      ham would be tuggin' at his neck. It wuz de las' thing he seed at night,
      en de fus' thing he seed in de mawnin'. W'eneber he met a stranger, de ham
      would be de fus' thing de stranger would see. Most un 'em would 'mence'
      ter laf, en whareber Dave went he could see folks p'intin' at him, en year
      'em sayin:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'W'at kine er collar dat nigger got roun' his neck?' er, ef dey knowed
      'im, 'Is yer stole any mo' hams lately?' er 'W'at yer take fer yo'
      neckliss, Dave?' er some joke er 'nuther 'bout dat ham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fus' Dave didn' mine it so much, caze he knowed he hadn' done nuffin. But
      bimeby he got so he couldn' stan' it no longer, en he'd hide hisse'f in de
      bushes w'eneber he seed anybody comin', en alluz kep' hisse'f shet up in
      his cabin atter he come in fum wuk.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It wuz monst'us hard on Dave, en bimeby, w'at wid dat ham eberlastin' en
      etarnally draggin' roun' his neck, he 'mence' fer ter do en say quare
      things, en make de niggers wonder ef he wa'n't gittin' out'n his mine. He
      got ter gwine roun' talkin' ter hisse'f, en singin' corn-shuckin' songs,
      en laffin' fit ter kill 'bout nuffin. En one day he tole one er de niggers
      he had 'skivered a noo way fer ter raise hams,&mdash;gwine ter pick 'em
      off'n trees, en save de expense er smoke-'ouses by kyoin' 'em in de sun.
      En one day he up'n tole Mars Walker he got sump'n pertickler fer ter say
      ter 'im; en he tuk Mars Walker off ter one side, en tole 'im he wuz gwine
      ter show 'im a place in de swamp whar dey wuz a whole trac' er lan'
      covered wid ham-trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Mars Walker hearn Dave talkin' dis kine er fool-talk, en w'en he
      seed how Dave wuz 'mencin' ter git behine in his wuk, en w'en he ax' de
      niggers en dey tole 'im how Dave be'n gwine on, he 'lowed he reckon' he'd
      punish' Dave ernuff, en it mou't do mo' harm dan good fer ter keep de ham
      on his neck any longer. So he sont Dave down ter de blacksmif-shop en had
      de ham tak off. Dey wa'n't much er de ham lef' by dat time, fer de sun had
      melt all de fat, en de lean had all swivel' up, so dey wa'n't but th'ee er
      fo' poun's lef'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en de ham had be'n tuk off'n Dave, folks kinder stopped talkin' 'bout
      'im so much. But de ham had be'n on his neck so long dat Dave had sorter
      got use' ter it. He look des lack he'd los' sump'n fer a day er so atter
      de ham wuz tuk off, en didn' 'pear ter know w'at ter do wid hisse'f; en
      fine'ly he up'n tuk'n tied a lightered-knot ter a string, en hid it under
      de flo' er his cabin, en w'en nobody wuzn' lookin' he'd take it out en
      hang it roun' his neck, en go off in de woods en holler en sing; en he
      allus tied it roun' his neck w'en he went ter sleep. Fac', it 'peared lack
      Dave done gone clean out'n his mine. En atter a w'ile he got one er de
      quarest notions you eber hearn tell un. It wuz 'bout dat time dat I come
      back ter de plantation fer ter wuk,&mdash;I had be'n out ter Mars Dugal's
      yuther place on Beaver Crick for a mont' er so. I had hearn 'bout Dave en
      de bacon, en 'bout w'at wuz gwine on on de plantation; but I didn' b'lieve
      w'at dey all say 'bout Dave, fer I knowed Dave wa'n't dat kine er man. One
      day atter I come back, me'n Dave wuz choppin' cotton tergedder, w'en Dave
      lean' on his hoe, en motion' fer me ter come ober close ter 'im; en den he
      retch' ober en w'ispered ter me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Julius', [sic] sezee, 'did yer knowed yer wuz wukkin' long yer wid a
      ham?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I couldn 'magine w'at he meant. 'G'way fum yer, Dave,' says I. 'Yer ain'
      wearin' no ham no mo'; try en fergit 'bout dat; 't ain' gwine ter do yer
      no good fer ter 'member it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look a-yer, Julius,' sezee, 'kin yer keep a secret?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Co'se I kin, Dave,' says I. 'I doan go roun' tellin' people w'at yuther
      folks says ter me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Kin I trus' yer, Julius? Will yer cross yo' heart?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cross' my heart. 'Wush I may die ef I tells a soul,' says I.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave look' at me des lack he wuz lookin' thoo me en 'way on de yuther
      side er me, en sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Did yer knowed I wuz turnin' ter a ham, Julius?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tried ter 'suade Dave dat dat wuz all foolishness, en dat he oughtn't
      ter be talkin' dat-a-way,&mdash;hit wa'n't right. En I tole 'im ef he'd
      des be patien', de time would sho'ly come w'en eve'ything would be
      straighten' out, en folks would fine out who de rale rogue wuz w'at stole
      de bacon. Dave 'peared ter listen ter w'at I say, en promise' ter do
      better, en stop gwine on dat-a-way; en it seem lack he pick' up a bit w'en
      he seed dey wuz one pusson didn' b'lieve dem tales 'bout 'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hit wa'n't long atter dat befo' Mars Archie McIntyre, ober on de
      Wimbleton road, 'mence' ter complain 'bout somebody stealin' chickens fum
      his hen-'ouse. De chickens kip' on gwine, en at las' Mars Archie tole de
      han's on his plantation dat he gwine ter shoot de fus' man he ketch in his
      hen-'ouse. In less'n a week atter he gin dis warnin', he cotch a nigger in
      de hen-'ouse, en fill' 'im full er squir'l-shot. W'en he got a light, he
      'skivered it wuz a strange nigger; en w'en he call' one er his own
      sarven's, de nigger tole 'im it wuz our Wiley. W'en Mars Archie foun' dat
      out, he sont ober ter our plantation fer ter tell Mars Dugal' he had shot
      one er his niggers, en dat he could sen' ober dere en git w'at wuz lef' un
      'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mars Dugal' wuz mad at fus'; but w'en he got ober dere en hearn how it
      all happen', he didn' hab much ter say. Wiley wuz shot so bad he wuz sho'
      he wuz gwine ter die, so he up'n says ter ole marster:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Mars Dugal',' sezee, 'I knows I's be'n a monst'us bad nigger, but befo'
      I go I wanter git sump'n off'n my mine. Dave didn' steal dat bacon w'at
      wuz tuk out'n de smoke-'ouse. I stole it all, en I hid de ham under Dave's
      cabin fer ter th'ow de blame on him&mdash;en may de good Lawd fergib me
      fer it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mars Dugal' had Wiley tuk back ter de plantation, en sont fer a doctor
      fer ter pick de shot out'n 'im. En de ve'y nex' mawnin' Mars Dugal' sont
      fer Dave ter come up ter de big house; he felt kinder sorry fer de way
      Dave had be'n treated. Co'se it wa'n't no fault er Mars Dugal's, but he
      wuz gwine ter do w'at he could fer ter make up fer it. So he sont word
      down ter de quarters fer Dave en all de yuther han's ter 'semble up in de
      yard befo' de big house at sun-up nex' mawnin'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yearly in de mawnin' de niggers all swarm' up in de yard. Mars Dugal' wuz
      feelin' so kine dat he had brung up a bairl er cider, en tole de niggers
      all fer ter he'p deyselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      "All dey han's on de plantation come but Dave; en bimeby, w'en it seem
      lack he wa'n't comin', Mars Dugal' sont a nigger down ter de quarters ter
      look fer 'im. De sun wuz gittin' up, en dey wuz a heap er wuk ter be done,
      en Mars Dugal' sorter got ti'ed waitin'; so he up'n says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well, boys en gals, I sont fer yer all up yer fer ter tell yer dat all
      dat 'bout Dave's stealin' er de bacon wuz a mistake, ez I s'pose yer all
      done hearn befo' now, en I's mighty sorry it happen'. I wants ter treat
      all my niggers right, en I wants yer all ter know dat I sets a heap by all
      er my han's w'at is hones' en smart. En I want yer all ter treat Dave des
      lack yer did befo' dis thing happen', en mine w'at he preach ter yer; fer
      Dave is a good nigger, en has had a hard row ter hoe. En de fus' one I
      ketch sayin' anythin' 'g'in Dave, I'll tell Mister Walker ter gin 'im
      forty. Now take ernudder drink er cider all roun', en den git at dat
      cotton, fer I wanter git dat Persimmon Hill trac' all pick' ober ter-day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en de niggers wuz gwine 'way, Mars Dugal' tole me fer ter go en hunt up
      Dave, en bring 'im up ter de house. I went down ter Dave's cabin, but
      couldn' fine 'im dere. Den I look' roun' de plantation, en in de aidge er
      de woods, en 'long de road; but I couldn' fine no sign er Dave. I wuz
      'bout ter gin up de sarch, w'en I happen' fer ter run 'cross a foot-track
      w'at look' lack Dave's. I had wukked 'long wid Dave so much dat I knowed
      his tracks: he had a monst'us long foot, wid a holler instep, w'ich wuz
      sump'n skase 'mongs' black folks. So I follered dat track 'cross de fiel'
      fum de quarters 'tel I got ter de smoke-'ouse. De fus' thing I notice' wuz
      smoke comin' out'n de cracks: it wuz cu'ous, caze dey hadn' be'n no hogs
      kill' on de plantation fer six mont' er so, en all de bacon in de
      smoke-'ouse wuz done kyoed. I couldn' 'magine fer ter sabe my life w'at
      Dave wuz doin' in dat smoke-'ouse. I went up ter de do' en hollered:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Dave!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dey didn' nobody answer. I didn' wanter open de do', fer w'ite folks is
      monst'us pertickler 'bout dey smoke-'ouses; en ef de oberseah had a-come
      up en cotch me in dere, he mou't not wanter b'lieve I wuz des lookin' fer
      Dave. So I sorter knock at de do' en call' out ag'in:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'O Dave, hit's me&mdash;Julius! Doan be skeered. Mars Dugal' wants yer
      ter come up ter de big house,&mdash;he done 'skivered who stole de ham.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "But Dave didn' answer. En w'en I look' roun' ag'in en didn' seed none er
      his tracks gwine way fum de smoke-'ouse, I knowed he wuz in dere yit, en I
      wuz 'termine' fer ter fetch 'im out; so I push de do' open en look in.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dey wuz a pile er bark burnin' in de middle er de flo', en right ober de
      fier, hangin' fum one er de rafters, wuz Dave; dey wuz a rope roun' his
      neck, en I didn' haf ter look at his face mo' d'n once fer ter see he wuz
      dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Den I knowed how it all happen'. Dave had kep' on gittin' wusser en
      wusser in his mine, 'tel he des got ter b'lievin' he wuz all done turnt
      ter a ham; en den he had gone en built a fier, en tied a rope roun' his
      neck, des lack de hams wuz tied, en had hung hisse'f up in de smoke-'ouse
      fer ter kyo.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dave wuz buried down by de swamp, in de plantation buryin'-groun'. Wiley
      didn' died fum de woun' he got in Mars McIntyre's hen-'ouse; he got well
      atter a w'ile, but Dilsey wouldn' hab nuffin mo' ter do wid 'im, en 't
      wa'n't long 'fo' Mars Dugal' sol' 'im ter a spekilater on his way souf,&mdash;he
      say he didn' want no sich a nigger on de plantation, ner in de county, ef
      he could he'p it. En w'en de een' er de year come, Mars Dugal' turnt Mars
      Walker off, en run de plantation hisse'f atter dat.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eber sence den," said Julius in conclusion, "w'eneber I eats ham, it
      min's me er Dave. I lacks ham, but I nebber kin eat mo' d'n two er th'ee
      poun's befo' I gits ter studyin' 'bout Dave, en den I has ter stop en leab
      de res' fer ernudder time."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a short silence after the old man had finished his story, and
      then my wife began to talk to him about the weather, on which subject he
      was an authority. I went into the house. When I came out, half an hour
      later, I saw Julius disappearing down the lane, with a basket on his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      At breakfast, next morning, it occurred to me that I should like a slice
      of ham. I said as much to my wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, no, John," she responded, "you shouldn't eat anything so heavy for
      breakfast."
    </p>
    <p>
      I insisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The fact is," she said, pensively, "I couldn't have eaten any more of
      that ham, and so I gave it to Julius."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE AWAKENING OF THE NEGRO by Booker T. Washington
    </h2>
    <p>
      When a mere boy, I saw a young colored man, who had spent several years in
      school, sitting in a common cabin in the South, studying a French grammar.
      I noted the poverty, the untidiness, the want of system and thrift, that
      existed about the cabin, notwithstanding his knowledge of French and other
      academic subjects. Another time, when riding on the outer edges of a town
      in the South, I heard the sound of a piano coming from a cabin of the same
      kind. Contriving some excuse, I entered, and began a conversation with the
      young colored woman who was playing, and who had recently returned from a
      boarding-school, where she had been studying instrumental music among
      other things. Despite the fact that her parents were living in a rented
      cabin, eating poorly cooked food, surrounded with poverty, and having
      almost none of the conveniences of life, she had persuaded them to rent a
      piano for four or five dollars per month. Many such instances as these, in
      connection with my own struggles, impressed upon me the importance of
      making a study of our needs as a race, and applying the remedy
      accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some one may be tempted to ask, Has not the negro boy or girl as good a
      right to study a French grammar and instrumental music as the white youth?
      I answer, Yes, but in the present condition of the negro race in this
      country there is need of something more. Perhaps I may be forgiven for the
      seeming egotism if I mention the expansion of my own life partly as an
      example of what I mean. My earliest recollection is of a small one-room
      log hut on a large slave plantation in Virginia. After the close of the
      war, while working in the coal-mines of West Virginia for the support of
      my mother, I heart in some accidental way of the Hampton Institute. When I
      learned that it was an institution where a black boy could study, could
      have a chance to work for his board, and at the same time be taught how to
      work and to realize the dignity of labor, I resolved to go there. Bidding
      my mother good-by, I started out one morning to find my way to Hampton,
      though I was almost penniless and had no definite idea where Hampton was.
      By walking, begging rides, and paying for a portion of the journey on the
      steam-cars, I finally succeeded in reaching the city of Richmond,
      Virginia. I was without money or friends. I slept under a sidewalk, and by
      working on a vessel next day I earned money to continue my way to the
      institute, where I arrived with a surplus of fifty cents. At Hampton I
      found the opportunity&mdash;in the way of buildings, teachers, and
      industries provided by the generous&mdash;to get training in the
      class-room and by practical touch with industrial life, to learn thrift,
      economy, and push. I was surrounded by an atmosphere of business,
      Christian influence, and a spirit of self-help that seemed to have
      awakened every faculty in me, and caused me for the first time to realize
      what it meant to be a man instead of a piece of property.
    </p>
    <p>
      While there I resolved that when I had finished the course of training I
      would go into the far South, into the Black Belt of the South, and give my
      life to providing the same kind of opportunity for self-reliance and
      self-awakening that I had found provided for me at Hampton. My work began
      at Tuskegee, Alabama, in 1881, in a small shanty and church, with one
      teacher and thirty students, without a dollar's worth of property. The
      spirit of work and of industrial thrift, with aid from the State and
      generosity from the North, has enabled us to develop an institution of
      eight hundred students gathered from nineteen States, with seventy-nine
      instructors, fourteen hundred acres of land, and thirty buildings,
      including large and small; in all, property valued at $280,000.
      Twenty-five industries have been organized, and the whole work is carried
      on at an annual cost of about $80,000 in cash; two fifths of the annual
      expense so far has gone into permanent plant.
    </p>
    <p>
      What is the object of all this outlay? First, it must be borne in mind
      that we have in the South a peculiar and unprecedented state of things. It
      is of the utmost importance that our energy be given to meeting conditions
      that exist right about us rather than conditions that existed centuries
      ago or that exist in countries a thousand miles away. What are the
      cardinal needs among the seven millions of colored people in the South,
      most of whom are to be found on the plantations? Roughly, these needs may
      be stated as food, clothing, shelter, education, proper habits, and a settlement
      of race relations. The seven millions of colored people of the South
      cannot be reached directly by any missionary agency, but they can be
      reached by sending out among them strong selected young men and women,
      with the proper training of head, hand, and heart, who will live among
      these masses and show them how to lift themselves up.
    </p>
    <p>
      The problem that the Tuskegee Institute keeps before itself constantly is
      how to prepare these leaders. From the outset, in connection with
      religious and academic training, it has emphasized industrial or hand
      training as a means of finding the way out of present conditions. First,
      we have found the industrial teaching useful in giving the student a
      chance to work out a portion of his expenses while in school. Second, the
      school furnishes labor that has an economic value, and at the same time
      gives the student a chance to acquire knowledge and skill while performing
      the labor. Most of all, we find the industrial system valuable in teaching
      economy, thrift, and the dignity of labor, and in giving moral backbone to
      students. The fact that a student goes out into the world conscious of his
      power to build a house or a wagon, or to make a harness, gives him a
      certain confidence and moral independence that he would not possess
      without such training.
    </p>
    <p>
      A more detailed example of our methods at Tuskegee may be of interest. For
      example, we cultivate by student labor six hundred and fifty acres of
      land. The object is not only to cultivate the land in a way to make it pay
      our boarding department, but at the same time to teach the students, in
      addition to the practical work, something of the chemistry of the soil,
      the best methods of drainage, dairying, the cultivation of fruit, the care
      of livestock and tools, and scores of other lessons needed by a people
      whose main dependence is on agriculture. Notwithstanding that eighty-five
      per cent of the colored people in the South live by agriculture in some
      form, aside from what has been done by Hampton, Tuskegee, and one or two
      other institutions practically nothing has been attempted in the direction
      of teaching them about the very industry from which the masses of our
      people must get their subsistence. Friends have recently provided means
      for the erection of a large new chapel at Tuskegee. Our students have made
      the bricks for this chapel. A large part of the timber is sawed by
      students at our own sawmill, the plans are drawn by our teacher of
      architecture and mechanical drawing, and students do the brick-masonry,
      plastering, painting, carpentry work, tinning, slating, and make most of
      the furniture. Practically, the whole chapel will be built and furnished
      by student labor; in the end the school will have the building for
      permanent use, and the students will have a knowledge of the trades
      employed in its construction. In this way all but three of the thirty
      buildings on the grounds have been erected. While the young men do the
      kinds of work I have mentioned, the young women to a large extent make,
      mend, and launder the clothing of the young men, and thus are taught
      important industries.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the objections sometimes urged against industrial education for the
      negro is that it aims merely to teach him to work on the same plan that he
      was made to follow when in slavery. This is far from being the object at
      Tuskegee. At the head of each of the twenty-five industrial departments we
      have an intelligent and competent instructor, just as we have in our
      history classes, so that the student is taught not only practical
      brick-masonry, for example, but also the underlying principles of that
      industry, the mathematics and the mechanical and architectural drawing. Or
      he is taught how to become master of the forces of nature so that, instead
      of cultivating corn in the old way, he can use a corn cultivator, that
      lays off the furrows, drops the corn into them, and covers it, and in this
      way he can do more work than three men by the old process of
      corn-planting; at the same time much of the toil is eliminated and labor
      is dignified. In a word, the constant aim is to show the student how to
      put brains into every process of labor; how to bring his knowledge of
      mathematics and the sciences into farming, carpentry, forging, foundry
      work; how to dispense as soon as possible with the old form of ante-bellum
      labor. In the erection of the chapel just referred to, instead of letting
      the money which was given us go into outside hands, we make it accomplish
      three objects: first, it provides the chapel; second, it gives the
      students a chance to get a practical knowledge of the trades connected
      with building; and third, it enables them to earn something toward the
      payment of board while receiving academic and industrial training.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having been fortified at Tuskegee by education of mind, skill of hand,
      Christian character, ideas of thrift, economy, and push, and a spirit of
      independence, the student is sent out to become a centre of influence and
      light in showing the masses of our people in the Black Belt of the South
      how to lift themselves up. How can this be done? I give but one or two
      examples. Ten years ago a young colored man came to the institute from one
      of the large plantation districts; he studied in the class-room a portion
      of the time, and received practical and theoretical training on the farm
      the remainder of the time. Having finished his course at Tuskegee, he
      returned to his plantation home, which was in a county where the colored
      people outnumber the whites six to one, as is true of many of the counties
      in the Black Belt of the South. He found the negroes in debt. Ever since
      the war they had been mortgaging their crops for the food on which to live
      while the crops were growing. The majority of them were living from hand
      to mouth on rented land, in small, one-room log cabins, and attempting to
      pay a rate of interest on their advances that ranged from fifteen to forty
      per cent per annum. The school had been taught in a wreck of a log cabin,
      with no apparatus, and had never been in session longer than three months
      out of twelve. With as many as eight or ten persons of all ages and
      conditions and of both sexes huddled together in one cabin year after
      year, and with a minister whose only aim was to work upon the emotions of
      the people, one can imagine something of the moral and religious state of
      the community.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the remedy. In spite of the evil, the negro got the habit of work from
      slavery. The rank and file of the race, especially those on the Southern
      plantations, work hard, but the trouble is, what they earn gets away from
      them in high rents, crop mortgages, whiskey, snuff, cheap jewelry, and the
      like. The young man just referred to had been trained at Tuskegee, as most
      of our graduates are, to meet just this condition of things. He took the
      three months' public school as a nucleus for his work. Then he organized
      the older people into a club, or conference, that held meetings every
      week. In these meetings he taught the people in a plain, simple manner how
      to save their money, how to farm in a better way, how to sacrifice,&mdash;to
      live on bread and potatoes, if need be, till they could get out of debt,
      and begin the buying of lands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon a large proportion of the people were in condition to make contracts
      for the buying of homes (land is very cheap in the South), and to live
      without mortgaging their crops. Not only this: under the guidance and
      leadership of this teacher, the first year that he was among them they
      learned how, by contributions in money and labor, to build a neat,
      comfortable schoolhouse that replaced the wreck of a log cabin formerly
      used. The following year the weekly meetings were continued, and two
      months were added to the original three months of school. The next year
      two more months were added. The improvement has gone on, until now these
      people have every year an eight months' school.
    </p>
    <p>
      I wish my readers could have the chance that I have had of going into this
      community. I wish they could look into the faces of the people and see
      them beaming with hope and delight. I wish they could see the two or three
      room cottages that have taken the place of the usual one-room cabin, the
      well-cultivated farms, and the religious life of the people that now means
      something more than the name. The teacher has a good cottage and a
      well-kept farm that serve as models. In a word, a complete revolution has
      been wrought in the industrial, educational, and religious life of this
      whole community by reason of the fact that they have had this leader, this
      guide and object-lesson, to show them how to take the money and effort
      that had hitherto been scattered to the wind in mortgages and high rents,
      in whiskey and gewgaws, and concentrate them in the direction of their own
      uplifting. One community on its feet presents an object-lesson for the
      adjoining communities, and soon improvements show themselves in other
      places.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another student who received academic and industrial training at Tuskegee
      established himself, three years ago, as a blacksmith and wheelwright in a
      community, and, in addition to the influence of his successful business
      enterprise, he is fast making the same kind of changes in the life of the
      people about him that I have just recounted. It would be easy for me to
      fill many pages describing the influence of the Tuskegee graduates in
      every part of the South. We keep it constantly in the minds of our
      students and graduates that the industrial or material condition of the
      masses of our people must be improved, as well as the intellectual, before
      there can be any permanent change in their moral and religious life. We
      find it a pretty hard thing to make a good Christian of a hungry man. No
      matter how much our people "get happy" and "shout" in church, if they go
      home at night from church hungry, they are tempted to find something
      before morning. This is a principle of human nature, and is not confined
      to the negro.
    </p>
    <p>
      The negro has within him immense power for self-uplifting, but for years
      it will be necessary to guide and stimulate him. The recognition of this
      power led us to organize, five years ago, what is now known as the
      Tuskegee Negro Conference,&mdash;a gathering that meets every February,
      and is composed of about eight hundred representative colored men and
      women from all sections of the Black Belt. They come in ox-carts,
      mule-carts, buggies, on muleback and horseback, on foot, by railroad: some
      traveling all night in order to be present. The matters considered at the
      conferences are those that the colored people have it within their own
      power to control: such as the evils of the mortgage system, the one-room
      cabin, buying on credit, the importance of owning a home and of putting
      money in the bank, how to build schoolhouses and prolong the school term,
      and how to improve their moral and religious condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a single example of the results, one delegate reported that since the
      conferences were started five years ago eleven people in his neighborhood
      had bought homes, fourteen had got out of debt, and a number had stopped
      mortgaging their crops. Moreover, a schoolhouse had been built by the
      people themselves, and the school term had been extended from three to six
      months; and with a look of triumph he exclaimed, "We is done stopped
      libin' in de ashes!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides this Negro Conference for the masses of the people, we now have a
      gathering at the same time known as the Workers' Conference, composed of
      the officers and instructors in the leading colored schools of the South.
      After listening to the story of the conditions and needs from the people
      themselves, the Workers' Conference finds much food for thought and
      discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing else so soon brings about right relations between the two races in
      the South as the industrial progress of the negro. Friction between the
      races will pass away in proportion as the black man, by reason of his
      skill, intelligence, and character, can produce something that the white
      man wants or respects in the commercial world. This is another reason why
      at Tuskegee we push the industrial training. We find that as every year we
      put into a Southern community colored men who can start a brick-yard, a
      sawmill, a tin-shop, or a printing-office,&mdash;men who produce something
      that makes the white man partly dependent upon the negro, instead of all
      the dependence being on the other side,&mdash;a change takes place in the
      relations of the races.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let us go on for a few more years knitting our business and industrial
      relations into those of the white man, till a black man gets a mortgage on
      a white man's house that he can foreclose at will. The white man on whose
      house the mortgage rests will not try to prevent that negro from voting
      when he goes to the polls. It is through the dairy farm, the truck garden,
      the trades, and commercial life, largely, that the negro is to find his
      way to the enjoyment of all his rights. Whether he will or not, a white
      man respects a negro who owns a two-story brick house.
    </p>
    <p>
      What is the permanent value of the Tuskegee system of training to the
      South in a broader sense? In connection with this, it is well to bear in
      mind that slavery taught the white man that labor with the hands was
      something fit for the negro only, and something for the white man to come
      into contact with just as little as possible. It is true that there was a
      large class of poor white people who labored with the hands, but they did
      it because they were not able to secure negroes to work for them; and
      these poor whites were constantly trying to imitate the slave-holding
      class in escaping labor, and they too regarded it as anything but
      elevating. The negro in turn looked down upon the poor whites with a
      certain contempt because they had to work. The negro, it is to be borne in
      mind, worked under constant protest, because he felt that his labor was
      being unjustly required, and he spent almost as much effort in planning
      how to escape work as in learning how to work. Labor with him was a badge
      of degradation. The white man was held up before him as the highest type
      of civilization, but the negro noted that this highest type of
      civilization himself did no labor; hence he argued that the less work he
      did, the more nearly he would be like a white man. Then, in addition to
      these influences, the slave system discouraged labor-saving machinery. To
      use labor-saving machinery intelligence was required, and intelligence and
      slavery were not on friendly terms; hence the negro always associated
      labor with toil, drudgery, something to be escaped. When the negro first
      became free, his idea of education was that it was something that would
      soon put him in the same position as regards work that his recent master
      had occupied. Out of these conditions grew the Southern habit of putting
      off till to-morrow and the day after the duty that should be done promptly
      to-day. The leaky house was not repaired while the sun shone, for then the
      rain did not come through. While the rain was falling, no one cared to
      expose himself to stop the leak. The plough, on the same principle, was
      left where the last furrow was run, to rot and rust in the field during
      the winter. There was no need to repair the wooden chimney that was
      exposed to the fire, because water could be thrown on it when it was on
      fire. There was no need to trouble about the payment of a debt to-day, for
      it could just as well be paid next week or next year. Besides these
      conditions, the whole South, at the close of the war, was without proper
      food, clothing, and shelter,&mdash;was in need of habits of thrift and
      economy and of something laid up for a rainy day.
    </p>
    <p>
      To me it seemed perfectly plain that here was a condition of things that
      could not be met by the ordinary process of education. At Tuskegee we
      became convinced that the thing to do was to make a careful systematic
      study of the condition and needs of the South, especially the Black Belt,
      and to bend our efforts in the direction of meeting these needs, whether
      we were following a well-beaten track, or were hewing out a new path to
      meet conditions probably without a parallel in the world. After fourteen
      years of experience and observation, what is the result? Gradually but
      surely, we find that all through the South the disposition to look upon
      labor as a disgrace is on the wane, and the parents who themselves sought
      to escape work are so anxious to give their children training in
      intelligent labor that every institution which gives training in the
      handicrafts is crowded, and many (among them Tuskegee) have to refuse
      admission to hundreds of applicants. The influence of the Tuskegee system
      is shown again by the fact that almost every little school at the remotest
      cross-roads is anxious to be known as an industrial school, or, as some of
      the colored people call it, an "industrus" school.
    </p>
    <p>
      The social lines that were once sharply drawn between those who labored
      with the hand and those who did not are disappearing. Those who formerly
      sought to escape labor, now when they see that brains and skill rob labor
      of the toil and drudgery once associated with it, instead of trying to
      avoid it are willing to pay to be taught how to engage in it. The South is
      beginning to see labor raised up, dignified and beautified, and in this
      sees its salvation. In proportion as the love of labor grows, the large
      idle class which has long been one of the curses of the South disappears.
      As its members become absorbed in occupations, they have less time to
      attend to everybody else's business, and more time for their own.
    </p>
    <p>
      The South is still an undeveloped and unsettled country, and for the next
      half century and more the greater part of the energy of the masses will be
      needed to develop its material opportunities. Any force that brings the
      rank and file of the people to a greater love of industry is therefore
      especially valuable. This result industrial education is surely bringing
      about. It stimulates production and increases trade,&mdash;trade between
      the races,&mdash;and in this new and engrossing relation both forget the
      past. The white man respects the vote of the colored man who does $10,000
      worth of business, and the more business the colored man has, the more
      careful he is how he votes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Immediately after the war, there was a large class of Southern people who
      feared that the opening of the free schools to the freedmen and the poor
      whites&mdash;the education of the head alone&mdash;would result merely in
      increasing the class who sought to escape labor, and that the South would
      soon be overrun by the idle and vicious. But as the results of industrial
      combined with academic training begin to show themselves in hundreds of
      communities that have been lifted up through the medium of the Tuskegee
      system, these former prejudices against education are being removed. Many
      of those who a few years ago opposed general education are now among its
      warmest advocates.
    </p>
    <p>
      This industrial training, emphasizing as it does the idea of economic
      production, is gradually bringing the South to the point where it is
      feeding itself. Before the war, and long after it, the South made what
      little profit was received from the cotton crop, and sent its earnings out
      of the South to purchase food supplies,&mdash;meat, bread, canned
      vegetables, and the like; but the improved methods of agriculture are fast
      changing this habit. With the newer methods of labor, which teach
      promptness and system, and emphasize the worth of the beautiful,&mdash;the
      moral value of the well-painted house, and the fence with every paling and
      nail in its place,&mdash;we are bringing to bear upon the South an
      influence that is making it a new country in industry, education, and
      religion.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      THE STORY OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN by Charles Dudley Warner
    </h2>
    <p>
      On the 29th of June, 1852, Henry Clay died. In that month the two great
      political parties, in their national conventions, had accepted as a
      finality all the compromise measures of 1850, and the last hours of the
      Kentucky statesman were brightened by the thought that his efforts had
      secured the perpetuity of the Union.
    </p>
    <p>
      But on the 20th of March, 1852, there had been an event, the significance
      of which was not taken into account by the political conventions or by
      Clay, which was to test the conscience of the nation. This was the
      publication of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Was this only an "event," the advent of
      a new force in politics; was the book merely an abolition pamphlet, or was
      it a novel, one of the few great masterpieces of fiction that the world
      has produced? After the lapse of forty-four years and the disappearance of
      African slavery on this continent, it is perhaps possible to consider this
      question dispassionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      The compromise of 1850 satisfied neither the North nor the South. The
      admission of California as a free State was regarded by Calhoun as fatal
      to the balance between the free and the slave States, and thereafter a
      fierce agitation sprang up for the recovery of this loss of balance, and
      ultimately for Southern preponderance, which resulted in the repeal of the
      Missouri Compromise, the Kansas-Nebraska war, and the civil war. The
      fugitive slave law was hateful to the North not only because it was cruel
      and degrading, but because it was seen to be a move formed for
      nationalizing slavery. It was unsatisfactory to the South because it was
      deemed inadequate in its provisions, and because the South did not believe
      the North would execute it in good faith. So unstable did the compromise
      seem that in less than a year after the passage of all its measures, Henry
      Clay and forty-four Senators and Representatives united in a manifesto
      declaring that they would support no man for office who was not known to
      be opposed to any disturbance of the settlements of the compromise. When,
      in February, 1851, the recaptured fugitive slave, Burns, was rescued from
      the United States officers in Boston, Clay urged the investment of the
      President with extraordinary power to enforce the law.
    </p>
    <p>
      Henry Clay was a patriot, a typical American. The republic and its
      preservation were the passions of his life. Like Lincoln, who was born in
      the State of his adoption, he was willing to make almost any sacrifice for
      the maintenance of the Union. He had no sympathy with the system of
      slavery. There is no doubt that he would have been happy in the belief
      that it was in the way of gradual and peaceful extinction. With him, it
      was always the Union before state rights and before slavery. Unlike
      Lincoln, he had not the clear vision to see that the republic could not
      endure half slave and half free. He believed that the South, appealing to
      the compromises of the Constitution, would sacrifice the Union before it
      would give up slavery, and in fear of this menace he begged the North to
      conquer its prejudices. We are not liable to overrate his influence as a
      compromising pacificator from 1832 to 1852. History will no doubt say that
      it was largely due to him that the war on the Union was postponed to a
      date when its success was impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the fugitive slave law that brought the North face to face with
      slavery nationalized, and it was the fugitive slave law that produced
      Uncle Tom's Cabin. The effect of this story was immediate and electric. It
      went straight to the hearts of tens of thousands of people who had never
      before considered slavery except as a political institution for which they
      had no personal responsibility. What was this book, and how did it happen
      to produce such an effect? It is true that it struck into a time of great
      irritation and agitation, but in one sense there was nothing new in it.
      The facts had all been published. For twenty years abolition tracts,
      pamphlets, newspapers, and books had left little to be revealed, to those
      who cared to read, as to the nature of slavery or its economic aspects.
      The evidence was practically all in,&mdash;supplied largely by the
      advertisements of Southern newspapers and by the legislation of the
      slaveholding States,&mdash;but it did not carry conviction; that is, the
      sort of conviction that results in action. The subject had to be carried
      home to the conscience. Pamphleteering, convention-holding, sermons, had
      failed to do this. Even the degrading requirements of the fugitive slave
      law, which brought shame and humiliation, had not sufficed to fuse the
      public conscience, emphasize the necessity of obedience to the moral law,
      and compel recognition of the responsibility of the North for slavery.
      Evidence had not done this, passionate appeals had not done it,
      vituperation had not done it. What sort of presentation of the case would
      gain the public ear and go to the heart? If Mrs. Stowe, in all her fervor,
      had put forth first the facts in The Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin, which so
      buttressed her romance, the book would have had no more effect than had
      followed the like compilations and arraignments. What was needed? If we
      can discover this, we shall have the secret of this epoch-making novel.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story of this book has often been told. It is in the nature of a
      dramatic incident of which the reader never tires any more than the son of
      Massachusetts does of the minutest details of that famous scene in the
      Senate Chamber when Webster replied to Hayne.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the age of twenty-four the author was married and went to live in
      Cincinnati, where her husband held a chair in the Lane Theological
      Seminary. There for the first time she was brought into relations with the
      African race and saw the effects of slavery. She visited slaveholders in
      Kentucky and had friends among them. In some homes she saw the
      "patriarchal" institution at its best. The Beecher family were
      anti-slavery, but they had not been identified with the abolitionists,
      except perhaps Edward, who was associated with the murdered Lovejoy. It
      was long a reproach brought by the abolitionists against Henry Ward
      Beecher that he held entirely aloof from their movement. At Cincinnati,
      however, the personal aspects of the case were brought home to Mrs. Stowe.
      She learned the capacities and peculiarities of the negro race. They were
      her servants; she taught some of them; hunted fugitives applied to her;
      she ransomed some by her own efforts; every day there came to her
      knowledge stories of the hunger for freedom, of the ruthless separation of
      man and wife and mother and child, and of the heroic sufferings of those
      who ran away from the fearful doom of those "sold down South." These
      things crowded upon her mind and awoke her deepest compassion. But what
      could she do against all the laws, the political and commercial interests,
      the great public apathy? Relieve a case here and there, yes. But to dwell
      upon the gigantic evil, with no means of making head against it, was to
      invite insanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      As late as 1850, when Professor Stowe was called to Bowdoin College, and
      the family removed to Brunswick, Maine, Mrs. Stowe had not felt impelled
      to the duty she afterwards undertook. "In fact, it was a sort of general
      impression upon her mind, as upon that of many humane people in those
      days, that the subject was so dark and painful a one, so involved in
      difficulty and obscurity, so utterly beyond human hope or help, that it
      was of no use to read, or think, or distress one's self about it." But
      when she reached New England the excitement over the fugitive slave law
      was at its height. There was a panic in Boston among the colored people
      settled there, who were daily fleeing to Canada. Every mail brought her
      pitiful letters from Boston, from Illinois, and elsewhere, of the terror
      and despair caused by the law. Still more was the impressed by the apathy
      of the Christian world at the North, and surely, she said, the people did
      not understand what the "system" was. Appeals were made to her, who had
      some personal knowledge of the subject, to take up her pen. The task
      seemed beyond her in every way. She was not strong, she was in the midst
      of heavy domestic cares, with a young infant, with pupils to whom she was
      giving daily lessons, and the limited income of the family required the
      strictest economy. The dependence was upon the small salary of Professor
      Stowe, and the few dollars she could earn by an occasional newspaper or
      magazine article. But the theme burned in her mind, and finally took this
      shape: at least she would write some sketches and show the Christian world
      what slavery really was, and what the system was that they were defending.
      She wanted to do this with entire fairness, showing all the mitigations of
      the "patriarchal" system, and all that individuals concerned in it could
      do to alleviate its misery. While pondering this she came by chance, in a
      volume of an anti-slavery magazine, upon the authenticated account of the
      escape of a woman with her child on the ice across the Ohio River from
      Kentucky. She began to meditate. The faithful slave husband in Kentucky,
      who had refused to escape from a master who trusted him, when he was about
      to be sold "down river," came to her as a pattern of Uncle Tom, and the
      scenes of the story began to form themselves in her mind. "The first part
      of the book ever committed to writing [this is the statement of Mrs.
      Stowe] was the death of Uncle Tom. This scene presented itself almost as a
      tangible vision to her mind while sitting at the communion-table in the
      little church in Brunswick. She was perfectly overcome by it, and could
      scarcely restrain the convulsion of tears and sobbings that shook her
      frame. She hastened home and wrote it, and her husband being away, read it
      to her two sons of ten and twelve years of age. The little fellows broke
      out into convulsions of weeping, one of them saying through his sobs, 'Oh,
      mamma, slavery is the most cursed thing in the world!' From that time the
      story can less be said to have been composed by her than imposed upon her.
      Scenes, incidents, conversations rushed upon her with a vividness and
      importunity that would not be denied. The book insisted upon getting
      itself into being, and would take no denial."
    </p>
    <p>
      When two or three chapters were written she wrote to her friend, Dr.
      Bailey, of Washington, the editor of The National Era, to which she had
      contributed, that she was planning a story that might run through several
      numbers of the Era. The story was at once applied for, and thereafter
      weekly installments were sent on regularly, in spite of all cares and
      distractions. The installments were mostly written during the morning, on
      a little desk in a corner of the dining-room of the cottage in Brunswick,
      subject to all the interruptions of house-keeping, her children bursting
      into the room continually with the importunity of childhood. But they did
      not break the spell or destroy her abstraction. With a smile and a word
      and a motion of the hand she would wave them off, and keep on in her
      magician's work. Long afterwards they recalled this, dimly understood at
      the time, and wondered at her power of concentration. Usually at night the
      chapters were read to the family, who followed the story with intense
      feeling. The narrative ran on for nine months, exciting great interest
      among the limited readers of the Era, and gaining sympathetic words from
      the anti-slavery people, but without making any wide impression on the
      public.
    </p>
    <p>
      We may pause here in the narrative to note two things: the story was not
      the work of a novice, and it was written out of abundant experience and
      from an immense mass of accumulated thought and material. Mrs. Stowe was
      in her fortieth year. She had been using her pen since she was twelve
      years old, in extensive correspondence, in occasional essays, in short
      stories and sketches, some of which appeared in a volume called The
      Mayflower, published in 1843, and for many years her writing for
      newspapers and periodicals had added appreciably to the small family
      income. She was in the maturity of her intellectual powers, she was
      trained in the art of writing, and she had, as Walter Scott had when he
      began the Waverley Novels at the age of forty-three, abundant store of
      materials on which to draw. To be sure, she was on fire with a moral
      purpose, but she had the dramatic instinct, and she felt that her object
      would not be reached by writing an abolition tract.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In shaping her material the author had but one purpose, to show the
      institution of slavery truly, just as it existed. She had visited in
      Kentucky; had formed the acquaintance of people who were just, upright,
      and generous, and yet slave-holders. She had heard their views, and
      appreciated their situation; she felt that justice required that their
      difficulties should be recognized and their virtues acknowledged. It was
      her object to show that the evils of slavery were the inherent evils of a
      bad system, and not always the fault of those who had become involved in
      it and were its actual administrators. Then she was convinced that the
      presentation of slavery alone, in its most dreadful forms, would be a
      picture of such unrelieved horror and darkness as nobody could be induced
      to look at. Of set purpose, she sought to light up the darkness by
      humorous and grotesque episodes, and the presentation of the milder and
      more amusing phases of slavery, for which her recollection of the
      never-failing wit and drollery of her former colored friends in Ohio gave
      her abundant material."
    </p>
    <p>
      This is her own account of the process, years after. But it is evident
      that, whether consciously or unconsciously, she did but follow the
      inevitable law of all great dramatic creators and true story-tellers since
      literature began.
    </p>
    <p>
      For this story Mrs. Stowe received from the Era the sum of three hundred
      dollars. Before it was finished it attracted the attention of Mr. J. P.
      Jewett, of Boston, a young and then unknown publisher, who offered to
      issue it in book form. His offer was accepted, but as the tale ran on he
      became alarmed at its length, and wrote to the author that she was making
      the story too long for a one-volume novel; that the subject was unpopular;
      that people would not willingly hear much about it; that one short volume
      might possibly sell, but that if it grew to two that might prove a fatal
      obstacle to its success. Mrs. Stowe replied that she did not make the
      story, that the story made itself, and that she could not stop it till it
      was done. The publisher hesitated. It is said that a competent literary
      critic to whom he submitted it sat up all night with the novel, and then
      reported, "The story has life in it; it will sell." Mr. Jewett proposed to
      Professor Stowe to publish it on half profits if he would share the
      expenses. This offer was declined, for the Stowes had no money to advance,
      and the common royalty of ten per cent on the sales was accepted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Stowe was not interested in this business transaction. She was
      thinking only of having the book circulated for the effect she had at
      heart. The intense absorption in the story held her until the virtual end
      in the death of Uncle Tom, and then it seemed as if the whole vital force
      had left her. She sank into a profound discouragement. Would this appeal,
      which she had written with her heart's blood, go for nothing, as all the
      prayers and tears and strivings had already gone? When the last proof
      sheets left her hands, "it seemed to her that there was no hope; that
      nobody would read, nobody would pity; that this frightful system, which
      had already pursued its victims into the free States, might at last even
      threaten them in Canada." Resolved to leave nothing undone to attract
      attention to her cause, she wrote letters and ordered copies of her novel
      sent to men of prominence who had been known for their anti-slavery
      sympathies,&mdash;to Prince Albert, Macaulay, Charles Dickens, Charles
      Kingsley, and Lord Carlisle. Then she waited for the result.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had not long to wait. The success of the book was immediate. Three
      thousand copies were sold the first day, within a few days ten thousand
      copies had gone, on the 1st of April a second edition went to press, and
      thereafter eight presses running day and night were barely able to keep
      pace with the demand for it. Within a year three hundred thousand copies
      were sold. No work of fiction ever spread more quickly throughout the
      reading community or awakened a greater amount of public feeling. It was
      read by everybody, learned and unlearned, high and low, for it was an
      appeal to universal human sympathy, and the kindling of this spread the
      book like wildfire. At first it seemed to go by acclamation. But this was
      not altogether owing to sympathy with the theme. I believe that it was its
      power as a novel that carried it largely. The community was generally
      apathetic when it was not hostile to any real effort to be rid of slavery.
      This presently appeared. At first there were few dissenting voices from
      the chorus of praise. But when the effect of the book began to be evident
      it met with an opposition fiercer and more personal than the great wave of
      affectionate thankfulness which greeted it at first. The South and the
      defenders and apologists of slavery everywhere were up in arms. It was
      denounced in pulpit and in press, and some of the severest things were
      said of it at the North. The leading religious newspaper of the country,
      published in New York, declared that it was "anti-Christian."
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Stowe was twice astonished: first by its extraordinary sale, and
      second by the quarter from which the assault on it came. She herself says
      that her expectations were strikingly different from the facts. "She had
      painted slaveholders as amiable, generous, and just. She had shown
      examples among them of the noblest and most beautiful traits of character;
      had admitted fully their temptations, their perplexities, and their
      difficulties, so that a friend of hers who had many relatives in the South
      wrote to her: 'Your book is going to be the great pacificator; it will
      unite both North and South.' Her expectation was that the professed
      abolitionists would denounce it as altogether too mild in its dealings
      with slaveholders. To her astonishment, it was the extreme abolitionists
      who received, and the entire South who rose up against it."
    </p>
    <p>
      There is something almost amusing in Mrs. Stowe's honest expectation that
      the deadliest blow the system ever suffered should have been received
      thankfully by those whose traditions, education, and interests were all
      bound up in it. And yet from her point of view it was not altogether
      unreasonable. Her blackest villain and most loathsome agent of the system,
      Legree, was a native of Vermont. All her wrath falls upon the
      slave-traders, the auctioneers, the public whippers, and the overseers,
      and all these persons and classes were detested by the Southerners to the
      point of loathing, and were social outcasts. The slave-traders and the
      overseers were tolerated as perhaps necessary in the system, but they were
      never admitted into respectable society. This feeling Mrs. Stowe regarded
      as a condemnation of the system.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pecuniary reward was the last thing that Mrs. Stowe expected for her
      disinterested labor, but it suits the world's notion of the fitness of
      things that this was not altogether wanting. For the millions of copies of
      Uncle Tom scattered over the world the author could expect nothing, but in
      her own country her copyright yielded her a moderate return that lifted
      her out of poverty and enabled her to pursue her philanthropic and
      literary career. Four months after the publication of the book Professor
      Stowe was in the publisher's office, and Mr. Jewett asked him how much he
      expected to receive. "I hope," said Professor Stowe, with a whimsical
      smile, "that it will be enough to buy my wife a silk dress." The publisher
      handed him a check for ten thousand dollars.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Mrs. Stowe had a response to the letters accompanying the books
      privately sent to England, the novel was getting known there. Its career
      in Great Britain paralleled its success in America. In April a copy
      reached London in the hands of a gentleman who had taken it on the steamer
      to read. He gave it to Mr. Henry Vizetelly, who submitted it to Mr. David
      Bogue, a man known for his shrewdness and enterprise. He took a night to
      consider it, and then declined it, although it was offered to him for five
      pounds. A Mr. Gilpin also declined it. It was then submitted to Mr.
      Salisbury, a printer. This taster for the public sat up with the book till
      four o'clock in the morning, alternately weeping and laughing. Fearing,
      however, that this result was due to his own weakness, he woke up his
      wife, whom he describes as a rather strong-minded woman, and finding that
      the story kept her awake and made her also laugh and cry, he thought it
      might safely be printed. It seems, therefore, that Mr. Vizetelly ventured
      to risk five pounds, and the volume was brought out through the nominal
      agency of Clarke &amp; Company. In the first week an edition of seven
      thousand was worked off. It made no great stir until the middle of June,
      but during July it sold at the rate of one thousand a week. By the 20th of
      August the demand for it was overwhelming. The printing firm was then
      employing four hundred people in getting it out, and seventeen
      printing-machines, besides hand-presses. Already one hundred and fifty
      thousand copies were sold. Mr. Vizetelly disposed of his interest, and a
      new printing firm began to issue monster editions. About this time the
      publishers awoke to the fact that any one was at liberty to reprint the
      book, and the era of cheap literature was initiated, founded on American
      reprints which cost the publisher no royalty. A shilling edition followed
      the one-and-sixpence, and then one complete for sixpence. As to the total
      sale, Mr. Sampson Low reports: "From April to December, 1852, twelve
      different editions (not reissues) were published, and within the twelve
      months of its first appearance eighteen different London publishing houses
      were engaged in supplying the great demand that had set in, the total
      number of editions being forty, varying from fine illustrated editions at
      15s., 10s., and 7s. 6d. to the cheap popular editions of 1s. 9d. and 6d.
      After carefully analyzing these editions and weighing probabilities with
      ascertained facts, I am able pretty confidently to say that the aggregate
      number of copies circulated in Great Britain and the colonies exceeds one
      and a half millions." Later, abridgments were published.
    </p>
    <p>
      Almost simultaneously with this furor in England the book made its way on
      the Continent. Several translations appeared in Germany and France, and
      for the authorized French edition Mrs. Stowe wrote a new preface, which
      served thereafter for most of the European editions. I find no record of
      the order of the translations of the book into foreign languages, but
      those into some of the Oriental tongues did not appear till several years
      after the great excitement. The ascertained translations are into
      twenty-three tongues, namely: Arabic, Armenian, Chinese, Danish, Dutch,
      Finnish, Flemish, French, German, Hungarian, Illyrian, Italian, Japanese,
      Polish, Portuguese, modern Greek, Russian, Servian, Siamese, Spanish,
      Swedish, Wallachian, and Welsh. Into some of these languages several
      translations were made. In 1878 the British Museum contained thirty-five
      editions of the original text, and eight editions of abridgments or
      adaptations.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story was dramatized in the United States in August, 1852, without the
      consent or knowledge of the author, and was played most successfully in
      the leading cities, and subsequently was acted in every capital in Europe.
      Mrs. Stowe had neglected to secure the dramatic rights, and she derived no
      benefit from the great popularity of a drama which still holds the stage.
      From the phenomenal sale of a book which was literally read by the whole
      world, the author received only the ten per cent on the American editions,
      and by the laws of her own country her copyright expired before her death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The narrative of the rise and fortunes of this book would be incomplete
      without some reference to the response that the author received from
      England and the Continent, and of her triumphant progress through the
      British Isles. Her letters accompanying the special copies were almost
      immediately replied to, generally in terms of enthusiastic and fervent
      thankfulness for the book, and before midsummer her mail contained letters
      from all classes of English society. In some of them appeared a curious
      evidence of the English sensitiveness to criticism. Lord Carlisle and Sir
      Arthur Helps supplemented their admiration by a protest against the remark
      in the mouth of one of the characters that "slaves are better off than a
      large class of the population of England." This occurred in the defense of
      the institution by St. Clare, but it was treated by the British
      correspondents as the opinion of Mrs. Stowe. The charge was disposed of in
      Mrs. Stowe's reply: "The remark on that subject occurs in the dramatic
      part of the book, in the mouth of an intelligent Southerner. As a
      fair-minded person, bound to state for both sides all that could be said,
      in the person of St. Clare, the best that could be said on that point, and
      what I know IS in fact constantly reiterated, namely, that the laboring
      class of the South are in many respects, as to physical comfort, in a
      better condition than the poor in England. This is the slaveholder's
      stereo-typed apology; a defense it cannot be, unless two wrongs make one
      right."
    </p>
    <p>
      In April, 1853, Mr. and Mrs. Stowe and the latter's brother, Charles
      Beecher, sailed for Europe. Her reception there was like a royal progress.
      She was met everywhere by deputations and addresses, and the enthusiasm
      her presence called forth was thoroughly democratic, extending from the
      highest in rank to the lowest. At Edinburgh there was presented to her a
      national penny offering, consisting of a thousand golden sovereigns on a
      magnificent silver salver, an unsolicited contribution in small sums by
      the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a reception in Stafford House, London, the Duchess of Sutherland
      presented her with a massive gold bracelet, which has an interesting
      history. It is made of ten oval links in imitation of slave fetters. On
      two of the links were the inscriptions "March 25, 1807," the date of the
      abolition of the slave-trade, and "August 1, 1838," the date of the
      abolition of slavery in all British territory. The third inscription is
      "562,848&mdash;March 19, 1853," the date of the address of the women of
      England to the women of America on slavery, and the number of the women
      who signed. It was Mrs. Stowe's privilege to add to these inscriptions the
      following: "Emancipation D. C. Apl. 16, '62;" "President's Proclamation
      Jan. 1, '63;" "Maryland free Oct. 13, '64;" "Missouri free Jan. 11, '65;"
      and on the clasp link, "Constitution amended by Congress Jan. 31, '65.
      Constitutional Amendment ratified." Two of the links are vacant. What will
      the progress of civilization in America offer for the links nine and ten?
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the most remarkable documents which resulted from Uncle Tom was an
      address from the women of England to the women of America, acknowledging
      the complicity in slavery of England, but praying aid in removing from the
      world "our common crimes and common dishonor," which was presented to Mrs.
      Stowe in 1853. It was the result of a meeting at Stafford House, and the
      address, composed by Lord Shaftesbury, was put into the hands of
      canvassers in England and on the Continent, and as far as Jerusalem. The
      signatures of 562,848 women were obtained, with their occupations and
      residences, from the nobility on the steps of the throne down to maids in
      the kitchen. The address is handsomely engrossed on vellum. The names are
      contained in twenty-six massive volumes, each fourteen inches high by nine
      in breadth and three inches thick, inclosed in an oak case. It is believed
      that this is the most numerously signed address in existence. The value of
      the address, with so many names collected in haphazard fashion, was much
      questioned, but its use was apparent in the height of the civil war, when
      Mrs. Stowe replied to it in one of the most vigorous and noble appeals
      that ever came from her pen. This powerful reply made a profound
      impression in England.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is in brief the story of the book. It is still read, and read the
      world over, with tears and with laughter; it is still played to excited
      audiences. Is it a great novel, or was it only an event of an era of
      agitation and passion? Has it the real dramatic quality&mdash;the poet's
      visualizing of human life&mdash;that makes works of fiction, of
      imagination, live? Till recently, I had not read the book since 1852. I
      feared to renew acquaintance with it lest I should find only the shell of
      an exploded cartridge. I took it up at the beginning of a three-hours'
      railway journey. To my surprise the journey did not seem to last half an
      hour, and half the time I could not keep back the tears from my eyes. A
      London critic, full of sympathy with Mrs. Stowe and her work, recently
      said, "Yet she was not an artist, she was not a great woman." What is
      greatness? What is art? In 1862 probably no one who knew General Grant
      would have called him a great man. But he took Vicksburg. This woman did
      something with her pen,&mdash;on the whole, the most remarkable and
      effective book in her generation. How did she do it? Without art? George
      Sand said, "In matters of art there is but one rule, to paint and to move.
      And where shall we find conditions more complete, types more vivid,
      situations more touching, more original, than in Uncle Tom?" If there is
      not room in our art for such a book, I think we shall have to stretch our
      art a little. "Women, too, are here judged and painted with a master
      hand." This subtle critic, in her overpoweringly tender and enthusiastic
      review, had already inquired about the capacity of this writer. "Mrs.
      Stowe is all instinct; it is the very reason that she appears to some not
      to have talent. Has she not talent? What is talent? Nothing, doubtless,
      compared to genius; but has she genius? I cannot say that she has talent
      as one understands it in the world of letters, but she has genius as
      humanity feels the need of genius,&mdash;the genius of goodness, not that
      of the man of letters, but of the saint." It is admitted that Mrs. Stowe
      was not a woman of letters in the common acceptation of that term, and it
      is plain that in the French tribunal, where form is of the substance of
      the achievement, and which reluctantly overlooked the crudeness of Walter
      Scott, in France where the best English novel seems a violation of
      established canons, Uncle Tom would seem to belong where some modern
      critics place it, with works of the heart, and not of the head. The
      reviewer is, however, candid: "For a long time we have striven in France
      against the prolix explanations of Walter Scott. We have cried out against
      those of Balzac, but on consideration have perceived that the painter of
      manners and character has never done too much, that every stroke of the
      pencil was needed for the general effect. Let us learn then to appreciate
      all kinds of treatment, where the effect is good, and where they bear the
      seal of a master hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      It must be admitted to the art critic that the book is defective according
      to the rules of the modern French romance; that Mrs. Stowe was possessed
      by her subject, and let her fervid interest in it be felt; that she had a
      definite purpose. That purpose was to quicken the sense of responsibility
      of the North by showing the real character of slavery, and to touch the
      South by showing that the inevitable wrong of it lay in the system rather
      than in those involved in it. Abundant material was in her hands, and the
      author burned to make it serviceable. What should she do? She might have
      done what she did afterwards in The Key, presented to the public a mass of
      statistics, of legal documents. The evidence would have been unanswerable,
      but the jury might not have been moved by it; they would have balanced it
      by considerations of political and commercial expediency. I presume that
      Mrs. Stowe made no calculation of this kind. She felt her course, and went
      on in it. What would an artist have done, animated by her purpose and with
      her material? He would have done what Cervantes did, what Tourgenieff did,
      what Mrs. Stowe did. He would have dramatized his facts in living
      personalities, in effective scenes, in vivid pictures of life. Mrs. Stowe
      exhibited the system of slavery by a succession of dramatized pictures,
      not always artistically welded together, but always effective as an
      exhibition of the system. Cervantes also showed a fading feudal romantic
      condition by a series of amusing and pathetic adventures, grouped rather
      loosely about a singularly fascinating figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tourgenieff, a more consummate artist, in his hunting scenes exhibited the
      effect of serfdom upon society, in a series of scenes with no necessary
      central figure, without comment, and with absolute concealment of any
      motive. I believe the three writers followed their instincts, without an
      analytic argument as to the method, as the great painter follows his when
      he puts an idea upon canvas. He may invent a theory about it afterwards;
      if he does not, some one else will invent it for him. There are degrees of
      art. One painter will put in unnecessary accessories, another will exhibit
      his sympathy too openly, the technique or the composition of another can
      be criticised. But the question is, is the picture great and effective?
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Stowe had not Tourgenieff's artistic calmness. Her mind was fused
      into a white heat with her message. Yet, how did she begin her story? Like
      an artist, by a highly dramatized scene, in which the actors, by a few
      strokes of the pen, appear as distinct and unmistakable personalities,
      marked by individual peculiarities of manner, speech, motive, character,
      living persons in natural attitudes. The reader becomes interested in a
      shrewd study of human nature, of a section of life, with its various
      refinement, coarseness, fastidiousness and vulgarity, its humor and
      pathos. As he goes on he discovers that every character has been perfectly
      visualized, accurately limned from the first; that a type has been created
      which remains consistent, which is never deflected from its integrity by
      any exigencies of plot. This clear conception of character (not of
      earmarks and peculiarities adopted as labels), and faithful adhesion to it
      in all vicissitudes, is one of the rarest and highest attributes of
      genius. All the chief characters in the book follow this line of
      absolutely consistent development, from Uncle Tom and Legree down to the
      most aggravating and contemptible of all, Marie St. Clare. The selfish and
      hysterical woman has never been so faithfully depicted by any other
      author.
    </p>
    <p>
      Distinguished as the novel is by its character-drawing and its pathos, I
      doubt if it would have captivated the world without its humor. This is of
      the old-fashioned kind, the large humor of Scott, and again of Cervantes,
      not verbal pleasantry, not the felicities of Lamb, but the humor of
      character in action, of situations elaborated with great freedom, and with
      what may be called a hilarious conception. This quality is never wanting
      in the book, either for the reader's entertainment by the way, or to
      heighten the pathos of the narrative by contrast. The introduction of
      Topsy into the New Orleans household saves us in the dangerous approach to
      melodrama in the religious passages between Tom and St. Clare. Considering
      the opportunities of the subject, the book has very little melodrama; one
      is apt to hear low music on the entrance of little Eva, but we are
      convinced of the wholesome sanity of the sweet child. And it is to be
      remarked that some of the most exciting episodes, such as that of Eliza
      crossing the Ohio River on the floating ice (of which Mr. Ruskin did not
      approve), are based upon authentic occurrences. The want of unity in
      construction of which the critics complain is partially explained by the
      necessity of exhibiting the effect of slavery in its entirety. The
      parallel plots, one running to Louisiana and the other to Canada, are tied
      together by this consideration, and not by any real necessity to each
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no doubt that Mrs. Stowe was wholly possessed by her theme, rapt
      away like a prophet in a vision, and that, in her feeling at the time, it
      was written through her quite as much as by her. This idea grew upon her
      mind in the retrospective light of the tremendous stir the story made in
      the world, so that in her later years she came to regard herself as a
      providential instrument, and frankly to declare that she did not write the
      book; "God wrote it." In her own account, when she reached the death of
      Uncle Tom, "the whole vital force left her." The inspiration there left
      her, and the end of the story, the weaving together of all the loose ends
      of the plot, in the joining together almost by miracle the long separated,
      and the discovery of the relationships, is the conscious invention of the
      novelist.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be perhaps going beyond the province of the critic to remark upon
      what the author considered the central power of the story, and its power
      to move the world, the faith of Uncle Tom in the Bible. This appeal to the
      emotion of millions of readers cannot, however, be overlooked. Many regard
      the book as effective in regions remote from our perplexities by reason of
      this grace. When the work was translated into Siamese, the perusal of it
      by one of the ladies of the court induced her to liberate all her slaves,
      men, women, and children, one hundred and thirty in all. "Hidden Perfume,"
      for that was the English equivalent of her name, said she was wishful to
      be good like Harriet Beecher Stowe. And as to the standpoint of Uncle Tom
      and the Bible, nothing more significant can be cited than this passage
      from one of the latest writings of Heinrich Heine:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "The reawakening of my religious feelings I owe to that holy book the
      Bible. Astonishing that after I have whirled about all my life over all
      the dance-floors of philosophy, and yielded myself to all the orgies of
      the intellect, and paid my addresses to all possible systems, without
      satisfaction like Messalina after a licentious night, I now find myself on
      the same standpoint where poor Uncle Tom stands,&mdash;on that of the
      Bible! I kneel down by my black brother in the same prayer! What a
      humiliation! With all my science I have come no further than the poor
      ignorant negro who has scarce learned to spell. Poor Tom, indeed, seems to
      have seen deeper things in the holy book than I.... Tom, perhaps,
      understands them better than I, because more flogging occurs in them; that
      is to say, those ceaseless blows of the whip which have aesthetically
      disgusted me in reading the Gospels and the Acts. But a poor negro slave
      reads with his back, and understands better than we do. But I, who used to
      make citations from Homer, now begin to quote the Bible as Uncle Tom
      does."
    </p>
    <p>
      The one indispensable requisite of a great work of imaginative fiction is
      its universality, its conception and construction so that it will appeal
      to universal human nature in all races and situations and climates. Uncle
      Tom's Cabin does that. Considering certain artistic deficiencies, which
      the French writers perceived, we might say that it was the timeliness of
      its theme that gave it currency in England and America. But that argument
      falls before the world-wide interest in it as a mere story, in so many
      languages, by races unaffected by our own relation to slavery.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the opinion of James Russell Lowell that the anti-slavery element
      in Uncle Tom and Dred stood in the way of a full appreciation, at least in
      her own country, of the remarkable genius of Mrs. Stowe. Writing in 1859,
      he said, "From my habits and the tendency of my studies I cannot help
      looking at things purely from an aesthetic point of view, and what I
      valued in Uncle Tom was the genius, and not the moral." This had been his
      impression when he read the book in Paris, long after the whirl of
      excitement produced by its publication had subsided, and far removed by
      distance from local influences. Subsequently, in a review, he wrote, "We
      felt then, and we believe now, that the secret of Mrs. Stowe's power lay
      in that same genius by which the great successes in creative literature
      have always been achieved,&mdash;the genius that instinctively goes to the
      organic elements of human nature, whether under a white skin or a black,
      and which disregards as trivial the conventions and fictitious notions
      which make so large a part both of our thinking and feeling.... The
      creative faculty of Mrs. Stowe, like that of Cervantes in Don Quixote and
      of Fielding in Joseph Andrews, overpowered the narrow specialty of her
      design, and expanded a local and temporary theme with the cosmopolitanism
      of genius."
    </p>
    <p>
      A half-century is not much in the life of a people; it is in time an
      inadequate test of the staying power of a book. Nothing is more futile
      than prophecy on contemporary literary work. It is safe, however, to say
      that Uncle Tom's Cabin has the fundamental qualities, the sure insight
      into human nature, and the fidelity to the facts of its own time which
      have from age to age preserved works of genius.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      STRIVINGS OF THE NEGRO PEOPLE by W. E. Burghardt Du Bois
    </h2>
    <p>
      Berween me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked
      by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of
      rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it. They approach me
      in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and
      then, instead of saying directly, How does it feel to be a problem? they
      say, I know an excellent colored man in my town; or, I fought at
      Mechanicsville; or, Do not these Southern outrages make your blood boil?
      At these I smile, or am interested, or reduce the boiling to a simmer, as
      the occasion may require. To the real question, How does it feel to be a
      problem? I answer seldom a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet, being a problem is a strange experience,&mdash;peculiar even for
      one who has never been anything else, save perhaps in babyhood and in
      Europe. It is in the early days of rollicking boyhood that the revelation
      first bursts upon one, all in a day, as it were. I remember well when the
      shadow swept across me. I was a little thing, away up in the hills of New
      England, where the dark Housatonic winds between Hoosac and Taghanic to
      the sea. In a wee wooden schoolhouse, something put it into the boys' and
      girls' heads to buy gorgeous visiting-cards&mdash;ten cents a package&mdash;and
      exchange. The exchange was merry, till one girl, a tall newcomer, refused
      my card,&mdash;refused it peremptorily, with a glance. Then it dawned upon
      me with a certain suddenness that I was different from the others; or
      like, mayhap, in heart and life and longing, but shut out from their world
      by a vast veil. I had thereafter no desire to tear down that veil, to
      creep through; I held all beyond it in common contempt, and lived above it
      in a region of blue sky and great wandering shadows. That sky was bluest
      when I could beat my mates at examination-time, or beat them at a
      foot-race, or even beat their stringy heads. Alas, with the years all this
      fine contempt began to fade; for the world I longed for, and all its
      dazzling opportunities, were theirs, not mine. But they should not keep
      these prizes, I said; some, all, I would wrest from them. Just how I would
      do it I could never decide: by reading law, by healing the sick, by
      telling the wonderful tales that swam in my head,&mdash;some way. With
      other black boys the strife was not so fiercely sunny: their youth shrunk
      into tasteless sycophancy, or into silent hatred of the pale world about
      them and mocking distrust of everything white; or wasted itself in a
      bitter cry. Why did God make me an outcast and a stranger in mine own
      house? The "shades of the prison-house" closed round about us all: walls
      strait and stubborn to the whitest, but relentlessly narrow, tall, and
      unscalable to sons of night who must plod darkly on in resignation, or
      beat unavailing palms against the stone, or steadily, half hopelessly
      watch the streak of blue above.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and
      Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and
      gifted with second-sight in this American world,&mdash;a world which
      yields him no self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through
      the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this
      double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through
      the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that
      looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness,&mdash;an
      American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings;
      two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it
      from being torn asunder. The history of the American Negro is the history
      of this strife,&mdash;this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to
      merge his double self into a better and truer self. In this merging he
      wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. He does not wish to
      Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and
      Africa; he does not wish to bleach his Negro blood in a flood of white
      Americanism, for he believes&mdash;foolishly, perhaps, but fervently&mdash;that
      Negro blood has yet a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it
      possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American without being cursed
      and spit upon by his fellows, without losing the opportunity of
      self-development.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is the end of his striving: to be a co-worker in the kingdom of
      culture, to escape both death and isolation, and to husband and use his
      best powers. These powers, of body and of mind, have in the past been so
      wasted and dispersed as to lose all effectiveness, and to seem like
      absence of all power, like weakness. The double-aimed struggle of the
      black artisan, on the one hand to escape white contempt for a nation of
      mere hewers of wood and drawers of water, and on the other hand to plough
      and nail and dig for a poverty-stricken horde, could only result in making
      him a poor craftsman, for he had but half a heart in either cause. By the
      poverty and ignorance of his people the Negro lawyer or doctor was pushed
      toward quackery and demagogism, and by the criticism of the other world
      toward an elaborate preparation that overfitted him for his lowly tasks.
      The would-be black savant was confronted by the paradox that the knowledge
      his people needed was a twice-told tale to his white neighbors, while the
      knowledge which would teach the white world was Greek to his own flesh and
      blood. The innate love of harmony and beauty that set the ruder souls of
      his people a-dancing, a-singing, and a-laughing raised but confusion and
      doubt in the soul of the black artist; for the beauty revealed to him was
      the soul-beauty of a race which his larger audience despised, and he could
      not articulate the message of another people.
    </p>
    <p>
      This waste of double aims, this seeking to satisfy two unreconciled
      ideals, has wrought sad havoc with the courage and faith and deeds of
      eight thousand thousand people, has sent them often wooing false gods and
      invoking false means of salvation, and has even at times seemed destined
      to make them ashamed of themselves. In the days of bondage they thought to
      see in one divine event the end of all doubt and disappointment;
      eighteenth-century Rousseauism never worshiped freedom with half the
      unquestioning faith that the American Negro did for two centuries. To him
      slavery was, indeed, the sum of all villainies, the cause of all sorrow,
      the root of all prejudice; emancipation was the key to a promised land of
      sweeter beauty than ever stretched before the eyes of wearied Israelites.
      In his songs and exhortations swelled one refrain, liberty; in his tears
      and curses the god he implored had freedom in his right hand. At last it
      came,&mdash;suddenly, fearfully, like a dream. With one wild carnival of
      blood and passion came the message in his own plaintive cadences:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "Shout, O children!
      Shout, you're free!
     The Lord has bought your liberty!"
</pre>
    <p>
      Years have passed away, ten, twenty, thirty. Thirty years of national
      life, thirty years of renewal and development, and yet the swarthy ghost
      of Banquo sits in its old place at the national feast. In vain does the
      nation cry to its vastest problem,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The freedman has not yet found in freedom his promised land. Whatever of
      lesser good may have come in these years of change, the shadow of a deep
      disappointment rests upon the Negro people,&mdash;a disappointment all the
      more bitter because the unattained ideal was unbounded save by the simple
      ignorance of a lowly folk.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first decade was merely a prolongation of the vain search for freedom,
      the boom that seemed ever barely to elude their grasp,&mdash;like a
      tantalizing will-o'-the-wisp, maddening and misleading the headless host.
      The holocaust of war, the terrors of the Kuklux Klan, the lies of
      carpet-baggers, the disorganization of industry, and the contradictory
      advice of friends and foes left the bewildered serf with no new watchword
      beyond the old cry for freedom. As the decade closed, however, he began to
      grasp a new idea. The ideal of liberty demanded for its attainment
      powerful means, and these the Fifteenth Amendment gave him. The ballot,
      which before he had looked upon as a visible sign of freedom, he now
      regarded as the chief means of gaining and perfecting the liberty with
      which war had partially endowed him. And why not? Had not votes made war
      and emancipated millions? Had not votes enfranchised the freedmen? Was
      anything impossible to a power that had done all this? A million black men
      started with renewed zeal to vote themselves into the kingdom. The decade
      fled away,&mdash;a decade containing, to the freedman's mind, nothing but
      suppressed votes, stuffed ballot-boxes, and election outrages that
      nullified his vaunted right of suffrage. And yet that decade from 1875 to
      1885 held another powerful movement, the rise of another ideal to guide
      the unguided, another pillar of fire by night after a clouded day. It was
      the ideal of "book-learning;" the curiosity, born of compulsory ignorance,
      to know and test the power of the cabalistic letters of the white man, the
      longing to know. Mission and night schools began in the smoke of battle,
      ran the gauntlet of reconstruction, and at last developed into permanent
      foundations. Here at last seemed to have been discovered the mountain path
      to Canaan; longer than the highway of emancipation and law, steep and
      rugged, but straight, leading to heights high enough to overlook life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Up the new path the advance guard toiled, slowly, heavily, doggedly; only
      those who have watched and guided the faltering feet, the misty minds, the
      dull understandings of the dark pupils of these schools know how
      faithfully, how piteously, this people strove to learn. It was weary work.
      The cold statistician wrote down the inches of progress here and there,
      noted also where here and there a foot had slipped or some one had fallen.
      To the tired climbers, the horizon was ever dark, the mists were often
      cold, the Canaan was always dim and far away. If, however, the vistas
      disclosed as yet no goal, no resting-place, little but flattery and
      criticism, the journey at least gave leisure for reflection and
      self-examination; it changed the child of emancipation to the youth with
      dawning self-consciousness, self-realization, self-respect. In those
      sombre forests of his striving his own soul rose before him, and he saw
      himself,&mdash;darkly as through a veil; and yet he saw in himself some
      faint revelation of his power, of his mission. He began to have a dim
      feeling that, to attain his place in the world, he must be himself, and
      not another. For the first time he sought to analyze the burden he bore
      upon his back, that dead-weight of social degradation partially masked
      behind a half-named Negro problem. He felt his poverty; without a cent,
      without a home, without land, tools, or savings, he had entered into
      competition with rich, landed, skilled neighbors. To be a poor man is
      hard, but to be a poor race in a land of dollars is the very bottom of
      hardships. He felt the weight of his ignorance,&mdash;not simply of
      letters, but of life, of business, of the humanities; the accumulated
      sloth and shirking and awkwardness of decades and centuries shackled his
      hands and feet. Nor was his burden all poverty and ignorance. The red
      stain of bastardy, which two centuries of systematic legal defilement of
      Negro women had stamped upon his race, meant not only the loss of ancient
      African chastity, but also the hereditary weight of a mass of filth from
      white whoremongers and adulterers, threatening almost the obliteration of
      the Negro home.
    </p>
    <p>
      A people thus handicapped ought not to be asked to race with the world,
      but rather allowed to give all its time and thought to its own social
      problems. But alas! while sociologists gleefully count his bastards and
      his prostitutes, the very soul of the toiling, sweating black man is
      darkened by the shadow of a vast despair. Men call the shadow prejudice,
      and learnedly explain it as the natural defense of culture against
      barbarism, learning against ignorance, purity against crime, the "higher"
      against the "lower" races. To which the Negro cries Amen! and swears that
      to so much of this strange prejudice as is founded on just homage to
      civilization, culture, righteousness, and progress he humbly bows and
      meekly does obeisance. But before that nameless prejudice that leaps
      beyond all this he stands helpless, dismayed, and well-nigh speechless;
      before that personal disrespect and mockery, the ridicule and systematic
      humiliation, the distortion of fact and wanton license of fancy, the
      cynical ignoring of the better and boisterous welcoming of the worse, the
      all-pervading desire to inculcate disdain for everything black, from
      Toussaint to the devil,&mdash;before this there rises a sickening despair
      that would disarm and discourage any nation save that black host to whom
      "discouragement" is an unwritten word.
    </p>
    <p>
      They still press on, they still nurse the dogged hope,&mdash;not a hope of
      nauseating patronage, not a hope of reception into charmed social circles
      of stock-jobbers, pork-packers, and earl-hunters, but the hope of a higher
      synthesis of civilization and humanity, a true progress, with which the
      chorus
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "Peace, good will to men,"
    "May make one music as before,
     But vaster."
</pre>
    <p>
      Thus the second decade of the American Negro's freedom was a period of
      conflict, of inspiration and doubt, of faith and vain questionings, of
      Sturm and Drang. The ideals of physical freedom, of political power, of
      school training, as separate all-sufficient panaceas for social ills,
      became in the third decade dim and overcast. They were the vain dreams of
      credulous race childhood; not wrong, but incomplete and over-simple. The
      training of the schools we need to-day more than ever,&mdash;the training
      of deft hands, quick eyes and ears, and the broader, deeper, higher
      culture of gifted minds. The power of the ballot we need in sheer
      self-defense, and as a guarantee of good faith. We may misuse it, but we
      can scarce do worse in this respect than our whilom masters. Freedom, too,
      the long-sought, we still seek,&mdash;the freedom of life and limb, the
      freedom to work and think. Work, culture, and liberty,&mdash;all these we
      need, not singly, but together; for to-day these ideals among the Negro
      people are gradually coalescing, and finding a higher meaning in the
      unifying ideal of race,&mdash;the ideal of fostering the traits and
      talents of the Negro, not in opposition to, but in conformity with, the
      greater ideals of the American republic, in order that some day, on
      American soil, two world races may give each to each those characteristics
      which both so sadly lack. Already we come not altogether empty-handed:
      there is to-day no true American music but the sweet wild melodies of the
      Negro slave; the American fairy tales are Indian and African; we are the
      sole oasis of simple faith and reverence in a dusty desert of dollars and
      smartness. Will America be poorer if she replace her brutal, dyspeptic
      blundering with the light-hearted but determined Negro humility; or her
      coarse, cruel wit with loving, jovial good humor; or her Annie Rooney with
      Steal Away?
    </p>
    <p>
      Merely a stern concrete test of the underlying principles of the great
      republic is the Negro problem, and the spiritual striving of the
      freedmen's sons is the travail of souls whose burden is almost beyond the
      measure of their strength, but who bear it in the name of an historic
      race, in the name of this land of their fathers' fathers, and in the name
      of human opportunity.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH by Charles W. Chesnutt
    </h2>
    <p>
      I.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ryder was going to give a ball. There were several reasons why this
      was an opportune time for such an event.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean of the Blue Veins. The original
      Blue Veins were a little society of colored persons organized in a certain
      Northern city shortly after the war. Its purpose was to establish and
      maintain correct social standards among a people whose social condition
      presented almost unlimited room for improvement. By accident, combined
      perhaps with some natural affinity, the society consisted of individuals
      who were, generally speaking, more white than black. Some envious outsider
      made the suggestion that no one was eligible for membership who was not
      white enough to show blue veins. The suggestion was readily adopted by
      those who were not of the favored few, and since that time the society,
      though possessing a longer and more pretentious name, had been known far
      and wide as the "Blue Vein Society," and its members as the "Blue Veins."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Blue Veins did not allow that any such requirement existed for
      admission to their circle, but, on the contrary, declared that character
      and culture were the only things considered; and that if most of their
      members were light-colored, it was because such persons, as a rule, had
      had better opportunities to qualify themselves for membership. Opinions
      differed, too, as to the usefulness of the society. There were those who
      had been known to assail it violently as a glaring example of the very
      prejudice from which the colored race had suffered most; and later, when
      such critics had succeeded in getting on the inside, they had been heard
      to maintain with zeal and earnestness that the society was a life-boat, an
      anchor, a bulwark and a shield, a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by
      night, to guide their people through the social wilderness. Another
      alleged prerequisite for Blue Vein membership was that of free birth; and
      while there was really no such requirement, it is doubtless true that very
      few of the members would have been unable to meet it if there had been. If
      there were one or two of the older members who had come up from the South
      and from slavery, their history presented enough romantic circumstances to
      rob their servile origin of its grosser aspects. While there were no such
      tests of eligibility, it is true that the Blue Veins had their notions on
      these subjects, and that not all of them were equally liberal in regard to
      the things they collectively disclaimed. Mr. Ryder was one of the most
      conservative. Though he had not been among the founders of the society,
      but had come in some years later, his genius for social leadership was
      such that he had speedily become its recognized adviser and head, the
      custodian of its standards, and the preserver of its traditions. He shaped
      its social policy, was active in providing for its entertainment, and when
      the interest fell off, as it sometimes did, he fanned the embers until
      they burst again into a cheerful flame. There were still other reasons for
      his popularity. While he was not as white as some of the Blue Veins, his
      appearance was such as to confer distinction upon them. His features were
      of a refined type, his hair was almost straight; he was always neatly
      dressed; his manners were irreproachable, and his morals above suspicion.
      He had come to Groveland a young man, and obtaining employment in the
      office of a railroad company as messenger had in time worked himself up to
      the position of stationery clerk, having charge of the distribution of the
      office supplies for the whole company. Although the lack of early training
      had hindered the orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it had not
      prevented him from doing a great deal of reading or from forming decidedly
      literary tastes. Poetry was his passion. He could repeat whole pages of
      the great English poets; and if his pronunciation was sometimes faulty,
      his eye, his voice, his gestures, would respond to the changing sentiment
      with a precision that revealed a poetic soul, and disarm criticism. He was
      economical, and had saved money; he owned and occupied a very comfortable
      house on a respectable street. His residence was handsomely furnished,
      containing among other things a good library, especially rich in poetry, a
      piano, and some choice engravings. He generally shared his house with some
      young couple, who looked after his wants and were company for him; for Mr.
      Ryder was a single man. In the early days of his connection with the Blue
      Veins he had been regarded as quite a catch, and ladies and their mothers
      had manoeuvred with much ingenuity to capture him. Not, however, until
      Mrs. Molly Dixon visited Groveland had any woman ever made him wish to
      change his condition to that of a married man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dixon had come to Groveland from Washington in the spring, and before
      the summer was over she had won Mr. Ryder's heart. She possessed many
      attractive qualities. She was much younger than he; in fact, he was old
      enough to have been her father, though no one knew exactly how old he was.
      She was whiter than he, and better educated. She had moved in the best
      colored society of the country, at Washington, and had taught in the
      schools of that city. Such a superior person had been eagerly welcomed to
      the Blue Vein Society, and had taken a leading part in its activities. Mr.
      Ryder had at first been attracted by her charms of person, for she was
      very good looking and not over twenty-five; then by her refined manners
      and by the vivacity of her wit. Her husband had been a government clerk,
      and at his death had left a considerable life insurance. She was visiting
      friends in Groveland, and, finding the town and the people to her liking,
      had prolonged her stay indefinitely. She had not seemed displeased at Mr.
      Ryder's attentions, but on the contrary had given him every proper
      encouragement; indeed, a younger and less cautious man would long since
      have spoken. But he had made up his mind, and had only to determine the
      time when he would ask her to be his wife. He decided to give a ball in
      her honor, and at some time during the evening of the ball to offer her
      his heart and hand. He had no special fears about the outcotme, but, with
      a little touch of romance, he wanted the surroundings to be in harmony
      with his own feelings when he should have received the answer he expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ryder resolved that this ball should mark an epoch in the social
      history of Groveland. He knew, of course,&mdash;no one could know better,&mdash;the
      entertainments that had taken place in past years, and what must be done
      to surpass them. His ball must be worthy of the lady in whose honor it was
      to be given, and must, by the quality of its guests, set an example for
      the future. He had observed of late a growing liberality, almost a laxity,
      in social matters, even among members of his own set, and had several
      times been forced to meet in a social way persons whose complexions and
      callings in life were hardly up to the standard which he considered proper
      for the society to maintain. He had a theory of his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have no race prejudice," he would say, "but we people of mixed blood
      are ground between the upper and the nether millstone. Our fate lies
      between absorption by the white race and extinction in the black. The one
      doesn't want us yet, but may take us in time. The other would welcome us,
      but it would be for us a backward step. 'With malice towards none, with
      charity for all,' we must do the best we can for ourselves and those who
      are to follow us. Self-preservation is the first law of nature."
    </p>
    <p>
      His ball would serve by its exclusiveness to counteract leveling
      tendencies, and his marriage with Mrs. Dixon would help to further the
      upward process of absorption he had been wishing and waiting for.
    </p>
    <p>
      II.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ball was to take place on Friday night. The house had been put in
      order, the carpets covered with canvas, the halls and stairs decorated
      with palms and potted plants; and in the afternoon Mr. Ryder sat on his
      front porch, which the shade of a vine running up over a wire netting made
      a cool and pleasant lounging-place. He expected to respond to the toast
      "The Ladies," at the supper, and from a volume of Tennyson&mdash;his
      favorite poet&mdash;was fortifying himself with apt quotations. The volume
      was open at A Dream of Fair Women. His eyes fell on these lines, and he
      read them aloud to judge better of their effect:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "At length I saw a lady within call. Stiller than chisell'd marble,
      standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely
      fair."
    </p>
    <p>
      He marked the verse, and turning the page read the stanza beginning,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   "O sweet pale Margaret,
    O rare pale Margaret."
</pre>
    <p>
      He weighed the passage a moment, and decided that it would not do. Mrs.
      Dixon was the palest lady he expected at the ball, and she was of a rather
      ruddy complexion, and of lively disposition and buxom build. So he ran
      over the leaves until his eye rested on the description of Queen
      Guinevere:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "She seem'd a part of joyous Spring:
   A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
   Buckled with golden clasps before;
   A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
     Closed in a golden ring.

  . . . . . . . . . .

  "She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd
     The rein with dainty finger-tips,
   A man had given all other bliss,
   And all his worldly worth for this,
   To waste his whole heart in one kiss
     Upon her perfect lips."
</pre>
    <p>
      As Mr. Ryder murmured these words audibly, with an appreciative thrill, he
      heard the latch of his gate click, and a light footfall sounding on the
      steps. He turned his head, and saw a woman standing before the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a little woman, not five feet tall, and proportioned to her
      height. Although she stood erect, and looked around her with very bright
      and restless eyes, she seemed quite old; for her face was crossed and
      recrossed with a hundred wrinkles, and around the edges of her bonnet
      could be seen protruding here and there a tuft of short gray wool. She
      wore a blue calico gown of ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened around
      her shoulders with an old-fashioned brass brooch, and a large bonnet
      profusely ornamented with faded red and yellow artificial flowers. And she
      was very black&mdash;so black that her toothless gums, revealed when she
      opened her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue. She looked like a bit
      of the old plantation life, summoned up from the past by the wave of a
      magician's wand, as the poet's fancy had called into being the gracious
      shapes of which Mr. Ryder had just been reading.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rose from his chair and came over to where she stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good-afternoon, madam," he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good-evenin', suh," she answered, ducking suddenly with a quaint curtsy.
      Her voice was shrill and piping, but softened somewhat by age. "Is dis
      yere whar Mistuh Ryduh lib, suh?" she asked, looking around her
      doubtfully, and glancing into the open windows, through which some of the
      preparations for the evening were visible.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," he replied, with an air of kindly patronage, unconsciously
      flattered by her manner, "I am Mr. Ryder. Did you want to see me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yas, suh, ef I ain't 'sturbin' of you too much."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not at all. Have a seat over here behind the vine, where it is cool. What
      can I do for you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Scuse me, suh," she continued, when she had sat down on the edge of a
      chair, "'scuse me, suh, I's lookin' for my husban'. I heerd you wuz a big
      man an' had libbed heah a long time, an' I 'lowed you wouldn't min' ef I'd
      come roun' an' ax you ef you'd eber heerd of a merlatter man by de name er
      Sam Taylor 'quirin' roun' in de chu'ches ermongs' de people fer his wife
      'Liza Jane?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ryder seemed to think for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There used to be many such cases right after the war," he said, "but it
      has been so long that I have forgotten them. There are very few now. But
      tell me your story, and it may refresh my memory."
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat back farther in her chair so as to be more comfortable, and folded
      her withered hands in her lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My name's 'Liza," she began, "'Liza Jane. Wen I wuz young I us'ter b'long
      ter Marse Bob Smif, down in old Missourn. I wuz bawn down dere. W'en I wuz
      a gal I wuz married ter a man named Jim. But Jim died, an' after dat I
      married a merlatter man named Sam Taylor. Sam wuz free-bawn, but his mammy
      and daddy died, an' de w'ite folks 'prenticed him ter my marster fer ter
      work fer 'im 'tel he wuz growed up. Sam worked in de fiel', an' I wuz de
      cook. One day Ma'y Ann, ole miss's maid, come rushin' out ter de kitchen,
      an' says she, ''Liza Jane, ole marse gwine sell yo' Sam down de ribber.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Go way f'm yere,' says I; 'my husban's free!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Don' make no diff'ence. I heerd ole marse tell ole miss he wuz gwine
      take yo' Sam 'way wid 'im ter-morrow, fer he needed money, an' he knowed
      whar he could git a t'ousan' dollars fer Sam an' no questions axed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Sam come home f'm de fiel', dat night, I tole him 'bout ole marse
      gwine steal 'im, an' Sam run erway. His time wuz mos' up, an' he swo' dat
      w'en he wuz twenty-one he would come back an' he'p me run erway, er else
      save up de money ter buy my freedom. An' I know he'd 'a' done it, fer he
      thought a heap er me, Sam did. But w'en he come back he didn' fin' me, fer
      I wuzn' dere. Ole marse had heerd dat I warned Sam, so he had me whip' an'
      sol' down de ribber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Den de wah broke out, an' w'en it wuz ober de cullud folks wuz scattered.
      I went back ter de ole home; but Sam wuzn' dere, an' I couldn' l'arn
      nuffin' 'bout 'im. But I knowed he'd be'n dere to look fer me an' hadn'
      foun' me, an' had gone erway ter hunt fer me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I's be'n lookin' fer 'im eber sence," she added simply, as though
      twenty-five years were but a couple of weeks, "an' I knows he's be'n
      lookin' fer me. Fer he sot a heap er sto' by me, Sam did, an' I know he's
      be'n huntin' fer me all dese years,&mdash;'less'n he's be'n sick er
      sump'n, so he couldn' work, er out'n his head, so he couldn' 'member his
      promise. I went back down de ribber, fer I 'lowed he'd gone down dere
      lookin' fer me. I's be'n ter Noo Orleens, an' Atlanty, an' Charleston, an'
      Richmon'; an' w'en I'd be'n all ober de Souf I come ter de Norf. Fer I
      knows I'll fin' 'im some er dese days," she added softly, "er he'll fin'
      me, an' den we'll bofe be as happy in freedom as we wuz in de ole days
      befo' de wah." A smile stole over her withered countenance as she paused a
      moment, and her bright eyes softened into a far-away look.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the substance of the old woman's story. She had wandered a little
      here and there. Mr. Ryder was looking at her curiously when she finished.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How have you lived all these years?" he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Cookin', suh. I's a good cook. Does you know anybody w'at needs a good
      cook, suh? I's stoppin' wid a cullud fam'ly roun' de corner yonder 'tel I
      kin fin' a place."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you really expect to find your husband? He may be dead long ago."
    </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head emphatically. "Oh no, he ain' dead. De signs an' de
      tokens tells me. I dremp three nights runnin' on'y dis las' week dat I
      foun' him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He may have married another woman. Your slave marriage would not have
      prevented him, for you never lived with him after the war, and without
      that your marriage doesn't count."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wouldn' make no diff'ence wid Sam. He wouldn' marry no yuther 'ooman 'tel
      he foun' out 'bout me. I knows it," she added. "Sump'n's be'n tellin' me
      all dese years dat I's gwine fin' Sam 'fo I dies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps he's outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he wouldn't
      care to have you find him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, indeed, suh," she replied, "Sam ain' dat kin' er man. He wuz good ter
      me, Sam wuz, but he wuzn' much good ter nobody e'se, fer he wuz one er de
      triflin'es' han's on de plantation. I 'spec's ter haf ter suppo't 'im w'en
      I fin' 'im, fer he nebber would work 'less'n he had ter. But den he wuz
      free, an' he didn' git no pay fer his work, an' I don' blame 'im much.
      Mebbe he's done better sence he run erway, but I ain' 'spectin' much."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You may have passed him on the street a hundred times during the
      twenty-five years, and not have known him; time works great changes."
    </p>
    <p>
      She smiled incredulously. "I'd know 'im 'mongs' a hund'ed men. Fer dey
      wuzn' no yuther merlatter man like my man Sam, an' I couldn' be mistook.
      I's toted his picture roun' wid me twenty-five years."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May I see it?" asked Mr. Ryder. "It might help me to remember whether I
      have seen the original."
    </p>
    <p>
      As she drew a small parcel from her bosom, he saw that it was fastened to
      a string that went around her neck. Removing several wrappers, she brought
      to light an old-fashioned daguerreotype in a black case. He looked long
      and intently at the portrait. It was faded with time, but the features
      were still distinct, and it was easy to see what manner of man it had
      represented.
    </p>
    <p>
      He closed the case, and with a slow movement handed it back to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know of any man in town who goes by that name," he said, "nor
      have I heard of any one making such inquiries. But if you will leave me
      your address, I will give the matter some attention, and if I find out
      anything I will let you know."
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave him the number of a house in the neighborhood, and went away,
      after thanking him warmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wrote down the address on the flyleaf of the volume of Tennyson, and,
      when she had gone, rose to his feet and stood looking after her curiously.
      As she walked down the street with mincing step, he saw several persons
      whom she passed turn and look back at her with a smile of kindly
      amusement. When she had turned the corner, he went upstairs to his
      bedroom, and stood for a long time before the mirror of his dressing-case,
      gazing thoughtfully at the reflection of his own face.
    </p>
    <p>
      III.
    </p>
    <p>
      At eight o'clock the ballroom was a blaze of light and the guests had
      begun to assemble; for there was a literary programme and some routine
      business of the society to be gone through with before the dancing. A
      black servant in evening dress waited at the door and directed the guests
      to the dressing-rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      The occasion was long memorable among the colored people of the city; not
      alone for the dress and display, but for the high average of intelligence
      and culture that distinguished the gathering as a whole. There were a
      number of school-teachers, several young doctors, three or four lawyers,
      some professional singers, an editor, a lieutenant in the United States
      army spending his furlough in the city, and others in various polite
      callings; these were colored, though most of them would not have attracted
      even a casual glance because of any marked difference from white people.
      Most of the ladies were in evening costume, and dress coats and
      dancing-pumps were the rule among the men. A band of string music,
      stationed in an alcove behind a row of palms, played popular airs while
      the guests were gathering.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dancing began at half past nine. At eleven o'clock supper was served.
      Mr. Ryder had left the ballroom some little time before the intermission,
      but reappeared at the supper-table. The spread was worthy of the occasion,
      and the guests did full justice to it. When the coffee had been served,
      the toastmaster, Mr. Solomon Sadler, rapped for order. He made a brief
      introductory speech, complimenting host and guests, and then presented in
      their order the toasts of the evening. They were responded to with a very
      fair display of after-dinner wit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The last toast," said the toast-master, when he reached the end of the
      list, "is one which must appeal to us all. There is no one of us of the
      sterner sex who is not at some time dependent upon woman,&mdash;in infancy
      for protection, in manhood for companionship, in old age for care and
      comforting. Our good host has been trying to live alone, but the fair
      faces I see around me to-night prove that he too is largely dependent upon
      the gentler sex for most that makes life worth living,&mdash;the society
      and love of friends,&mdash;and rumor is at fault if he does not soon yield
      entire subjection to one of them. Mr. Ryder will now respond to the toast,&mdash;The
      Ladies."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a pensive look in Mr. Ryder's eyes as he took the floor and
      adjusted his eyeglasses. He began by speaking of woman as the gift of
      Heaven to man, and after some general observations on the relations of the
      sexes he said: "But perhaps the quality which most distinguishes woman is
      her fidelity and devotion to those she loves. History is full of examples,
      but has recorded none more striking than one which only to-day came under
      my notice."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then related, simply but effectively, the story told by his visitor of
      the afternoon. He told it in the same soft dialect, which came readily to
      his lips, while the company listened attentively and sympathetically. For
      the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts. There were some
      present who had seen, and others who had heard their fathers and
      grandfathers tell, the wrongs and sufferings of this past generation, and
      all of them still felt, in their darker moments, the shadow hanging over
      them. Mr. Ryder went on:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such devotion and such confidence are rare even among women. There are
      many who would have searched a year, some who would have waited five
      years, a few who might have hoped ten years; but for twenty-five years
      this woman has retained her affection for and her faith in a man she has
      not seen or heard of in all that time.
    </p>
    <p>
      "She came to me to-day in the hope that I might be able to help her find
      this long-lost husband. And when she was gone I gave my fancy rein, and
      imagined a case I will put to you.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Suppose that this husband, soon after his escape, had learned that his
      wife had been sold away, and that such inquiries as he could make brought
      no information of her whereabouts. Suppose that he was young, and she much
      older than he; that he was light, and she was black; that their marriage
      was a slave marriage, and legally binding only if they chose to make it so
      after the war. Suppose, too, that he made his way to the North, as some of
      us have done, and there, where he had larger opportunities, had improved
      them, and had in the course of all these years grown to be as different
      from the ignorant boy who ran away from fear of slavery as the day is from
      the night. Suppose, even, that he had qualified himself, by industry, by
      thrift, and by study, to win the friendship and be considered worthy the
      society of such people as these I see around me to-night, gracing my board
      and filling my heart with gladness; for I am old enough to remember the
      day when such a gathering would not have been possible in this land.
      Suppose, too, that, as the years went by, this man's memory of the past
      grew more and more indistinct, until at last it was rarely, except in his
      dreams, that any image of this bygone period rose before his mind. And
      then suppose that accident should bring to his knowledge the fact that the
      wife of his youth, the wife he had left behind him,&mdash;not one who had
      walked by his side and kept pace with him in his upward struggle, but one
      upon whom advancing years and a laborious life had set their mark,&mdash;was
      alive and seeking him, but that he was absolutely safe from recognition or
      discovery, unless he chose to reveal himself. My friends, what would the
      man do? I will suppose that he was one who loved honor, and tried to deal
      justly with all men. I will even carry the case further, and suppose that
      perhaps he had set his heart upon another, whom he had hoped to call his
      own. What would he do, or rather what ought he to do, in such a crisis of
      a lifetime?
    </p>
    <p>
      "It seemed to me that he might hesitate, and I imagined that I was an old
      friend, a near friend, and that he had come to me for advice; and I argued
      the case with him. I tried to discuss it impartially. After we had looked
      upon the matter from every point of view, I said to him, in words that we
      all know:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   'This above all: to thine own self be true,
   And it must follow, as the night the day,
   Thou canst not then be false to any man.'
</pre>
    <p>
      Then, finally, I put the question to him, 'Shall you acknowledge her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "And now, ladies and gentlemen, friends and companions, I ask you, what
      should he have done?"
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in Mr. Ryder's voice that stirred the hearts of those
      who sat around him. It suggested more than mere sympathy with an imaginary
      situation; it seemed rather in the nature of a personal appeal. It was
      observed, too, that his look rested more especially upon Mrs. Dixon, with
      a mingled expression of renunciation and inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had listened, with parted lips and streaming eyes. She was the first
      to speak: "He should have acknowledged her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," they all echoed, "he should have acknowledged her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My friends and companions," responded Mr. Ryder, "I thank you, one and
      all. It is the answer I expected, for I knew your hearts."
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned and walked toward the closed door of an adjoining room, while
      every eye followed him in wondering curiosity. He came back in a moment,
      leading by the hand his visitor of the afternoon, who stood startled and
      trembling at the sudden plunge into this scene of brilliant gayety. She
      was neatly dressed in gray, and wore the white cap of an elderly woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "this is the woman, and I am the man,
      whose story I have told you. Permit me to introduce to you the wife of my
      youth."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE BOUQUET by Charles W. Chesnutt
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mary Myrover's friends were somewhat surprised when she began to teach a
      colored school. Miss Myrover's friends are mentioned here, because nowhere
      more than in a Southern town is public opinion a force which cannot be
      lightly contravened. Public opinion, however, did not oppose Miss
      Myrover's teaching colored children; in fact, all the colored public
      schools in town&mdash;and there were several&mdash;were taught by white
      teachers, and had been so taught since the state had undertaken to provide
      free public instruction for all children within its boundaries. Previous
      to that time there had been a Freedman's Bureau school and a Presbyterian
      missionary school, but these had been withdrawn when the need for them
      became less pressing. The colored people of the town had been for some
      time agitating their right to teach their own schools, but as yet the
      claim had not been conceded.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reason Miss Myrover's course created some surprise was not, therefore,
      the fact that a Southern white woman should teach a colored school; it lay
      in the fact that up to this time no woman of just her quality had taken up
      such work. Most of the teachers of colored schools were not of those who
      had constituted the aristocracy of the old regime; they might be said
      rather to represent the new order of things, in which labor was in time to
      become honorable, and men were, after a somewhat longer time, to depend,
      for their place in society, upon themselves rather than upon their
      ancestors. But Mary Myrover belonged to one of the proudest of the old
      families. Her ancestors had been people of distinction in Virginia before
      a collateral branch of the main stock had settled in North Carolina.
      Before the war they had been able to live up to their pedigree. But the
      war brought sad changes. Miss Myrover's father&mdash;the Colonel Myrover
      who led a gallant but desperate charge at Vicksburg&mdash;had fallen on
      the battlefield, and his tomb in the white cemetery was a shrine for the
      family. On the Confederate Memorial Day no other grave was so profusely
      decorated with flowers, and in the oration pronounced the name of Colonel
      Myrover was always used to illustrate the highest type of patriotic
      devotion and self-sacrifice. Miss Myrover's brother, too, had fallen in
      the conflict; but his bones lay in some unknown trench, with those of a
      thousand others who had fallen on the same field. Ay, more, her lover, who
      had hoped to come home in the full tide of victory and claim his bride as
      a reward for gallantry, had shared the fate of her father and brother.
      When the war was over, the remnant of the family found itself involved in
      the common ruin,&mdash;more deeply involved, indeed, than some others; for
      Colonel Myrover had believed in the ultimate triumph of his cause, and had
      invested most of his wealth in Confederate bonds, which were now only so
      much waste paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      There had been a little left. Mrs. Myrover was thrifty, and had laid by a
      few hundred dollars, which she kept in the house to meet unforeseen
      contingencies. There remained, too, their home, with an ample garden and a
      well-stocked orchard, besides a considerable tract of country land, partly
      cleared, but productive of very little revenue.
    </p>
    <p>
      With their shrunken resources, Miss Myrover and her mother were able to
      hold up their heads without embarrassment for some years after the close
      of the war. But when things were adjusted to the changed conditions, and
      the stream of life began to flow more vigorously in the new channels, they
      saw themselves in danger of dropping behind, unless in some way they could
      add to their meagre income. Miss Myrover looked over the field of
      employment, never very wide for women in the South, and found it occupied.
      The only available position she could be supposed prepared to fill, and
      which she could take without distinct loss of caste, was that of a
      teacher, and there was no vacancy except in one of the colored schools.
      Even teaching was a doubtful experiment; it was not what she would have
      preferred, but it was the best that could be done.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't like it, Mary," said her mother. "It's a long step from owning
      such people to teaching them. What do they need with education? It will
      only make them unfit for work."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They're free now, mother, and perhaps they'll work better if they're
      taught something. Besides, it's only a business arrangement, and doesn't
      involve any closer contact than we have with our servants."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I should say not!" sniffed the old lady. "Not one of them will ever
      dare to presume on your position to take any liberties with us. I'll see
      to that."
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Myrover began her work as a teacher in the autumn, at the opening of
      the school year. It was a novel experience at first. Though there always
      had been negro servants in the house, and though on the streets colored
      people were more numerous than her own people, and though she was so
      familiar with their dialect that she might almost be said to speak it,
      barring certain characteristic grammatical inaccuracies, she had never
      been brought in personal contact with so many of them at once as when she
      confronted the fifty or sixty faces&mdash;of colors ranging from a white
      almost as clear as her own to the darkest livery of the sun&mdash;which
      were gathered in the schoolroom on the morning when she began her duties.
      Some of the inherited prejudice of her caste, too, made itself felt,
      though she tried to repress any outward sign of it; and she could perceive
      that the children were not altogether responsive; they, likewise, were not
      entirely free from antagonism. The work was unfamiliar to her. She was not
      physically very strong, and at the close of the first day she went home
      with a splitting headache. If she could have resigned then and there
      without causing comment or annoyance to others, she would have felt it a
      privilege to do so. But a night's rest banished her headache and improved
      her spirits, and the next morning she went to her work with renewed vigor,
      fortified by the experience of the first day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Myrover's second day was more satisfactory. She had some natural
      talent for organization, though she had never known it, and in the course
      of the day she got her classes formed and lessons under way. In a week or
      two she began to classify her pupils in her own mind, as bright or stupid,
      mischievous or well behaved, lazy or industrious, as the case might be,
      and to regulate her discipline accordingly. That she had come of a long
      line of ancestors who had exercised authority and mastership was perhaps
      not without its effect upon her character, and enabled her more readily to
      maintain good order in the school. When she was fairly broken in she found
      the work rather to her liking, and derived much pleasure from such success
      as she achieved as a teacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was natural that she should be more attracted to some of her pupils
      than to others. Perhaps her favorite&mdash;or rather, the one she liked
      best, for she was too fair and just for conscious favoritism&mdash;was
      Sophy Tucker. Just the ground for the teacher's liking for Sophy might not
      at first be apparent. The girl was far from the whitest of Miss Myrover's
      pupils; in fact, she was one of the darker ones. She was not the brightest
      in intellect, though she always tried to learn her lessons. She was not
      the best dressed, for her mother was a poor widow, who went out washing
      and scrubbing for a living. Perhaps the real tie between them was Sophy's
      intense devotion to the teacher. It had manifested itself almost from the
      first day of the school, in the rapt look of admiration Miss Myrover
      always saw on the little black face turned toward her. In it there was
      nothing of envy, nothing of regret; nothing but worship for the beautiful
      white lady&mdash;she was not especially handsome, but to Sophy her beauty
      was almost divine&mdash;who had come to teach her. If Miss Myrover dropped
      a book, Sophy was the first to spring and pick it up; if she wished a
      chair moved, Sophy seemed to anticipate her wish; and so of all the
      numberless little services that can be rendered in a school-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Myrover was fond of flowers, and liked to have them about her. The
      children soon learned of this taste of hers, and kept the vases on her
      desk filled with blossoms during their season. Sophy was perhaps the most
      active in providing them. If she could not get garden flowers, she would
      make excursions to the woods in the early morning, and bring in great
      dew-laden bunches of bay, or jasmine, or some other fragrant forest flower
      which she knew the teacher loved.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When I die, Sophy," Miss Myrover said to the child one day, "I want to be
      covered with roses. And when they bury me, I'm sure I shall rest better if
      my grave is banked with flowers, and roses are planted at my head and at
      my feet."
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Myrover was at first amused at Sophy's devotion; but when she grew
      more accustomed to it, she found it rather to her liking. It had a sort of
      flavor of the old regime, and she felt, when she bestowed her kindly
      notice upon her little black attendant, some of the feudal condescension
      of the mistress toward the slave. She was kind to Sophy, and permitted her
      to play the role she had assumed, which caused sometimes a little jealousy
      among the other girls. Once she gave Sophy a yellow ribbon which she took
      from her own hair. The child carried it home, and cherished it as a
      priceless treasure, to be worn only on the greatest occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sophy had a rival in her attachment to the teacher, but the rivalry was
      altogether friendly. Miss Myrover had a little dog, a white spaniel,
      answering to the name of Prince. Prince was a dog of high degree, and
      would have very little to do with the children of the school; he made an
      exception, however, in the case of Sophy, whose devotion for his mistress
      he seemed to comprehend. He was a clever dog, and could fetch and carry,
      sit up on his haunches, extend his paw to shake hands, and possessed
      several other canine accomplishments. He was very fond of his mistress,
      and always, unless shut up at home, accompanied her to school, where he
      spent most of his time lying under the teacher's desk, or, in cold
      weather, by the stove, except when he would go out now and then and chase
      an imaginary rabbit round the yard, presumably for exercise.
    </p>
    <p>
      At school Sophy and Prince vied with each other in their attentions to
      Miss Myrover. But when school was over, Prince went away with her, and
      Sophy stayed behind; for Miss Myrover was white and Sophy was black, which
      they both understood perfectly well. Miss Myrover taught the colored
      children, but she could not be seen with them in public. If they
      occasionally met her on the street, they did not expect her to speak to
      them, unless she happened to be alone and no other white person was in
      sight. If any of the children felt slighted, she was not aware of it, for
      she intended no slight; she had not been brought up to speak to negroes on
      the street, and she could not act differently from other people. And
      though she was a woman of sentiment and capable of deep feeling, her
      training had been such that she hardly expected to find in those of darker
      hue than herself the same susceptibility&mdash;varying in degree, perhaps,
      but yet the same in kind&mdash;that gave to her own life the alternations
      of feeling that made it most worth living.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once Miss Myrover wished to carry home a parcel of books. She had the
      bundle in her hand when Sophy came up.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lemme tote yo' bundle fer yer, Miss Ma'y?" she asked eagerly. "I'm gwine
      yo' way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thank you, Sophy," was the reply. "I'll be glad if you will."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sophy followed the teacher at a respectful distance. When they reached
      Miss Myrover's home Sophy carried the bundle to the doorstep, where Miss
      Myrover took it and thanked her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Myrover came out on the piazza as Sophy was moving away. She said, in
      the child's hearing, and perhaps with the intention that she should hear:
      "Mary, I wish you wouldn't let those little darkies follow you to the
      house. I don't want them in the yard. I should think you'd have enough of
      them all day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very well, mother," replied her daughter. "I won't bring any more of
      them. The child was only doing me a favor."
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Myrover was an invalid, and opposition or irritation of any kind
      brought on nervous paroxysms that made her miserable, and made life a
      burden to the rest of the household; so that Mary seldom crossed her
      whims. She did not bring Sophy to the house again, nor did Sophy again
      offer her services as porter.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day in spring Sophy brought her teacher a bouquet of yellow roses.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dey come off'n my own bush, Miss Ma'y," she said proudly, "an' I didn'
      let nobody e'se pull 'em, but saved 'em all fer you, 'cause I know you
      likes roses so much. I'm gwine bring 'em all ter you as long as dey las'."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thank you, Sophy," said the teacher; "you are a very good girl."
    </p>
    <p>
      For another year Mary Myrover taught the colored school, and did excellent
      service. The children made rapid progress under her tuition, and learned
      to love her well; for they saw and appreciated, as well as children could,
      her fidelity to a trust that she might have slighted, as some others did,
      without much fear of criticism. Toward the end of her second year she
      sickened, and after a brief illness died.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Mrs. Myrover was inconsolable. She ascribed her daughter's death to
      her labors as teacher of negro children. Just how the color of the pupils
      had produced the fatal effects she did not stop to explain. But she was
      too old, and had suffered too deeply from the war, in body and mind and
      estate, ever to reconcile herself to the changed order of things following
      the return of peace; and with an unsound yet not unnatural logic, she
      visited some of her displeasure upon those who had profited most, though
      passively, by her losses.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I always feared something would happen to Mary," she said. "It seemed
      unnatural for her to be wearing herself out teaching little negroes who
      ought to have been working for her. But the world has hardly been a fit
      place to live in since the war, and when I follow her, as I must before
      long, I shall not be sorry to go."
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave strict orders that no colored people should be admitted to the
      house. Some of her friends heard of this, and remonstrated. They knew the
      teacher was loved by the pupils, and felt that sincere respect from the
      humble would be a worthy tribute to the proudest. But Mrs. Myrover was
      obdurate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They had my daughter when she was alive," she said, "and they've killed
      her. But she's mine now, and I won't have them come near her. I don't want
      one of them at the funeral or anywhere around."
    </p>
    <p>
      For a month before Miss Myrover's death Sophy had been watching her
      rosebush&mdash;the one that bore the yellow roses&mdash;for the first buds
      of spring, and when these appeared had awaited impatiently their gradual
      unfolding. But not until her teacher's death had they become full-blown
      roses. When Miss Myrover died, Sophy determined to pluck the roses and lay
      them on her coffin. Perhaps, she thought, they might even put them in her
      hand or on her breast. For Sophy remembered Miss Myrover's thanks and
      praise when she had brought her the yellow roses the spring before.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the morning of the day set for the funeral Sophy washed her face until
      it shone, combed and brushed her hair with painful conscientiousness, put
      on her best frock, plucked her yellow roses, and, tying them with the
      treasured ribbon her teacher had given her, set out for Miss Myrover's
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went round to the side gate&mdash;the house stood on a corner&mdash;and
      stole up the path to the kitchen. A colored woman, whom she did not know,
      came to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'at yer want, chile?" she inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Kin I see Miss Ma'y?" asked Sophy timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don' know, honey. Ole Miss Myrover say she don' want no cullud folks
      roun' de house endyoin' dis fun'al. I'll look an' see if she's roun' de
      front room, whar de co'pse is. You sed-down heah an' keep still, an' ef
      she's upstairs maybe I kin git yer in dere a minute. Ef I can't, I kin put
      yo' bokay 'mongs' de res', whar she won't know nuthin' erbout it."
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment after she had gone there was a step in the hall, and old Mrs.
      Myrover came into the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dinah!" she said in a peevish tone. "Dinah!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Receiving no answer, Mrs. Myrover peered around the kitchen, and caught
      sight of Sophy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I&mdash;I'm-m waitin' ter see de cook, ma'am," stammered Sophy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The cook isn't here now. I don't know where she is. Besides, my daughter
      is to be buried to-day, and I won't have any one visiting the servants
      until the funeral is over. Come back some other day, or see the cook at
      her own home in the evening."
    </p>
    <p>
      She stood waiting for the child to go, and under the keen glance of her
      eyes Sophy, feeling as though she had been caught in some disgraceful act,
      hurried down the walk and out of the gate, with her bouquet in her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dinah," said Mrs. Myrover, when the cook came back, "I don't want any
      strange people admitted here to-day. The house will be full of our
      friends, and we have no room for others."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yas'm," said the cook. She understood perfectly what her mistress meant;
      and what the cook thought about her mistress was a matter of no
      consequence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The funeral services were held at St. John's Episcopal Church, where the
      Myrovers had always worshiped. Quite a number of Miss Myrover's pupils
      went to the church to attend the services. The church was not a large one.
      There was a small gallery at the rear, to which colored people were
      admitted, if they chose to come, at ordinary services; and those who
      wished to be present at the funeral supposed that the usual custom would
      prevail. They were therefore surprised, when they went to the side
      entrance, by which colored people gained access to the gallery stairs, to
      be met by an usher who barred their passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'm sorry," he said, "but I have had orders to admit no one until the
      friends of the family have all been seated. If you wish to wait until the
      white people have all gone in, and there's any room left, you may be able
      to get into the back part of the gallery. Of course I can't tell yet
      whether there'll be any room or not."
    </p>
    <p>
      Now the statement of the usher was a very reasonable one; but, strange to
      say, none of the colored people chose to remain except Sophy. She still
      hoped to use her floral offering for its destined end, in some way, though
      she did not know just how. She waited in the yard until the church was
      filled with white people, and a number who could not gain admittance were
      standing about the doors. Then she went round to the side of the church,
      and, depositing her bouquet carefully on an old mossy gravestone, climbed
      up on the projecting sill of a window near the chancel. The window was of
      stained glass, of somewhat ancient make. The church was old, had indeed
      been built in colonial times, and the stained glass had been brought from
      England. The design of the window showed Jesus blessing little children.
      Time had dealt gently with the window; but just at the feet of the figure
      of Jesus a small triangular piece of glass had been broken out. To this
      aperture Sophy applied her eyes, and through it saw and heard what she
      could of the services within.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the chancel, on trestles draped in black, stood the sombre casket
      in which lay all that was mortal of her dear teacher. The top of the
      casket was covered with flowers; and lying stretched out underneath it she
      saw Miss Myrover's little white dog, Prince. He had followed the body to
      the church, and, slipping in unnoticed among the mourners, had taken his
      place, from which no one had the heart to remove him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The white-robed rector read the solemn service for the dead, and then
      delivered a brief address, in which he spoke of the uncertainty of life,
      and, to the believer, the certain blessedness of eternity. He spoke of
      Miss Myrover's kindly spirit, and, as an illustration of her love and
      self-sacrifice for others, referred to her labors as a teacher of the poor
      ignorant negroes who had been placed in their midst by an all-wise
      Providence, and whom it was their duty to guide and direct in the station
      in which God had put them. Then the organ pealed, a prayer was said, and
      the long cortege moved from the church to the cemetery, about half a mile
      away, where the body was to be interred.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the services were over, Sophy sprang down from her perch, and, taking
      her flowers, followed the procession. She did not walk with the rest, but
      at a proper and respectful distance from the last mourner. No one noticed
      the little black girl with the bunch of yellow flowers, or thought of her
      as interested in the funeral.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cortege reached the cemetery and filed slowly through the gate; but
      Sophy stood outside, looking at a small sign in white letters on a black
      background:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "NOTICE. This cemetery is for white people only. Others please keep out."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sophy, thanks to Miss Myrover's painstaking instruction, could read this
      sign very distinctly. In fact, she had often read it before. For Sophy was
      a child who loved beauty, in a blind, groping sort of way, and had
      sometimes stood by the fence of the cemetery and looked through at the
      green mounds and shaded walks and blooming flowers within, and wished that
      she could walk among them. She knew, too, that the little sign on the
      gate, though so courteously worded, was no mere formality; for she had
      heard how a colored man, who had wandered into the cemetery on a hot night
      and fallen asleep on the flat top of a tomb, had been arrested as a
      vagrant and fined five dollars, which he had worked out on the streets,
      with a ball-and-chain attachment, at twenty-five cents a day. Since that
      time the cemetery gate had been locked at night.
    </p>
    <p>
      So Sophy stayed outside, and looked through the fence. Her poor bouquet
      had begun to droop by this time, and the yellow ribbon had lost some of
      its freshness. Sophy could see the rector standing by the grave, the
      mourners gathered round; she could faintly distinguish the solemn words
      with which ashes were committed to ashes, and dust to dust. She heard the
      hollow thud of the earth falling on the coffin; and she leaned against the
      iron fence, sobbing softly, until the grave was filled and rounded off,
      and the wreaths and other floral pieces were disposed upon it. When the
      mourners began to move toward the gate, Sophy walked slowly down the
      street, in a direction opposite to that taken by most of the people who
      came out.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they had all gone away, and the sexton had come out and locked the
      gate behind him, Sophy crept back. Her roses were faded now, and from some
      of them the petals had fallen. She stood there irresolute, loath to leave
      with her heart's desire unsatisfied, when, as her eyes fell upon the
      teacher's last resting place, she saw lying beside the new-made grave what
      looked like a small bundle of white wool. Sophy's eyes lighted up with a
      sudden glow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Prince! Here, Prince!" she called.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little dog rose, and trotted down to the gate. Sophy pushed the poor
      bouquet between the iron bars. "Take that ter Miss Ma'y, Prince," she
      said, "that's a good doggie."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dog wagged his tail intelligently, took the bouquet carefully in his
      mouth, carried it to his mistress's grave, and laid it among the other
      flowers. The bunch of roses was so small that from where she stood Sophy
      could see only a dash of yellow against the white background of the mass
      of flowers.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Prince had performed his mission he turned his eyes toward Sophy
      inquiringly, and when she gave him a nod of approval lay down and resumed
      his watch by the graveside. Sophy looked at him a moment with a feeling
      very much like envy, and then turned and moved slowly away.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE CASE OF THE NEGRO by Booker T. Washington
    </h2>
    <p>
      All attempts to settle the question of the Negro in the South by his
      removal from this country have so far failed, and I think that they are
      likely to fail. The next census will probably show that we have nearly ten
      million black people in the United States, about eight millions of whom
      are in the Southern states. In fact, we have almost a nation within a
      nation. The Negro population in the United States lacks but two millions
      of being as large as the whole population of Mexico, and is nearly twice
      as large as that of Canada. Our black people equal in number the combined
      populations of Switzerland, Greece, Honduras, Nicaragua, Cuba, Uraguay
      [sic], Santo Domingo, Paraguay, and Costa Rica. When we consider, in
      connection with these facts, that the race has doubled itself since its
      freedom, and is still increasing, it hardly seems possible for any one to
      take seriously any scheme of emigration from America as a method of
      solution. At most, even if the government were to provide the means, but a
      few hundred thousand could be transported each year. The yearly increase
      in population would more than likely overbalance the number transported.
      Even if it did not, the time required to get rid of the Negro by this
      method would perhaps be fifty or seventy-five years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some have advised that the Negro leave the South, and take up his
      residence in the Northern states. I question whether this would make him
      any better off than he is in the South, when all things are considered. It
      has been my privilege to study the condition of our people in nearly every
      part of America; and I say without hesitation that, with some exceptional
      cases, the Negro is at his best in the Southern states. While he enjoys
      certain privileges in the North that he does not have in the South, when
      it comes to the matter of securing property, enjoying business advantages
      and employment, the South presents a far better opportunity than the
      North. Few colored men from the South are as yet able to stand up against
      the severe and increasing competition that exists in the North, to say
      nothing of the unfriendly influence of labor organizations, which in some
      way prevents black men in the North, as a rule, from securing occupation
      in the line of skilled labor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another point of great danger for the colored man who goes North is the
      matter of morals, owing to the numerous temptations by which he finds
      himself surrounded. More ways offer in which he can spend money than in
      the South, but fewer avenues of employment for earning money are open to
      him. The fact that at the North the Negro is almost confined to one line
      of occupation often tends to discourage and demoralize the strongest who
      go from the South, and makes them an easy prey for temptation. A few years
      ago, I made an examination into the condition of a settlement of Negroes
      who left the South and went into Kansas about twenty years since, when
      there was a good deal of excitement in the South concerning emigration
      from the West, and found it much below the standard of that of similar
      communities in the South. The only conclusion which any one can reach,
      from this and like instances, is that the Negroes are to remain in the
      Southern states. As a race they do not want to leave the South, and the
      Southern white people do not want them to leave. We must therefore find
      some basis of settlement that will be constitutional, just, manly; that
      will be fair to both races in the South and to the whole country. This
      cannot be done in a day, a year, or any short period of time. We can,
      however, with the present light, decide upon a reasonably safe method of
      solving the problem, and turn our strength and effort in that direction.
      In doing this, I would not have the Negro deprived of any privilege
      guaranteed to him by the Constitution of the United States. It is not best
      for the Negro that he relinquish any of his constitutional rights; it is
      not best for the Southern white man that he should, as I shall attempt to
      show in this article.
    </p>
    <p>
      In order that we may concentrate our forces upon a wise object, without
      loss of time or effort, I want to suggest what seems to me and many others
      the wisest policy to be pursued. I have reached these conclusions not only
      by reason of my own observations and experience, but after eighteen years
      of direct contact with leading and influential colored and white men in
      most parts of our country. But I wish first to mention some elements of
      danger in the present situation, which all who desire the permanent
      welfare of both races in the South should carefully take into account.
    </p>
    <p>
      First. There is danger that a certain class of impatient extremists among
      the Negroes in the North, who have little knowledge of the actual
      conditions in the South, may do the entire race injury by attempting to
      advise their brethren in the South to resort to armed resistance or the
      use of the torch, in order to secure justice. All intelligent and
      well-considered discussion of any important question, or condemnation of
      any wrong, whether in the North or the South, from the public platform and
      through the press, is to be commended and encouraged; but ill-considered
      and incendiary utterances from black men in the North will tend to add to
      the burdens of our people in the South rather than to relieve them. We
      must not fall into the temptation of believing that we can raise ourselves
      by abusing some one else.
    </p>
    <p>
      Second. Another danger in the South which should be guarded against is
      that the whole white South, including the wise, conservative, law-abiding
      element, may find itself represented before the bar of public opinion by
      the mob or lawless element, which gives expression to its feelings and
      tendency in a manner that advertises the South throughout the world; while
      too often those who have no sympathy with such disregard of law are either
      silent, or fail to speak in a sufficiently emphatic manner to offset in
      any large degree the unfortunate reputation which the lawless have made
      for many portions of the South.
    </p>
    <p>
      Third. No race or people ever got upon its feet without severe and
      constant struggle, often in the face of the greatest discouragement. While
      passing through the present trying period of its history, there is danger
      that a large and valuable element of the Negro race may become discouraged
      in the effort to better its condition. Every possible influence should be
      exerted to prevent this.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fourth. There is a possibility that harm may be done to the South and to
      the Negro by exaggerated newspaper articles which are written near the
      scene or in the midst of specially aggravating occurrences. Often these
      reports are written by newspaper men, who give the impression that there
      is a race conflict throughout the South, and that all Southern white
      people are opposed to the Negro's progress; overlooking the fact that
      though in some sections there is trouble, in most parts of the South, if
      matters are not yet in all respects as we would have them, there is
      nevertheless a very large measure of peace, good will, and mutual
      helpfulness. In the same relation, much can be done to retard the progress
      of the Negro by a certain class of Southern white people, who in the midst
      of excitement speak or write in a manner that gives the impression that
      all Negroes are lawless, untrustworthy, and shiftless. For example, a
      Southern writer said, not long ago, in a communication to the New York
      Independent: "Even in small towns the husband cannot venture to leave his
      wife alone for an hour at night. At no time, in no place, is the white
      woman safe from the insults and assaults of these creatures." These
      statements, I presume, represented the feelings and the conditions that
      existed, at the time of the writing, in one community or county in the
      South; but thousands of Southern white men and women would be ready to
      testify that this is not the condition throughout the South, nor
      throughout any Southern state.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fifth. Owing to the lack of school opportunities for the Negro in the
      rural districts of the South, there is danger that ignorance and idleness
      may increase to the extent of giving the Negro race a reputation for
      crime, and that immorality may eat its way into the fibre of the race so
      as to retard its progress for many years. In judging the Negro we must not
      be too harsh. We must remember that it has been only within the last
      thirty-four years that the black father and mother have had the
      responsibility, and consequently the experience, of training their own
      children. That perfection has not been reached in one generation, with the
      obstacles that the parents have been compelled to overcome, is not to be
      wondered at.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sixth. Finally, I would mention my fear that some of the white people of
      the South may be led to feel that the way to settle the race problem is to
      repress the aspirations of the Negro by legislation of a kind that confers
      certain legal or political privileges upon an ignorant and poor white man,
      and withholds the same privileges from a black man in a similar condition.
      Such legislation injures and retards the progress of both races. It is an
      injustice to the poor white man, because it takes from him incentive to
      secure education and property as prerequisites for voting. He feels that
      because he is a white man, regardless of his possessions, a way will be
      found for him to vote. I would label all such measures "laws to keep the
      poor white man in ignorance and poverty."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Talladega News Reporter, a Democratic newspaper of Alabama, recently
      said: "But it is a weak cry when the white man asks odds on intelligence
      over the Negro. When nature has already so handicapped the African in the
      race for knowledge, the cry of the boasted Anglo-Saxon for still further
      odds seems babyish. What wonder that the world looks on in surprise, if
      not disgust? It cannot help but say, If our contention be true that the
      Negro is an inferior race, then the odds ought to be on the other side, if
      any are to be given. And why not? No; the thing to do&mdash;the only thing
      that will stand the test of time&mdash;is to do right, exactly right, let
      come what will. And that right thing, as it seems to us, is to place a
      fair educational qualification before every citizen,&mdash;one that is
      self-testing, and not dependent on the wishes of weak men,&mdash;letting
      all who pass the test stand in the proud ranks of American voters, whose
      votes shall be counted as cast, and whose sovereign will shall be
      maintained as law by all the powers that be. Nothing short of this will
      do. Every exemption, on whatsoever ground, is an outrage that can only rob
      some legitimate voter of his rights."
    </p>
    <p>
      Such laws have been made,&mdash;in Mississippi, for example,&mdash;with
      the "understanding" clause, hold out a temptation for the election officer
      to perjure and degrade himself by too often deciding that the ignorant
      white man does understand the Constitution when it is read to him, and
      that the ignorant black man does not. By such a law, the state not only
      commits a wrong against its black citizens; it injures the morals of its
      white citizens by conferring such a power upon any white man who may
      happen to be a judge of elections.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such laws are hurtful, again, because they keep alive in the heart of the
      black man the feeling that the white man means to oppress him. The only
      safe way out is to set a high standard as a test of citizenship, and
      require blacks and whites alike to come up to it. When this is done, both
      will have a higher respect for the election laws, and for those who make
      them. I do not believe that, with his centuries of advantage over the
      Negro in the opportunity to acquire property and education as
      prerequisites for voting, the average white man in the South desires that
      any special law be passed to give him further advantage over one who has
      had but a little more than thirty years in which to prepare himself for
      citizenship. In this relation, another point of danger is that the Negro
      has been made to feel that it is his duty continually to oppose the
      Southern white man in politics, even in matters where no principle is
      involved; and that he is only loyal to his own race and acting in a manly
      way in thus opposing the white man. Such a policy has proved very hurtful
      to both races. Where it is a matter of principle, where a question of
      right or wrong is involved, I would advise the Negro to stand by principle
      at all hazards. A Southern white man has no respect for or confidence in a
      Negro who acts merely for policy's sake; but there are many cases, and the
      number is growing, where the Negro has nothing to gain, and much to lose,
      by opposing the Southern white man in matters that relate to government.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under the foregoing six heads I believe I have stated some of the main
      points which, all high-minded white men and black men, North and South,
      will agree, need our most earnest and thoughtful consideration, if we
      would hasten, and not hinder, the progress of our country.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now as to the policy that should be pursued. On this subject I claim to
      possess no superior wisdom or unusual insight. I may be wrong; I may be in
      some degree right.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the future we want to impress upon the Negro, more than we have done in
      the past, the importance of identifying himself more closely with the
      interests of the South; of making himself part of the South, and at home
      in it. Heretofore, for reasons which were natural, and for which no one is
      especially to blame, the colored people have been too much like a foreign
      nation residing in the midst of another nation. If William Lloyd Garrison,
      Wendell Phillips, or George L. Stearns were alive to-day, I feel sure that
      he would advise the Negroes to identify their interests as closely as
      possible with those of their white neighbors,&mdash;always understanding
      that no question of right and wrong is involved. In no other way, it seems
      to me, can we get a foundation for peace and progress. He who advises
      against this policy will advise the Negro to do that which no people in
      history, who have succeeded, have done. The white man, North or South, who
      advises the Negro against it advises him to do that which he himself has
      not done. The bed rock upon which every individual rests his chances for
      success in life is the friendship, the confidence, the respect, of his
      next-door neighbor in the little community in which he lives. The problem
      of the Negro in the South turns on whether he can make himself of such
      indispensable service to his neighbor and the community that no one can
      fill his place better in the body politic. There is at present no other
      safe course for the black man to pursue. If the Negro in the South has a
      friend in his white neighbor, and a still larger number of friends in his
      own community, he has a protection and a guarantee of his rights that will
      be more potent and more lasting than any our Federal Congress or any
      outside power can confer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The London Times, in a recent editorial discussing affairs in the
      Transvaal, where Englishmen have been denied certain privileges by the
      Boers, says: "England is too sagacious not to prefer a gradual reform from
      within, even should it be less rapid than most of us might wish, to the
      most sweeping redress of grievances imposed from without. Our object is to
      obtain fair play for the Outlanders, but the best way to do it is to
      enable them to help themselves." This policy, I think, is equally safe
      when applied to conditions in the South. The foreigner who comes to
      America identifies himself as soon as possible, in business, education,
      and politics, with the community in which he settles. We have a
      conspicuous example of this in the case of the Jews, who in the South, as
      well as in other parts of our country, have not always been justly
      treated; but the Jews have so woven themselves into the business and
      patriotic interests of the communities in which they live, have made
      themselves so valuable as citizens, that they have won a place in the
      South which they could have obtained in no other way. The Negro in Cuba
      has practically settled the race question there, because he has made
      himself a part of Cuba in thought and action.
    </p>
    <p>
      What I have tried to indicate cannot be accomplished by any sudden
      revolution of methods, but it does seem that the tendency should be more
      and more in this direction. Let me emphasize this by a practical example.
      The North sends thousands of dollars into the South every year for the
      education of the Negro. The teachers in most of the Southern schools
      supported by the North are Northern men and women of the highest Christian
      culture and most unselfish devotion. The Negro owes them a debt of
      gratitude which can never be paid. The various missionary societies in the
      North have done a work which to a large degree has proved the salvation of
      the South, and the results of it will appear more in future generations
      than in this. We have now reached the point, in the South, where, I
      believe, great good could be accomplished in changing the attitude of the
      white people toward the Negro, and of the Negro toward the whites, if a
      few Southern white teachers, of high character, would take an active
      interest in the work of our higher schools. Can this be done? Yes. The
      medical school connected with Shaw University at Raleigh, North Carolina,
      has from the first had as instructors and professors almost exclusively
      Southern white doctors who reside in Raleigh, and they have given the
      highest satisfaction. This gives the people of Raleigh the feeling that
      the school is theirs, and not something located in, but not a part of, the
      South. In Augusta, Georgia, the Payne Institute, one of the best colleges
      for our people, is officered and taught almost wholly by Southern white
      men and women. The Presbyterian Theological School at Tuscaloosa, Alabama,
      has only Southern white men as instructors. Some time ago, at the Calhoun
      School in Alabama, one of the leading white men in the county was given an
      important position; since then the feeling of the white people in the
      county has greatly changed toward the school.
    </p>
    <p>
      We must admit the stern fact that at present the Negro, through no choice
      of his own, is living in the midst of another race, which is far ahead of
      him in education, property, and experience; and further, that the Negro's
      present condition makes him dependent upon the white people for most of
      the things necessary to sustain life, as well as, in a large measure, for
      his education. In all history, those who have possessed the property and
      intelligence have exercised the greatest control in government, regardless
      of color, race, or geographical location. This being the case, how can the
      black man in the South improve his estate? And does the Southern white man
      want him to improve it? The latter part of this question I shall attempt
      to answer later in this article.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Negro in the South has it within his power, if he properly utilizes
      the forces at land, to make of himself such a valuable factor in the life
      of the South that for the most part he need not seek privileges, but they
      will be conferred upon him. To bring this about, the Negro must begin at
      the bottom and lay a sure foundation, and not be lured by any temptation
      into trying to rise on a false footing. While the Negro is laying this
      foundation, he will need help and sympathy and justice from the law.
      Progress by any other method will be but temporary and superficial, and
      the end of it will be worse than the beginning. American slavery was a
      great curse to both races, and I should be the last to apologize for it;
      but in the providence of God I believe that slavery laid the foundation
      for the solution of the problem that is now before us in the South. Under
      slavery, the Negro was taught every trade, every industry, that furnishes
      the means of earning a living. Now if on this foundation, laid in a rather
      crude way, it is true, but a foundation nevertheless, we can gradually
      grow and improve, the future for us is bright. Let me be more specific.
      Agriculture is or has been the basic industry of nearly every race or
      nation that has succeeded. The Negro got a knowledge of this under
      slavery: hence in a large measure he is in possession of this industry in
      the South to-day. Taking the whole South, I should say that eighty per
      cent of the Negroes live by agriculture in some form, though it is often a
      very primitive and crude form. The Negro can buy land in the South, as a
      rule, wherever the white man can buy it, and at very low prices. Now,
      since the bulk of our people already have a foundation in agriculture, are
      at their best when living in the country engaged in agricultural pursuits,
      plainly, the best thing, the logical thing, is to turn the larger part of
      our strength in a direction that will put the Negroes among the most
      skilled agricultural people in the world. The man who has learned to do
      something better than any one else, has learned to do a common thing in an
      uncommon manner, has power and influence which no adverse surroundings can
      take from him. It is better to show a man how to make a place for himself
      than to put him in one that some one else has made for him. The Negro who
      can make himself so conspicuous as a successful farmer, a large taxpayer,
      a wise helper of his fellow men, as to be placed in a position of trust
      and honor by natural selection, whether the position be political or not,
      is a hundredfold more secure in that position than one placed there by
      mere outside force or pressure. I know a Negro, Hon. Isaiah T. Montgomery,
      in Mississippi, who is mayor of a town; it is true that the town is
      composed almost wholly of Negroes. Mr. Montgomery is mayor of this town
      because his genius, thrift, and foresight have created it; and he is held
      and supported in his office by a charter granted by the state of
      Mississippi, and by the vote and public sentiment of the community in
      which he lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let us help the Negro by every means possible to acquire such an education
      in farming, dairying, stock-raising, horticulture, etc., as will place him
      near the top in these industries, and the race problem will in a large
      part be settled, or at least stripped of many of its most perplexing
      elements. This policy would also tend to keep the Negro in the country and
      smaller towns, where he succeeds best, and stop the influx into the large
      cities, where he does not succeed so well. The race, like the individual,
      which produces something of superior worth that has a common human
      interest, wins a permanent place, and is bound to be recognized.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a county fair in the South, not long ago, I saw a Negro awarded the
      first prize, by a jury of white men, over white competitors, for the
      production of the best specimen of Indian corn. Every white man at the
      fair seemed to be proud of the achievement of the Negro, because it was
      apparent that he had done something that would add to the wealth and
      comfort of the people of both races in that county. At the Tuskegee Normal
      and Industrial Institute, in Alabama, we have a department devoted to
      training men along the lines of agriculture that I have named; but what we
      are doing is small when compared with what should be done in Tuskegee, and
      at other educational centres. In a material sense the South is still an
      undeveloped country. While in some other affairs race prejudice is
      strongly marked, in the matter of business, of commercial and industrial
      development, there are few obstacles in the Negro's way. A Negro who
      produces or has for sale something that the community wants finds
      customers among white people as well as black. Upon equal security, a
      Negro can borrow money at the bank as readily as a white man can. A bank
      in Birmingham, Alabama, which has existed ten years, is officered and
      controlled wholly by Negroes. This bank has white borrowers and white
      depositors. A graduate of the Tuskegee Institute keeps a well-appointed
      grocery store in Tuskegee, and he tells me that he sells about as many
      goods to one race as to the other. What I have said of the opening that
      awaits the Negro in the business of agriculture is almost equally true of
      mechanics, manufacturing, and all the domestic arts. The field is before
      him and right about him. Will he seize upon it? Will he "cast down his
      bucket where he is"? Will his friends, North and South, encourage him and
      prepare him to occupy it? Every city in the South, for example, would give
      support to a first-class architect or housebuilder or contractor of our
      race. The architect or contractor would not only receive support, but
      through his example numbers of young colored men would learn such trades
      as carpentry, brickmasonry, plastering, painting, etc., and the race would
      be put into a position to hold on to many of the industries which it is
      now in danger of losing, because in too many cases brain, skill, and
      dignity are not imparted to the common occupations. Any individual or race
      that does not fit itself to occupy in the best manner the field or service
      that is right about it will sooner or later be asked to move on and let
      another take it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But I may be asked, Would you confine the Negro to agriculture, mechanics,
      the domestic arts, etc.? Not at all; but just now and for a number of
      years the stress should be laid along the lines that I have mentioned. We
      shall need and must have many teachers and ministers, some doctors and
      lawyers and statesmen, but these professional men will have a constituency
      or a foundation from which to draw support just in proportion as the race
      prospers along the economic lines that I have pointed out. During the
      first fifty or one hundred years of the life of any people, are not the
      economic occupations always given the greater attention? This is not only
      the historic, but, I think, the common-sense view. If this generation will
      lay the material foundation, it will be the quickest and surest way for
      enabling later generations to succeed in the cultivation of the fine arts,
      and to surround themselves with some of the luxuries of life, if desired.
      What the race most needs now, in my opinion, is a whole army of men and
      women well-trained to lead, and at the same time devote themselves to
      agriculture, mechanics, domestic employment, and business. As to the
      mental training that these educated leaders should be equipped with, I
      should say, give them all the mental training and culture that the
      circumstances of individuals will allow,&mdash;the more the better. No
      race can permanently succeed until its mind is awakened and strengthened
      by the ripest thought. But I would constantly have it kept in the minds of
      those who are educated in books that a large proportion of those who are
      educated should be so trained in hand that they can bring this mental
      strength and knowledge to bear upon the physical conditions in the South,
      which I have tried to emphasize.
    </p>
    <p>
      Frederick Douglass, of sainted memory, once, in addressing his race, used
      these words: "We are to prove that we can better our own condition. One
      way to do this is to accumulate property. This may sound to you like a new
      gospel. You have been accustomed to hear that money is the root of all
      evil, etc.; on the other hand, property, money, if you please, will
      purchase for us the only condition by which any people can rise to the
      dignity of genuine manhood; for without property there can be no leisure,
      without leisure there can be no thought, without thought there can be no
      invention, without invention there can be no progress."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Negro should be taught that material development is not an end, but
      merely a means to an end. As professor W. E. B. Du Bois puts it, the idea
      should not be simply to make men carpenters, but to make carpenters men.
      The Negro has a highly religious temperament; but what he needs more and
      more is to be convinced of the importance of weaving his religion and
      morality into the practical affairs of daily life. Equally does he need to
      be taught to put so much intelligence into his labor that he will see
      dignity and beauty in the occupation, and love it for its own sake. The
      Negro needs to be taught to apply more of the religion that manifests
      itself in his happiness in prayer meeting to the performance of his daily
      task. The man who owns a home, and is in the possession of the elements by
      which he is sure of a daily living, has a great aid to a moral and
      religious life. What bearing will all this have upon the Negro's place in
      the South, as a citizen and in the enjoyment of the privileges which our
      government confers?
    </p>
    <p>
      To state in detail just what place the black man will occupy in the South
      as a citizen, when he has developed in the direction named, is beyond the
      wisdom of any one. Much will depend upon the sense of justice which can be
      kept alive in the breast of the American people; almost as much will
      depend upon the good sense of the Negro himself. That question, I confess,
      does not give me the most concern just now. The important and pressing
      question is, Will the Negro, with his own help and that of his friends,
      take advantage of the opportunities that surround him? When he has done
      this, I believe, speaking of his future in general terms, that he will be
      treated with justice, be given the protection of the law and the
      recognition which his usefulness and ability warrant. If, fifty years ago,
      one had predicted that the Negro would receive the recognition and honor
      which individuals have already received, he would have been laughed at as
      an idle dreamer. Time, patience, and constant achievement are great
      factors in the rise of a race.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not believe that the world ever takes a race seriously, in its desire
      to share in the government of a nation, until a large number of individual
      members of that race have demonstrated beyond question their ability to
      control and develop their own business enterprises. Once a number of
      Negroes rise to the point where they own and operate the most successful
      farms, are among the largest taxpayers in their county, are moral and
      intelligent, I do not believe that in many portions of the South such men
      need long be denied the right of saying by their votes how they prefer
      their property to be taxed, and who are to make and administer the laws.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was walking the street of a certain town in the South lately in company
      with the most prominent Negro there. While we were together, the mayor of
      the town sought out the black man, and said, "Next week we are going to
      vote on the question of issuing bonds to secure water-works; you must be
      sure to vote on the day of election." The mayor did not suggest whether he
      should vote yes or no; but he knew that the very fact of this Negro's
      owning nearly a block of the most valuable property in the town was a
      guarantee that he would cast a safe, wise vote on this important
      proposition. The white man knew that because of this Negro's property
      interests he would cast his vote in the way he thought would benefit every
      white and black citizen in the town, and not be controlled by influences a
      thousand miles away. But a short time ago I read letters from nearly every
      prominent white man in Birmingham, Alabama, asking that the Rev. W. R.
      Pettiford, a Negro, be appointed to a certain important federal office.
      What is the explanation of this? For nine years Mr. Pettiford has been the
      president of the Negro bank in Birmingham, to which I have alluded. During
      these nine years, the white citizens have had the opportunity of seeing
      that Mr. Pettiford can manage successfully a private business, and that he
      has proved himself a conservative, thoughtful citizen, and they are
      willing to trust him in a public office. Such individual examples will
      have to be multiplied, till they become more nearly the rule than the
      exception they now are. While we are multiplying these examples, the Negro
      must keep a strong and courageous heart. He cannot improve his condition
      by any short-cut course or by artificial methods. Above all, he must not
      be deluded into believing that his condition can be permanently bettered
      by a mere battledoor [sic] and shuttlecock of words, or by any process of
      mere mental gymnastics or oratory. What is desired along with a logical
      defense of his cause are deeds, results,&mdash;continued results, in the
      direction of building himself up, so as to leave no doubt in the mind of
      any one of his ability to succeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      An important question often asked is, Does the white man in the South want
      the Negro to improve his present condition? I say yes. From the Montgomery
      (Alabama) Daily Advertiser I clip the following in reference to the
      closing of a colored school in a town in Alabama:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "EUFALA, May 25, 1899. The closing exercises of the city colored public
      school were held at St. Luke's A. M. E. Church last night, and were
      witnessed by a large gathering, including many whites. The recitations by
      the pupils were excellent, and the music was also an interesting feature.
      Rev. R. T. Pollard delivered the address, which was quite an able one, and
      the certificates were presented by Professor T. L. McCoy, white, of the
      Sanford Street School. The success of the exercises reflects great credit
      on Professor S. M. Murphy, the principal, who enjoys a deserved good
      reputation as a capable and efficient educator."
    </p>
    <p>
      I quote this report, not because it is the exception, but because such
      marks of interest in the education of the Negro on the part of the
      Southern white people may be seen almost every day in the local papers.
      Why should white people, by their presence, words, and actions, encourage
      the black man to get education, if they do not desire him to improve his
      condition?
    </p>
    <p>
      The Payne Institute, an excellent college, to which I have already
      referred, is supported almost wholly by the Southern white Methodist
      church. The Southern white Presbyterians support a theological school for
      Negroes at Tuscaloosa. For a number of years the Southern white Baptists
      have contributed toward Negro education. Other denominations have done the
      same. If these people do not want the Negro educated to a higher standard,
      there is no reason why they should pretend they do.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though some of the lynchings in the South have indicated a barbarous
      feeling toward Negroes, Southern white men here and there, as well as
      newspapers, have spoken out strongly against lynching. I quote from the
      address of the Rev. Mr. Vance, of Nashville, Tennessee, delivered before
      the National Sunday School Union, in Atlanta, not long since, as an
      example:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "And yet, as I stand here to-night, a Southerner speaking for my section
      and addressing an audience from all sections, there is one foul blot upon
      the fair fame of the South, at the bare mention of which the heart turns
      sick and the cheek is crimsoned with shame. I want to lift my voice
      to-night in loud and long and indignant protest against the awful horror
      of mob violence, which the other day reached the climax of its madness and
      infamy in a deed as black and brutal and barbarous as can be found in the
      annals of human crime.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have a right to speak on the subject, and I propose to be heard. The
      time has come for every lover of the South to set the might of an angered
      and resolute manhood against the shame and peril of the lynch demon. These
      people whose fiendish glee taunts their victim as his flesh crackles in
      the flames do not represent the South. I have not a syllable of apology
      for the sickening crime they meant to avenge. But it is high time we were
      learning that lawlessness is no remedy for crime. For one, I dare to
      believe that the people of my section are able to cope with crime, however
      treacherous and defiant, through their courts of justice; and I plead for
      the masterful sway of a righteous and exalted public sentiment that shall
      class lynch law in the category with crime."
    </p>
    <p>
      It is a notable and encouraging fact that no Negro educated in any of our
      larger institutions of learning in the South has been charged with any of
      the recent crimes connected with assaults upon women.
    </p>
    <p>
      If we go on making progress in the directions that I have tried to
      indicate, more and more the South will be drawn to one course. As I have
      already said, it is not to the best interests of the white race of the
      South that the Negro be deprived of any privilege guaranteed him by the
      Constitution of the United States. This would put upon the South a burden
      under which no government could stand and prosper. Every article in our
      Federal Constitution was placed there with a view of stimulating and
      encouraging the highest type of citizenship. To continue to tax the Negro
      without giving him the right to vote, as fast as he qualifies himself in
      education and property for voting, would insure the alienation of the
      affections of the Negro from the state in which he lives, and would be the
      reversal of the fundamental principles of government for which our states
      have stood. In other ways than this the injury would be as great to the
      white man as to the Negro. Taxation without the hope of becoming voters
      would take away from one third of the citizens of the Gulf states their
      interest in government, and a stimulus to become taxpayers or to secure
      education, and thus be able and willing to bear their share of the cost of
      education and government, which now rests so heavily upon the white
      taxpayers of the South. The more the Negro is stimulated and encouraged,
      the sooner will he be able to bear a larger share of the burdens of the
      South. We have recently had before us an example, in the case of Spain, of
      a government that left a large portion of its citizens in ignorance, and
      neglected their highest interests.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I have said elsewhere: "There is no escape, through law of man or God,
      from the inevitable.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   'The laws of changeless justice bind
    Oppressor with oppressed;
   And close as sin and suffering joined
    We march to fate abreast.'
</pre>
    <p>
      Nearly sixteen millions of hands will aid you in pulling the load upwards,
      or they will pull the load downwards against you. We shall constitute one
      third and more of the ignorance and crime of the South, or one third of
      its intelligence and progress; we shall contribute one third to the
      business and industrial prosperity of the South, or we shall prove a
      veritable body of death, stagnating, depressing, retarding every effort to
      advance the body politic."
    </p>
    <p>
      My own feeling is that the South will gradually reach the point where it
      will see the wisdom and the justice of enacting an educational or property
      qualification, or both, for voting, that shall be made to apply honestly
      to both races. The industrial development of the Negro in connection with
      education and Christian character will help to hasten this end. When this
      is done, we shall have a foundation, in my opinion, upon which to build a
      government that is honest, and that will be in a high degree satisfactory
      to both races.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not suffer myself to take too optimistic a view of the conditions in
      the South. The problem is a large and serious one, and will require the
      patient help, sympathy, and advice of our most patriotic citizens, North
      and South, for years to come. But I believe that if the principles which I
      have tried to indicate are followed, a solution of the question will come.
      So long as the Negro is permitted to get education, acquire property, and
      secure employment, and is treated with respect in the business world, as
      is now true in the greater part of the South, I shall have the greatest
      faith in his working out his own destiny in our Southern states. The
      education and preparation for citizenship of nearly eight millions of
      people is a tremendous task, and every lover of humanity should count it a
      privilege to help in the solution of a problem for which our whole country
      is responsible.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      HOT-FOOT HANNIBAL by Charles W. Chesnutt
    </h2>
    <p>
      "I hate and despise you! I wish never to see you or speak to you again!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very well; I will take care that henceforth you have no opportunity to do
      either."
    </p>
    <p>
      These words&mdash;the first in the passionately vibrant tones of my
      sister-in-law, and the latter in the deeper and more restrained accents of
      an angry man&mdash;startled me from my nap. I had been dozing in my
      hammock on the front piazza, behind the honeysuckle vine. I had been
      faintly aware of a buzz of conversation in the parlor, but had not at all
      awakened to its import until these sentences fell, or, I might rather say,
      were hurled upon my ear. I presume the young people had either not seen me
      lying there,&mdash;the Venetian blinds opening from the parlor windows
      upon the piazza were partly closed on account of the heat,&mdash;or else
      in their excitement they had forgotten my proximity.
    </p>
    <p>
      I felt somewhat concerned. The young man, I had remarked, was proud, firm,
      jealous of the point of honor, and, from my observation of him, quite
      likely to resent to the bitter end what he deemed a slight or an
      injustice. The girl, I knew, was quite as high-spirited as young
      Murchison. I feared she was not so just, and hoped she would prove more
      yielding. I knew that her affections were strong and enduring, but that
      her temperament was capricious, and her sunniest moods easily overcast by
      some small cloud of jealousy or pique. I had never imagined, however, that
      she was capable of such intensity as was revealed by these few words of
      hers. As I say, I felt concerned. I had learned to like Malcolm Murchison,
      and had heartily consented to his marriage with my ward; for it was in
      that capacity that I had stood for a year or two to my wife's younger
      sister, Mabel. The match thus rudely broken off had promised to be another
      link binding me to the kindly Southern people among whom I had not long
      before taken up my residence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Murchison came out of the door, cleared the piazza in two strides
      without seeming aware of my presence, and went off down the lane at a
      furious pace. A few moments later Mabel began playing the piano loudly,
      with a touch that indicated anger and pride and independence and a dash of
      exultation, as though she were really glad that she had driven away
      forever the young man whom the day before she had loved with all the ardor
      of a first passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      I hoped that time might heal the breach and bring the two young people
      together again. I told my wife what I had overheard. In return she gave me
      Mabel's version of the affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not see how it can ever be settled," my wife said. "It is something
      more than a mere lovers' quarrel. It began, it is true, because she found
      fault with him for going to church with that hateful Branson girl. But
      before it ended there were things said that no woman of any spirit could
      stand. I am afraid it is all over between them."
    </p>
    <p>
      I was sorry to hear this. In spite of the very firm attitude taken by my
      wife and her sister, I still hoped that the quarrel would be made up
      within a day or two. Nevertheless, when a week had passed with no word
      from young Murchison, and with no sign of relenting on Mabel's part, I
      began to think myself mistaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      One pleasant afternoon, about ten days after the rupture, old Julius drove
      the rockaway up to the piazza, and my wife, Mabel, and I took our seats
      for a drive to a neighbor's vineyard, over on the Lumberton plankroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Which way shall we go," I asked,&mdash;"the short road or the long one?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I guess we had better take the short road," answered my wife. "We will
      get there sooner."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's a mighty fine dribe roun' by de big road, Mis' Annie," observed
      Julius, "en it doan take much longer to git dere."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," said my wife, "I think we will go by the short road. There is a bay
      tree in blossom near the mineral spring, and I wish to get some of the
      flowers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I 'spec's you'd find some bay trees 'long de big road, ma'am," said
      Julius.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I know about the flowers on the short road, and they are the ones I
      want."
    </p>
    <p>
      We drove down the lane to the highway, and soon struck into the short road
      leading past the mineral spring. Our route lay partly through a swamp, and
      on each side the dark, umbrageous foliage, unbroken by any clearing, lent
      to the road solemnity, and to the air a refreshing coolness. About half a
      mile from the house, and about halfway to the mineral spring, we stopped
      at the tree of which my wife had spoken, and reaching up to the
      low-hanging boughs I gathered a dozen of the fragrant white flowers. When
      I resumed my seat in the rockaway, Julius started the mare. She went on
      for a few rods, until we had reached the edge of a branch crossing the
      road, when she stopped short.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why did you stop, Julius?" I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I didn', suh," he replied. "'T wuz de mare stop'. G' 'long dere, Lucy!
      W'at you mean by dis foolis'ness?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julius jerked the reins and applied the whip lightly, but the mare did not
      stir.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps you had better get down and lead her," I suggested. "If you get
      her started, you can cross on the log and keep your feet dry."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julius alighted, took hold of the bridle, and vainly essayed to make the
      mare move. She planted her feet with even more evident obstinacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what to make of this," I said. "I have never known her to
      balk before. Have you, Julius?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, suh," replied the old man, "I nebber has. It's a cu'ous thing ter me,
      suh."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What's the best way to make her go?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I 'spec's, suh, dat ef I'd tu'n her roun' she'd go de udder way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But we want her to go this way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, suh, I 'low ef we des set heah fo' er fibe minutes, she'll sta't up
      by herse'f."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All right," I rejoined, "it is cooler here than any place I have struck
      to-day. We'll let her stand for a while, and see what she does."
    </p>
    <p>
      We had sat in silence for a few minutes, when Julius suddenly ejaculated,
      "Uh huh! I knows w'y dis mare doan go. It des flash 'cross my
      reccommemb'ance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why is it, Julius?" I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ca'se she sees Chloe."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where is Chloe?" I demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Chloe's done be'n dead dese fo'ty years er mo'," the old man returned.
      "Her ha'nt is settin' ober yander on de udder side er de branch, unner dat
      willer tree, dis blessed minute."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, Julius!" said my wife, "do you see the haunt?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No'm," he answered, shaking his head, "I doan see 'er, but de mare sees
      'er."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How do you know?" I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, suh, dis yer is a gray hoss, en dis yer is a Friday; en a gray hoss
      kin alluz see a ha'nt w'at walks on Friday."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who was Chloe?" said Mabel.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why does Chloe's haunt walk?" asked my wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's all in de tale, ma'am," Julius replied, with a deep sigh. "It's all
      in de tale."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell us the tale," I said. "Perhaps, by the time you get through, the
      haunt will go away and the mare will cross."
    </p>
    <p>
      I was willing to humor the old man's fancy. He had not told us a story for
      some time; and the dark and solemn swamp around us; the amber-colored
      stream flowing silently and sluggishly at our feet, like the waters of
      Lethe; the heavy, aromatic scent of the bays, faintly suggestive of
      funeral wreaths,&mdash;all made the place an ideal one for a ghost story.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Chloe," Julius began in a subdued tone, "use' ter b'long ter ole Mars'
      Dugal' McAdoo&mdash;my ole marster. She wuz a ladly gal en a smart gal, en
      ole mis' tuk her up ter de big house, en l'arnt her ter wait on de w'ite
      folks, 'tel bimeby she come ter be mis's own maid, en 'peared ter 'low she
      run de house herse'f, ter heah her talk erbout it. I wuz a young boy den,
      en use' ter wuk about de stables, so I knowed ev'ythin' dat wuz gwine on
      roun' de plantation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, one time Mars' Dugal' wanted a house boy, en sont down ter de
      qua'ters fer hab Jeff en Hannibal come up ter de big house nex' mawnin'.
      Ole marster en ole mis' look' de two boys ober, en 'sco'sed wid deyse'ves
      fer a little w'ile, en den Mars' Dugal' sez, sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'We laks Hannibal de bes', en we gwine ter keep him. Heah, Hannibal,
      you'll wuk at de house fum now on. En ef you're a good nigger en min's yo'
      bizness, I'll gib you Chloe fer a wife nex' spring. You other nigger, you
      Jeff, you kin go back ter de qua'ters. We ain' gwine ter need you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now Chloe had be'n standin' dere behin' ole mis' dyoin' all er dis yer
      talk, en Chloe made up her min' fum de ve'y fus' minute she sot eyes on
      dem two dat she didn' lak dat nigger Hannibal, en wa'n't nebber gwine keer
      fer 'im, en she wuz des ez sho' dat she lak Jeff, en wuz gwine ter set
      sto' by 'im, whuther Mars' Dugal' tuk 'im in de big house er no; en so
      co'se Chloe wuz monst'us sorry w'en ole Mars' Dugal' tuk Hannibal en sont
      Jeff back. So she slip' roun' de house en waylaid Jeff on de way back ter
      de qua'ters en tol' 'im not ter be downhea'ted, fer she wuz gwine ter see
      ef she couldn' fin' some way er 'nuther ter git rid er dat nigger
      Hannibal, en git Jeff up ter de house in his place.
    </p>
    <p>
      "De noo house boy kotch on monst'us fas', en it wa'n't no time ha'dly
      befo' Mars' Dugal' en ole mis' bofe 'mence' ter 'low Hannibal wuz de bes'
      house boy dey eber had. He wuz peart en soopl', quick ez lightnin', en
      sha'p ez a razor. But Chloe didn' lak his ways. He wuz so sho' he wuz
      gwine ter git 'er in de spring, dat he didn' 'pear ter 'low he had ter do
      any co'tin', en w'en he'd run 'cross Chloe 'bout de house, he'd swell
      roun' 'er in a biggity way en say:
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Come heah en kiss me, honey. You gwine ter be mine in de spring. You
      doan 'pear ter be ez fon' er me ez you oughter be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Chloe didn' keer nuffin' fer Hannibal, en hadn' keered nuffin' fer 'im,
      en she sot des ez much sto' by Jeff ez she did de day she fus' laid eyes
      on 'im. En de mo' fermilyus dis yer Hannibal got, de mo' Chloe let her
      min' run on Jeff, en one ebenin' she went down ter de qua'ters en watch',
      'tel she got a chance fer ter talk wid 'im by hisse'f. En she tol' Jeff
      fer ter go down en see ole Aun' Peggy, de cunjuh-'oman down by de
      Wim'l'ton Road, en ax her fer ter gib 'im sump'n ter he'p git Hannibal
      out'n de big house, so de w'ite folks 'u'd sen' fer Jeff ag'in. En bein'
      ez Jeff didn' hab nuffin' ter gib Aun' Peggy, Chloe gun i'm a silber
      dollah en a silk han'kercher fer ter pay her wid, fer Aun' Peggy nebber
      lak ter wuk fer nobody fer nuffin'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So Jeff slip' off down ter Aun' Peggy's one night, en gun 'er de presents
      he brung, en tol' er all 'bout 'im en Chloe en Hannibal, en ax' 'er ter
      he'p 'im out. Aun' Peggy tol' 'im she'd wuk 'er roots, en fer 'im ter come
      back de nex' night, en she'd tell 'im w'at she c'd do fer 'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So de nex' night Jeff went back, en Aun' Peggy gun 'im a baby-doll, wid a
      body made out'n a piece er co'n-stalk, en wid splinters fer a'ms en legs,
      en a head made out'n elderberry peth, en two little red peppers fer feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Dis yer baby-doll,' sez she, 'is Hannibal. Dis yer peth head is
      Hannibal's head, en dese yer pepper feet is Hannibal's feet. You take dis
      en hide it unner de house, on de sill unner de do', whar Hannibal'll
      hafter walk ober it ev'y day. En ez long ez Hannibal comes anywhar nigh
      dis baby-doll, he'll be des lak it is&mdash;light-headed en hot-footed; en
      ef dem two things doan git 'im inter trouble mighty soon, den I'm no
      cunjuh-'oman. But w'en you git Hannibal out'n de house, en git all thoo
      wid dis baby-doll, you mus' fetch it back ter me, fer it's monst'us
      powerful goopher, en is liable ter make mo' trouble ef you leabe it layin'
      roun'.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Jeff tuk de baby-doll, en slip' up ter de big house, en whistle'
      ter Chloe, en w'en she come out he tol' 'er w'at ole Aun' Peggy had said.
      En Chloe showed 'im how ter git unner de house, en w'en he had put de
      cunjuh-doll on de sill he went 'long back ter de qua'ters&mdash;en des
      waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nex' day, sho' 'nuff, de goopher 'mence' ter wuk. Hannibal sta'ted in de
      house soon in de mawnin' wid a armful er wood ter make a fier, en he hadn'
      mo' d'n got 'cross de do'sill befo' his feet begun ter bu'n so dat he
      drap' de armful er wood on de flo' en woke ole mis' up an hour sooner'n
      yuzhal, en co'se ole mis' didn' lak dat, en spoke sha'p erbout it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en dinner-time come, en Hannibal wuz help'n de cook kyar de dinner f'm
      de kitchen inter de big house, en wuz gittin' close ter de do' what he had
      ter go in, his feet sta'ted ter bu'n en his head begun ter swim, en he let
      de big dish er chicken en dumplin's fall right down in de dirt, in de
      middle er de ya'd, en de w'ite folks had ter make dey dinner dat day off'n
      col' ham en sweet pertaters.
    </p>
    <p>
      "De nex' mawnin' he overslep' hisse'f, en got inter mo' trouble. Atter
      breakfus', Mars' Dugal' sont 'im ober ter Mars' Marrabo Utley's fer ter
      borry a monkey wrench. He oughter be'n back in ha'f an hour, but he come
      pokin' home 'bout dinner'time wid a screw-driver stidder a monkey wrench.
      Mars' Dugal' sont ernudder nigger back wid de screw-driver, en Hannibal
      didn' git no dinner. 'Long in de atternoon, ole mis' sot Hannibal ter
      weedin' de flowers in de front gyahden, en Hannibal dug up all de bulbs
      ole mis' had sont erway fer, en paid a lot er money fer, en tuk 'em down
      ter de hawg-pen by de ba'nya'd, en fed 'em ter de hawgs. W'en ole mis'
      come out in de cool er de ebenin', en seed w'at Hannibal had done, she wuz
      mos' crazy, en she wrote a note en sont Hannibal down ter de obserseah wid
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But w'at Hannibal got fum de oberseah didn' 'pear ter do no good. Ev'y
      now en den 'is feet'd 'mence ter torment 'im, en 'is min' 'u'd git all
      mix' up, en his conduc' kep' gittin' wusser en wusser, 'tel fin'ly de
      w'ite folks couldn' stan' it no longer, en Mars' Dugal' tuk Hannibal back
      down ter de qua'ters.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Mr. Smif,' sez Mars' Dugal' ter de oberseah, 'dis yer nigger has tu'nt
      out so triflin' yer lately, dat we can't keep 'im at de house no mo', en
      I's fotch' 'im ter you ter be straighten' up. You's had 'casion ter deal
      wid 'im once, so he knows w'at ter expec'. You des take 'im in han', en
      lemme know how he tu'ns out. En w'en de han's comes in fum de fiel' dis
      ebenin' you kin sen' dat yaller nigger Jeff up ter de house. I'll try 'im,
      en see ef he's any better'n Hannibal.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "So Jeff went up ter de big house, en pleas' Mars' Dugal' en ole mis' en
      de res' er de fambly so well dat dey all got ter lakin' 'im fus'rate, en
      dey'd 'a' fergot all 'bout Hannibal ef it hadn' be'n fer de bad repo'ts
      w'at come up fum de qua'ters 'bout 'im fer a mont' er so. Fac' is dat
      Chloe en Jeff wuz so int'rusted in one ernudder since Jeff be'n up ter de
      house, dat dey fergot all about takin' de baby-doll back ter Aun' Peggy,
      en it kep' wukkin fer a w'ile, en makin' Hannibal's feet bu'n mo' er less,
      'tel all de folks on de plantation got ter callin' 'im Hot-Foot Hannibal.
      He kep' gittin' mo' en mo' triflin', 'tel he got de name er bein' de mos'
      no 'countes' nigger on de plantation, en Mars' Dugal' had ter th'eaten ter
      sell 'im in de spring; w'en bimeby de goopher quit wukkin', en Hannibal
      'mence' ter pick up some en make folks set a little mo' sto' by 'im.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, dis yer Hannibal was a monst'us sma't nigger, en w'en he got rid er
      dem so' feet his min' kep' runnin' on 'is udder troubles. Heah th'ee er
      fo' weeks befo' he'd had a' easy job, waitin' on de w'ite folks, libbin
      off'n de fat er de lan', en promus' de fines' gal on de plantation fer a
      wife in de spring, en now heah he wuz back in de co'nfiel', wid de
      oberseah a-cussin' en a r'arin' ef he didn' get a ha'd tas' done; wid
      nuffin' but co'n bread en bacon en merlasses ter eat; en all de fiel-han's
      makin' rema'ks, en pokin' fun at 'im ca'se he be'n sont back fum de big
      house ter de fiel'. En de mo' Hannibal studied 'bout it de mo' madder he
      got, 'tel he fin'ly swo' he wuz gwine ter git eben wid Jeff en Chloe ef it
      wuz de las' ac'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So Hannibal slipped 'way fum de qua'ters one Sunday en hid in de co'n up
      close ter de big house, 'tel he see Chloe gwine down de road. He waylaid
      her, en sezee:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Hoddy, Chloe?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I ain't got no time fer ter fool wid fiel'-han's,' sez Chloe, tossin'
      her head; 'W'at you want wid me, Hot-Foot?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I wants ter know how you en Jeff is gittin' 'long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I 'lows dat's none er yo' bizness, nigger. I doan see w'at 'casion any
      common fiel'-han' has got ter mix in wid de 'fairs er folks w'at libs in
      de big house. But ef it'll do you any good ter know, I mought say dat me
      en Jeff is gittin' 'long mighty well, en we gwine ter git married in de
      spring, en you ain' gwine ter be 'vited ter de weddin' nuther.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'No, no!' sezee, 'I wouldn' 'spec' ter be 'vited ter de weddin',&mdash;a
      common, low-down fiel'-han' lak I is. But I's glad ter heah you en Jeff is
      gittin' 'long so well. I didn' knowed but w'at he had 'mence' ter be a
      little ti'ed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Ti'ed er me? Dat's rediklus!' sez Chloe. 'W'y, dat nigger lubs me so I
      b'liebe he'd go th'oo fier en water fer me. Dat nigger is des wrop' up in
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Uh huh,' sez Hannibal, 'den I reckon is mus' be some udder nigger w'at
      meets a 'oman down by de crick in de swamp ev'y Sunday ebenin', ter say
      nuffin' 'bout two er th'ee times a week.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yas, hit is ernudder nigger, en you is a liah w'en you say it wuz Jeff.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Mebbe I is a liah, en mebbe I ain' got good eyes. But 'less'n I IS a
      liah, en 'less'n I AIN' got good eyes, Jeff is gwine ter meet dat 'oman
      dis ebenin' long 'bout eight o'clock right down dere by de crick in de
      swamp 'bout halfway betwix' dis plantation en Mars' Marrabo Utley's.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Chloe tol' Hannibal she didn' b'liebe a wud he said, en call' 'im a
      low-down nigger who wuz tryin' ter slander Jeff 'ca'se he wuz mo'
      luckier'n he wuz. But all de same, she couldn' keep her min' fum runnin'
      on w'at Hannibal had said. She 'membered she'd heared one er de niggers
      say dey wuz a gal ober at Mars' Marrabo Utley's plantation w'at Jeff use'
      ter go wid some befo' he got 'quainted wid Chloe. Den she 'mence' ter
      figger back, en sho' 'nuff, dey wuz two er th'ee times in de las' week
      w'en she'd be'n he'p'n de ladies wid dey dressin' en udder fixin's in de
      ebenin', en Jeff mought 'a' gone down ter de swamp widout her knowin'
      'bout it at all. En den she 'mence' ter 'member little things w'at she
      hadn' tuk no notice of befo', en w'at 'u'd make it 'pear lak Jeff had
      sump'n on his min'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Chloe set a monst'us heap er sto' by Jeff, en would 'a' done mos'
      anythin' fer 'im, so long ez he stuck ter her. But Chloe wuz a mighty
      jealous 'oman, en w'iles she didn' b'liebe w'at Hannibal said, she seed
      how it COULD 'a' be'n so, en she 'termine' fer ter fin' out fer herse'f
      whuther it WUZ so er no.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, Chloe hadn' seed Jeff all day, fer Mars' Dugal' had sont Jeff ober
      ter his daughter's house, young Mis' Ma'g'ret's, w'at libbed 'bout fo'
      miles fum Mars' Dugal's, en Jeff wuzn' 'spected home 'tel ebenin'. But des
      atter supper wuz ober, en w'iles de ladies wuz settin' out on de piazzer,
      Chloe slip' off fum de house en run down de road,&mdash;dis yer same road
      we come; en w'en she got mos' ter de crick&mdash;dis yer same crick right
      befo' us&mdash;she kin' er kip' in de bushes at de side er de road, 'tel
      fin'ly she seed Jeff settin' on de back on de udder side er de crick,&mdash;right
      under dat ole willer tree droopin' ober de watah yander. En ev'y now en
      den he'd git up en look up de road to'ds Mars' Marrabo's on de udder side
      er de swamp.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fus' Chloe felt lak she'd go right ober de crick en gib Jeff a piece er
      her min'. Den she 'lowed she better be sho' befo' she done anythin'. So
      she helt herse'f in de bes' she could, gittin' madder en madder ev'ry
      minute, 'tel bimeby she seed a 'oman comin' down de road on de udder side
      fum to'ds Mars' Marrabo Utley's plantation. En w'en she seed Jeff jump up
      en run to'ds dat 'oman, en th'ow his a'ms roun' her neck, po' Chloe didn'
      stop ter see no mo', but des tu'nt roun' en run up ter de house, en rush'
      up on de piazzer, en up en tol' Mars' Dugal' en ole mis' all 'bout de
      baby-doll, en all 'bout Jeff gittin' de goopher fum Aun' Peggy, en 'bout
      w'at de goopher had done ter Hannibal.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mars' Dugal' wuz monst'us mad. He didn' let on at fus' lak he b'liebed
      Chloe, but w'en she tuk en showed 'im whar ter fin' de baby-doll, Mars'
      Dugal' tu'nt w'ite ez chalk.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'What debil's wuk is dis?' sezee. 'No wonder de po' nigger's feet
      eetched. Sump'n got ter be done ter l'arn dat ole witch ter keep her han's
      off'n my niggers. En ez fer dis yer Jeff, I'm gwine ter do des w'at I
      promus', so de darkies on dis plantation'll know I means w'at I sez.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fer Mars' Dugal' had warned de han's befo' 'bout foolin' wid cunju'ation;
      fac', he had los' one er two niggers hisse'f fum dey bein' goophered, en
      he would 'a' had ole Aun' Peggy whip' long ago, on'y Aun' Peggy wuz a free
      'oman, en he wuz 'feard she'd cunjuh him. En wi'les Mars' Dugal' say he
      didn' b'liebe in cunj'in' en sich, he 'peared ter 'low it wuz bes' ter be
      on de safe side, en let Aun' Peggy alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So Mars' Dugal' done des ez he say. Ef ole mis' had ple'd fer Jeff he
      mought 'a' kep' 'im. But ole mis' hadn' got ober losin' dem bulbs yit, en
      she nebber said a wud. Mars' Dugal' tuk Jeff ter town nex' day en' sol'
      'im ter a spekilater, who sta'ted down de ribber wid 'im nex' mawnin' on a
      steamboat, fer ter take 'im ter Alabama.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, w'en Chloe tol' ole Mars' Dugal' 'bout dis yer baby-doll en dis
      udder goopher, she hadn' ha'dly 'lowed Mars' Dugal' would sell Jeff down
      Souf. Howsomeber, she wuz so mad wid Jeff dat she 'suaded herse'f she
      didn' keer; en so she hilt her head up en went roun' lookin' lak she wuz
      rale glad 'bout it. But one day she wuz walkin' down de road, w'en who
      sh'd come 'long but dis yer Hannibal.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en Hannibal seed 'er he bus' out laffin' fittin' fer ter kill: 'Yah,
      yah, yah! ho, ho, ho! ha, ha, ha! Oh, hol' me, honey, hol' me, er I'll laf
      myse'f ter def. I ain' nebber laf' so much sence I be'n bawn.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'W'at you laffin' at, Hot-Foot?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yah, yah, yah! W'at I laffin' at? W'y, I's laffin' at myse'f, tooby
      sho',&mdash;laffin' ter think w'at a fine 'oman I made.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Chloe tu'nt pale, en her hea't come up in her mouf.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'W'at you mean, nigger?' sez she, ketchin' holt er a bush by de road fer
      ter stiddy herse'f. 'W'at you mean by de kin' er 'oman you made?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'at do I mean? I means dat I got squared up wid you fer treatin' me de
      way you done, en I got eben wid dat yaller nigger Jeff fer cuttin' me out.
      Now, he's gwine ter know w'at it is ter eat co'n bread en merlasses once
      mo', en wuk fum daylight ter da'k, en ter hab a oberseah dribin' 'im fum
      one day's een' ter de udder. I means dat I sont wud ter Jeff dat Sunday
      dat you wuz gwine ter be ober ter Mars' Marrabo's visitin' dat ebenin', en
      you want i'm ter meet you down by de crick on de way home en go de rest er
      de road wid you. En den I put on a frock en a sun-bonnet en fix' myse'f up
      ter look lak a 'oman; en w'en Jeff seed me comin' he run ter meet me, en
      you seed 'im,&mdash;fer I had be'n watchin' in de bushes befo' en
      'skivered you comin' down de road. En now I reckon you en Jeff bofe knows
      w'at it means ter mess wid a nigger lak me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Po' Chloe hadn' heared mo' d'n half er de las' part er w'at Hannibal
      said, but she had heared 'nuff to l'arn dat dis nigger had fooler her en
      Jeff, en dat po' Jeff hadn' done nuffin', en dat fer lovin' her too much
      en goin' ter meet her she had cause' 'im ter be sol' erway whar she'd
      nebber, nebber see 'im no mo'. De sun mought shine by day, de moon by
      night, de flowers mought bloom, en de mawkin'-birds mought sing, but po'
      Jeff wuz done los' ter her fereber en fereber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hannibal hadn' mo' d'n finish' w'at he had ter say, w'en Chloe's knees
      gun 'way unner her, en she fell down in de road, en lay dere half a' hour
      er so befo' she come to. W'en she did, she crep' up ter de house des ez
      pale ez a ghos'. En fer a mont' er so she crawled roun' de house, en
      'peared ter be so po'ly dat Mars' Dugal' sont fer a doctor; en de doctor
      kep' on axin' her questions 'tel he foun' she wuz des pinin' erway fer
      Jeff.
    </p>
    <p>
      "W'en he tol' Mars' Dugal', Mars' Dugal' lafft, en said he'd fix dat. She
      could hab de noo house boy fer a husban'. But ole mis' say, no, Chloe ain'
      dat kinder gal, en dat Mars' Dugal' should buy Jeff back.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So Mars' Dugal' writ a letter ter dis yer spekilater down ter Wim'l'ton,
      en tol' ef he ain' done sol' dat nigger Souf w'at he bought fum 'im, he'd
      lak ter buy 'm back ag'in. Chloe 'mence' ter pick up a little w'en ole
      mis' tol' her 'bout dis letter. Howsomeber, bimeby Mars' Dugal' got a'
      answer fum de spekilater, who said he wuz monst'us sorry, but Jeff had
      fell ove'boa'd er jumped off'n de steamboat on de way ter Wim'l'ton, en
      got drownded, en co'se he couldn' sell 'im back, much ez he'd lak ter
      'bleedge Mars' Dugal'.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, atter Chloe heared dis she pu'tended ter do her wuk, en ole mis'
      wa'n't much mo' use ter nobody. She put up wid her, en hed de doctor gib
      her medicine, en let 'er go ter de circus, en all so'ts er things fer ter
      take her min' off'n her troubles. But dey didn' none un 'em do no good.
      Chloe got ter slippin' down here in de ebenin' des lak she 'uz comin' ter
      meet Jeff, en she'd set dere unner dat willer tree on de udder side, en
      wait fer 'im, night atter night. Bimeby she got so bad de w'ite folks sont
      her ober ter young Mis' Ma'g'ret's fer ter gib her a change; but she
      runned erway de fus' night, en w'en dey looked fer 'er nex' mawnin' dey
      foun' her co'pse layin' in de branch yander, right 'cross fum whar we're
      settin' now.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eber sence den," said Julius in conclusion, "Chloe's ha'nt comes eve'y
      ebenin' en sets down unner dat willer tree en waits fer Jeff, er e'se
      walks up en down de road yander, lookin' en lookin', en' [sic] waitin' en
      waitin', fer her sweethea't w'at ain' nebber, nebber come back ter her no
      mo'."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was silence when the old man had finished, and I am sure I saw a
      tear in my wife's eye, and more than one in Mabel's.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think, Julius," said my wife after a moment, "that you may turn the
      mare around and go by the long road."
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man obeyed with alacrity, and I noticed no reluctance on the
      mare's part.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are not afraid of Chloe's haunt, are you?" I asked jocularly.
    </p>
    <p>
      My mood was not responded to, and neither of the ladies smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh no," said Annie, "but I've changed my mind. I prefer the other route."
    </p>
    <p>
      When we had reached the main road and had proceeded along it for a short
      distance, we met a cart driven by a young negro, and on the cart were a
      trunk and a valise. We recognized the man as Malcolm Murchison's servant,
      and drew up a moment to speak to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who's going away, Marshall?" I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Young Mistah Ma'colm gwine 'way on de boat ter Noo Yo'k dis ebenin', suh,
      en I'm takin' his things down ter de wharf, suh."
    </p>
    <p>
      This was news to me, and I heard it with regret. My wife looked sorry,
      too, and I could see that Mabel was trying hard to hide her concern.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He's comin' 'long behin', suh, en I 'spec's you'll meet 'im up de road a
      piece. He's gwine ter walk down ez fur ez Mistah Jim Williams's, en take
      de buggy fum dere ter town. He 'spec's ter be gone a long time, suh, en
      say prob'ly he ain' nebber comin' back."
    </p>
    <p>
      The man drove on. There were a few words exchanged in an undertone between
      my wife and Mabel, which I did not catch. Then Annie said: "Julius, you
      may stop the rockaway a moment. There are some trumpet-flowers by the road
      there that I want. Will you get them for me, John?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I sprang into the underbrush, and soon returned with a great bunch of
      scarlet blossoms.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where is Mabel?" I asked, noting her absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "She has walked on ahead. We shall overtake her in a few minutes."
    </p>
    <p>
      The carriage had gone only a short distance when my wife discovered that
      she had dropped her fan.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had it where we were stopping. Julius, will you go back and get it for
      me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julius got down and went back for the fan. He was an unconscionably long
      time finding it. After we got started again we had gone only a little way,
      when we saw Mabel and young Murchison coming toward us. They were walking
      arm in arm, and their faces were aglow with the light of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not know whether or not Julius had a previous understanding with
      Malcolm Murchison by which he was to drive us round by the long road that
      day, nor do I know exactly what motive influenced the old man's exertions
      in the matter. He was fond of Mabel, but I was old enough, and knew Julius
      well enough, to be skeptical of his motives. It is certain that a most
      excellent understanding existed between him and Murchison after the
      reconciliation, and that when the young people set up housekeeping over at
      the old Murchison place Julius had an opportunity to enter their service.
      For some reason or other, however, he preferred to remain with us. The
      mare, I might add, was never known to balk again.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      A NEGRO SCHOOLMASTER IN THE NEW SOUTH by W. E. Burghardt Du Bois
    </h2>
    <p>
      Once upon a time I taught school in the hills of Tennessee, where the
      broad dark vale of the Mississippi begins to roll and crumple to greet the
      Alleghanies. I was a Fisk student then, and all Fisk men think that
      Tennessee&mdash;beyond the Veil&mdash;is theirs alone, and in vacation
      time they sally forth in lusty bands to meet the county school
      commissioners. Young and happy, I too went, and I shall not soon forget
      that summer, ten years ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      First, there was a teachers' Institute at the county-seat; and there
      distinguished guests of the superintendent taught the teachers fractions
      and spelling and other mysteries,&mdash;white teachers in the morning,
      Negroes at night. A picnic now and then, and a supper, and the rough world
      was softened by laughter and song. I remember how&mdash;But I wander.
    </p>
    <p>
      There came a day when all the teachers left the Institute, and began the
      hunt for schools. I learn from hearsay (for my mother was mortally afraid
      of firearms) that the hunting of ducks and bears and men is wonderfully
      interesting, but I am sure that the man who has never hunted a country
      school has something to learn of the pleasures of the chase. I see now the
      white, hot roads lazily rise and fall and wind before me under the burning
      July sun; I feel the deep weariness of heart and limb, as ten, eight, six
      miles stretch relentlessly ahead; I feel my heart sink heavily as I hear
      again and again, "Got a teacher? Yes." So I walked on and on,&mdash;horses
      were too expensive,&mdash;until I had wandered beyond railways, beyond
      stage lines, to a land of "varmints" and rattlesnakes, where the coming of
      a stranger was an event, and men lived and died in the shadow of one blue
      hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sprinkled over hill and dale lay cabins and farmhouses, shut out from the
      world by the forests and the rolling hills toward the east. There I found
      at last a little school. Josie told me of it; she was a thin, homely girl
      of twenty, with a dark brown face and thick, hard hair. I had crossed the
      stream at Watertown, and rested under the great willows; then I had gone
      to the little cabin in the lot where Josie was resting on her way to town.
      The gaunt farmer made me welcome, and Josie, hearing my errand, told me
      anxiously that they wanted a school over the hill; that but once since the
      war had a teacher been there; that she herself longed to learn,&mdash;and
      thus she ran on, talking fast and loud, with much earnestness and energy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next morning I crossed the tall round hill, lingered to look at the blue
      and yellow mountains stretching toward the Carolinas; then I plunged into
      the wood, and came out at Josie's home. It was a dull frame cottage with
      four rooms, perched just below the brow of the hill, amid peach trees. The
      father was a quiet, simple soul, calmly ignorant, with no touch of
      vulgarity. The mother was different,&mdash;strong, bustling, and
      energetic, with a quick, restless tongue, and an ambition to live "like
      folks." There was a crowd of children. Two boys had gone away. There
      remained two growing girls; a shy midget of eight; John, tall, awkward,
      and eighteen; Jim, younger, quicker, and better looking; and two babies of
      indefinite age. Then there was Josie herself. She seemed to be the centre
      of the family: always busy at service or at home, or berry-picking; a
      little nervous and inclined to scold, like her mother, yet faithful, too,
      like her father. She had about her a certain fineness, the shadow of an
      unconscious moral heroism that would willingly give all of life to make
      life broader, deeper, and fuller for her and hers. I saw much of this
      family afterward, and grew to love them for their honest efforts to be
      decent and comfortable, and for their knowledge of their own ignorance.
      There was with them no affectation. The mother would scold the father for
      being so "easy;" Josie would roundly rate the boys for carelessness; and
      all knew that it was a hard thing to dig a living out of a rocky side
      hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      I secured the school. I remember the day I rode horseback out to the
      commissioner's house, with a pleasant young white fellow, who wanted the
      white school. The road ran down the bed of a stream; the sun laughed and
      the water jingled, and we rode on. "Come in," said the commissioner,&mdash;"come
      in. Have a seat. Yes, that certificate will do. Stay to dinner. What do
      you want a month?" Oh, thought I, this is lucky; but even then fell the
      awful shadow of the Veil, for they ate first, then I&mdash;alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The schoolhouse was a log hut, where Colonel Wheeler used to shelter his
      corn. It sat in a lot behind a rail fence and thorn bushes, near the
      sweetest of springs. There was an entrance where a door once was, and
      within, a massive rickety fireplace; great chinks between the logs served
      as windows. Furniture was scarce. A pale blackboard crouched in the
      corner. My desk was made of three boards, reinforced at critical points,
      and my chair, borrowed from the landlady, had to be returned every night.
      Seats for the children,&mdash;these puzzled me much. I was haunted by a
      New England vision of neat little desks and chairs, but, alas, the reality
      was rough plank benches without backs, and at times without legs. They had
      the one virtue of making naps dangerous,&mdash;possibly fatal, for the
      floor was not to be trusted.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a hot morning late in July when the school opened. I trembled when
      I heard the patter of little feet down the dusty road, and saw the growing
      row of dark solemn faces and bright eager eyes facing me. First came Josie
      and her brothers and sisters. The longing to know, to be a student in the
      great school at Nashville, hovered like a star above this child woman amid
      her work and worry, and she studied doggedly. There were the Dowells from
      their farm over toward Alexandria: Fanny, with her smooth black face and
      wondering eyes; Martha, brown and dull; the pretty girl wife of a brother,
      and the younger brood. There were the Burkes, two brown and yellow lads,
      and a tiny haughty-eyed girl. Fat Reuben's little chubby girl came, with
      golden face and old gold hair, faithful and solemn. 'Thenie was on hand
      early,&mdash;a jolly, ugly, good-hearted girl, who slyly dipped snuff and
      looked after her little bow-legged brother. When her mother could spare
      her, 'Tildy came,&mdash;a midnight beauty, with starry eyes and tapering
      limbs; and her brother, correspondingly homely. And then the big boys: the
      hulking Lawrences; the lazy Neills, unfathered sons of mother and
      daughter; Hickman, with a stoop in his shoulders; and the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      There they sat, nearly thirty of them, on the rough benches, their faces
      shading from a pale cream to a deep brown, the little feet bare and
      swinging, the eyes full of expectation, with here and there a twinkle of
      mischief, and the hands grasping Webster's blue-back spelling-book. I
      loved my school, and the fine faith the children had in the wisdom of
      their teacher was truly marvelous. We read and spelled together, wrote a
      little, picked flowers, sang, and listened to stories of the world beyond
      the hill. At times the school would dwindle away, and I would start out. I
      would visit Mun Eddings, who lived in two very dirty rooms, and ask why
      little Lugene, whose flaming face seemed ever ablaze with the dark red
      hair uncombed, was absent all last week, or why I missed so often the
      inimitable rags of Mack and Ed. Then the father, who worked Colonel
      Wheeler's farm on shares, would tell me how the crops needed the boys; and
      the thin, slovenly mother, whose face was pretty when washed, assured me
      that Lugene must mind the baby. "But we'll start them again next week."
      When the Lawrences stopped, I knew that the doubts of the old folks about
      book-learning had conquered again, and so, toiling up the hill, and
      getting as far into the cabin as possible, I put Cicero pro Archia Poeta
      into the simplest English with local applications, and usually convinced
      them&mdash;for a week or so.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Friday nights I often went home with some of the children; sometimes to
      Doc Burke's farm. He was a great, loud, thin Black, ever working, and
      trying to buy the seventy-five acres of hill and dale where he lived; but
      people said that he would surely fail, and the "white folks would get it
      all." His wife was a magnificent Amazon, with saffron face and shining
      hair, uncorseted and barefooted, and the children were strong and
      beautiful. They lived in a one-and-a-half-room cabin in the hollow of the
      farm, near the spring. The front room was full of great fat white beds,
      scrupulously neat; and there were bad chromos on the walls, and a tired
      centre-table. In the tiny back kitchen I was often invited to "take out
      and help" myself to fried chicken and wheat biscuit, "meat" and corn pone,
      string beans and berries. At first I used to be a little alarmed at the
      approach of bed-time in the one lone bedroom, but embarrassment was very
      deftly avoided. First, all the children nodded and slept, and were stowed
      away in one great pile of goose feathers; next, the mother and the father
      discreetly slipped away to the kitchen while I went to bed; then, blowing
      out the dim light, they retired in the dark. In the morning all were up
      and away before I thought of awaking. Across the road, where fat Reuben
      lived, they all went outdoors while the teacher retired, because they did
      not boast the luxury of a kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      I liked to stay with the Dowells, for they had four rooms and plenty of
      good country fare. Uncle Bird had a small, rough farm, all woods and
      hills, miles from the big road; but he was full of tales,&mdash;he
      preached now and then,&mdash;and with his children, berries, horses, and
      wheat he was happy and prosperous. Often, to keep the peace, I must go
      where life was less lovely; for instance, 'Tildy's mother was incorrigibly
      dirty, Reuben's larder was limited seriously, and herds of untamed bedbugs
      wandered over the Eddingses' beds. Best of all I loved to go to Josie's,
      and sit on the porch, eating peaches, while the mother bustled and talked:
      how Josie had bought the sewing-machine; how Josie worked at service in
      winter, but that four dollars a month was "mighty little" wages; how Josie
      longed to go away to school, but that it "looked like" they never could
      get far enough ahead to let her; how the crops failed and the well was yet
      unfinished; and, finally, how "mean" some of the white folks were.
    </p>
    <p>
      For two summers I lived in this little world; it was dull and humdrum. The
      girls looked at the hill in wistful longing, and the boys fretted, and
      haunted Alexandria. Alexandria was "town,"&mdash;a straggling, lazy
      village of houses, churches, and shops, and an aristocracy of Toms, Dicks,
      and Captains. Cuddled on the hill to the north was the village of the
      colored folks, who lived in three or four room unpainted cottages, some
      neat and homelike, and some dirty. The dwellings were scattered rather
      aimlessly, but they centred about the twin temples of the hamlet, the
      Methodist and the Hard-Shell Baptist churches. These, in turn, leaned
      gingerly on a sad-colored schoolhouse. Hither my little world wended its
      crooked way on Sunday to meet other worlds, and gossip, and wonder, and
      make the weekly sacrifice with frenzied priest at the altar of the
      "old-time religion." Then the soft melody and mighty cadences of Negro
      song fluttered and thundered.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have called my tiny community a world, and so its isolation made it; and
      yet there was among us but a half-awakened common consciousness, sprung
      from common joy and grief, at burial, birth, or wedding; from a common
      hardship in poverty, poor land, and low wages; and, above all, from the
      sight of the Veil that hung between us and Opportunity. All this caused us
      to think some thoughts together; but these, when ripe for speech, were
      spoken in various languages. Those whose eyes thirty and more years before
      had seen "the glory of the coming of the Lord" saw in every present
      hindrance or help a dark fatalism bound to bring all things right in His
      own good time. The mass of those to whom slavery was a dim recollection of
      childhood found the world a puzzling thing: it asked little of them, and
      they answered with little, and yet it ridiculed their offering. Such a
      paradox they could not understand, and therefore sank into listless
      indifference, or shiftlessness, or reckless bravado. There were, however,
      some such as Josie, Jim, and Ben,&mdash;they to whom War, Hell, and
      Slavery were but childhood tales, whose young appetites had been whetted
      to an edge by school and story and half-awakened thought. Ill could they
      be content, born without and beyond the World. And their weak wings beat
      against their barriers,&mdash;barriers of caste, of youth, of life; at
      last, in dangerous moments, against everything that opposed even a whim.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ten years that follow youth, the years when first the realization
      comes that life is leading somewhere,&mdash;these were the years that
      passed after I left my little school. When they were past, I came by
      chance once more to the walls of Fisk University, to the halls of the
      chapel of melody. As I lingered there in the joy and pain of meeting old
      school friends, there swept over me a sudden longing to pass again beyond
      the blue hill, and to see the homes and the school of other days, and to
      learn how life had gone with my school-children; and I went.
    </p>
    <p>
      Josie was dead, and the gray-haired mother said simply, "We've had a heap
      of trouble since you've been away." I had feared for Jim. With a cultured
      parentage and a social caste to uphold him, he might have made a
      venturesome merchant or a West Point cadet. But here he was, angry with
      life and reckless; and when Farmer Durham charged him with stealing wheat,
      the old man had to ride fast to escape the stones which the furious fool
      hurled after him. They told Jim to run away; but he would not run, and the
      constable came that afternoon. It grieved Josie, and great awkward John
      walked nine miles every day to see his little brother through the bars of
      Lebanon jail. At last the two came back together in the dark night. The
      mother cooked supper, and Josie emptied her purse, and the boys stole
      away. Josie grew thin and silent, yet worked the more. The hill became
      steep for the quiet old father, and with the boys away there was little to
      do in the valley. Josie helped them sell the old farm, and they moved
      nearer town. Brother Dennis, the carpenter, built a new house with six
      rooms; Josie toiled a year in Nashville, and brought back ninety dollars
      to furnish the house and change it to a home.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the spring came, and the birds twittered, and the stream ran proud
      and full, little sister Lizzie, bold and thoughtless, flushed with the
      passion of youth, bestowed herself on the tempter, and brought home a
      nameless child. Josie shivered, and worked on, with the vision of
      schooldays all fled, with a face wan and tired,&mdash;worked until, on a
      summer's day, some one married another; then Josie crept to her mother
      like a hurt child, and slept&mdash;and sleeps.
    </p>
    <p>
      I paused to scent the breeze as I entered the valley. The Lawrences have
      gone; father and son forever, and the other son lazily digs in the earth
      to live. A new young widow rents out their cabin to fat Reuben. Reuben is
      a Baptist preacher now, but I fear as lazy as ever, though his cabin has
      three rooms; and little Ella has grown into a bouncing woman, and is
      ploughing corn on the hot hillside. There are babies a plenty, and one
      half-witted girl. Across the valley is a house I did not know before, and
      there I found, rocking one baby and expecting another, one of my
      schoolgirls, a daughter of Uncle Bird Dowell. She looked somewhat worried
      with her new duties, but soon bristled into pride over her neat cabin, and
      the tale of her thrifty husband, the horse and cow, and the farm they were
      planning to buy.
    </p>
    <p>
      My log schoolhouse was gone. In its place stood Progress, and Progress, I
      understand, is necessarily ugly. The crazy foundation stones still marked
      the former site of my poor little cabin, and not far away, on six weary
      boulders, perched a jaunty board house, perhaps twenty by thirty feet,
      with three windows and a door that locked. Some of the window glass was
      broken, and part of an old iron stove lay mournfully under the house. I
      peeped through the window half reverently, and found things that were more
      familiar. The blackboard had grown by about two feet, and the seats were
      still without backs. The county owns the lot now, I hear, and every year
      there is a session of school. As I sat by the spring and looked on the Old
      and the New I felt glad, very glad, and yet&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      After two long drinks I started on. There was the great double log house
      on the corner. I remembered the broken, blighted family that used to live
      there. The strong, hard face of the mother, with its wilderness of hair,
      rose before me. She had driven her husband away, and while I taught school
      a strange man lived there, big and jovial, and people talked. I felt sure
      that Ben and 'Tildy would come to naught from such a home. But this is an
      odd world; for Ben is a busy farmer in Smith County, "doing well, too,"
      they say, and he had cared for little 'Tildy until last spring, when a
      lover married her. A hard life the lad had led, toiling for meat, and
      laughed at because he was homely and crooked. There was Sam Carlon, an
      impudent old skinflint, who had definite notions about niggers, and hired
      Ben a summer and would not pay him. Then the hungry boy gathered his sacks
      together, and in broad daylight went into Carlon's corn; and when the
      hard-fisted farmer set upon him, the angry boy flew at him like a beast.
      Doc Burke saved a murder and a lynching that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story reminded me again of the Burkes, and an impatience seized me to
      know who won in the battle, Doc or the seventy-five acres. For it is a
      hard thing to make a farm out of nothing, even in fifteen years. So I
      hurried on, thinking of the Burkes. They used to have a certain
      magnificent barbarism about them that I liked. They were never vulgar,
      never immoral, but rather rough and primitive, with an unconventionality
      that spent itself in loud guffaws, slaps on the back, and naps in the
      corner. I hurried by the cottage of the misborn Neill boys. It was empty,
      and they were grown into fat, lazy farm hands. I saw the home of the
      Hickmans, but Albert, with his stooping shoulders, had passed from the
      world. Then I came to the Burkes' gate and peered through; the inclosure
      looked rough and untrimmed, and yet there were the same fences around the
      old farm save to the left, where lay twenty-five other acres. And lo! the
      cabin in the hollow had climbed the hill and swollen to a half-finished
      six-room cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Burkes held a hundred acres, but they were still in debt. Indeed, the
      gaunt father who toiled night and day would scarcely be happy out of debt,
      being so used to it. Some day he must stop, for his massive frame is
      showing decline. The mother wore shoes, but the lionlike physique of other
      days was broken. The children had grown up. Rob, the image of his father,
      was loud and rough with laughter. Birdie, my school baby of six, had grown
      to a picture of maiden beauty, tall and tawny. "Edgar is gone," said the
      mother, with head half bowed,&mdash;"gone to work in Nashville; he and his
      father couldn't agree."
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Doc, the boy born since the time of my school, took me horseback
      down the creek next morning toward Farmer Dowell's. The road and the
      stream were battling for mastery, and the stream had the better of it. We
      splashed and waded, and the merry boy, perched behind me, chattered and
      laughed. He showed me where Simon Thompson had bought a bit of ground and
      a home; but his daughter Lana, a plump, brown, slow girl, was not there.
      She had married a man and a farm twenty miles away. We wound on down the
      stream till we came to a gate that I did not recognize, but the boy
      insisted that it was "Uncle Bird's." The farm was fat with the growing
      crop. In that little valley was a strange stillness as I rode up; for
      death and marriage had stolen youth, and left age and childhood there. We
      sat and talked that night, after the chores were done. Uncle Bird was
      grayer, and his eyes did not see so well, but he was still jovial. We
      talked of the acres bought,&mdash;one hundred and twenty-five,&mdash;of
      the new guest chamber added, of Martha's marrying. Then we talked of
      death: Fanny and Fred were gone; a shadow hung over the other daughter,
      and when it lifted she was to go to Nashville to school. At last we spoke
      of the neighbors, and as night fell Uncle Bird told me how, on a night
      like that, 'Thenie came wandering back to her home over yonder, to escape
      the blows of her husband. And next morning she died in the home that her
      little bow-legged brother, working and saving, had bought for their
      widowed mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      My journey was done, and behind me lay hill and dale, and Life and Death.
      How shall man measure Progress there where the dark-faced Josie lies? How
      many heartfuls of sorrow shall balance a bushel of wheat? How hard a thing
      is life to the lowly, and yet how human and real! And all this life and
      love and strife and failure,&mdash;is it the twilight of nightfall or the
      flush of some faint-dawning day?
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus sadly musing, I rode to Nashville in the Jim Crow car.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE CAPTURE OF A SLAVER by J. Taylor Wood
    </h2>
    <p>
      From 1830 to 1850 both Great Britain and the United States, by joint
      convention, kept on the coast of Africa at least eighty guns afloat for
      the suppression of the slave trade. Most of the vessels so employed were
      small corvettes, brigs, or schooners; steam at that time was just being
      introduced into the navies of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nearly fifty years ago I was midshipman on the United States brig
      Porpoise, of ten guns. Some of my readers may remember these little
      ten-gun coffins, as many of them proved to be to their crews. The Porpoise
      was a fair sample of the type; a full-rigged brig of one hundred and
      thirty tons, heavily sparred, deep waisted, and carrying a battery of
      eight twenty-four-pound carronades and two long chasers; so wet that even
      in a moderate breeze or sea it was necessary to batten down; and so tender
      that she required careful watching; only five feet between decks, her
      quarters were necessarily cramped and uncomfortable, and, as far as
      possible, we lived on deck. With a crew of eighty all told, Lieutenant
      Thompson was in command, Lieutenant Bukett executive officer, and two
      midshipmen were the line officers. She was so slow that we could hardly
      hope for a prize except by a fluke. Repeatedly we had chased suspicious
      craft only to be out-sailed.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this time the traffic in slaves was very brisk; the demand in the
      Brazils, in Cuba, and in other Spanish West Indies was urgent, and the
      profit of the business so great that two or three successful ventures
      would enrich any one. The slavers were generally small, handy craft; fast,
      of course; usually schooner-rigged, and carrying flying topsails and
      forecourse. Many were built in England or elsewhere purposely for the
      business, without, of course, the knowledge of the builders, ostensibly as
      yachts or traders. The Spaniards and Portuguese were the principal
      offenders, with occasionally an English-speaking renegade.
    </p>
    <p>
      The slave depots, or barracoons, were generally located some miles up a
      river. Here the slaver was secure from capture and could embark his live
      cargo at his leisure. Keeping a sharp lookout on the coast, the dealers
      were able to follow the movements of the cruisers, and by means of smoke,
      or in other ways, signal when the coast was clear for the coming down the
      river and sailing of the loaded craft. Before taking in the cargoes they
      were always fortified with all the necessary papers and documents to show
      they were engaged in legitimate commerce, so it was only when caught in
      flagrante delicto that we could hold them.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had been cruising off the coast of Liberia doing nothing, when we were
      ordered to the Gulf of Guinea to watch the Bonny and Cameroons mouths of
      the great Niger River. Our consort was H.M. schooner Bright, a beautiful
      craft about our tonnage, but with half our crew, and able to sail three
      miles to our two. She was an old slaver, captured and adapted as a
      cruiser. She had been very successful, making several important captures
      of full cargoes, and twice or thrice her commanding officer and others had
      been promoted. Working our way slowly down the coast in company with the
      Bright, we would occasionally send a boat on shore to reconnoitre or
      gather any information we could from the natives through our Krooman
      interpreter. A few glasses of rum or a string of beads would loosen the
      tongue of almost any one. At Little Bonny we heard that two vessels were
      some miles up the river, ready to sail, and were only waiting until the
      coast was clear. Captain James, of the Bright, thought that one, if not
      both, would sail from another outlet of the river, about thirty miles to
      the southward, and determined to watch it.
    </p>
    <p>
      We both stood to that direction. Of course we were watched from the shore,
      and the slavers were kept posted as to our movements. They supposed we had
      both gone to the Cameroons, leaving Little Bonny open; but after dark,
      with a light land breeze, we wore round and stood to the northward,
      keeping offshore some distance, so that captains leaving the river might
      have sufficient offing to prevent their reaching port again or beaching
      their craft. At daybreak, as far as we could judge, we were about twenty
      miles offshore to the northward and westward of Little Bonny, in the track
      of any vessel bound for the West Indies. The night was dark with
      occasional rain squalls, when the heavens would open and the water come
      down in a flood. Anxiously we all watched for daylight, which comes under
      the equator with a suddenness very different from the prolonged twilight
      of higher latitudes. At the first glimmer in the east every eye was
      strained on the horizon, all eager, all anxious to be the first to sight
      anything within our vision. The darkness soon gave way to gray morn. Day
      was dawning, when suddenly a Krooman by my side seized my hand and,
      without saying a word, pointed inshore. I looked, but could see nothing.
      All eyes were focused in that direction, and in a few minutes the faint
      outline of a vessel appeared against the sky. She was some miles inshore
      of us, and as the day brightened we made her out to be a brigantine (an
      uncommon rig in those days), standing across our bows, with all studding
      sails set on the starboard side, indeed everything that could pull,
      including water sails and save-all. We were on the same tack heading to
      the northward. We set everything that would draw, and kept off two points,
      bringing the wind abeam so as to head her off.
    </p>
    <p>
      The breeze was light and off the land. We had not yet been seen against
      the darker western horizon, but we knew it could only be a few minutes
      longer before their sharp eyes would make us out. Soon we saw the studding
      sails and all kites come down by the run and her yards braced up sharp on
      the same tack as ours. We also hauled by the wind. At sunrise she was four
      points on our weather bow, distant about four miles. We soon perceived
      that she could outsail our brig and if the wind held would escape.
      Gradually she drew away from us until she was hull down. Our only hope now
      was that the land breeze would cease and the sea breeze come in. As the
      sun rose we gladly noticed the wind lessening, until at eleven o'clock it
      was calm. Not a breath ruffled the surface of the sea; the sun's rays in
      the zenith were reflected as from a mirror; the waters seemed like molten
      lead.
    </p>
    <p>
      I know of nothing more depressing than a calm in the tropics,&mdash;a
      raging sun overhead, around an endless expanse of dead sea, and a feeling
      of utter helplessness that is overpowering. What if this should last? what
      a fate! The Rime of the Ancient Mariner comes to our mind. Come storm and
      tempest, come hurricanes and blizzards, anything but an endless
      stagnation. For some hours we watched earnestly the horizon to the
      westward, looking for the first dark break on the smooth sea. Not a cloud
      was in the heavens. The brig appeared to be leaving us either by towing or
      by sweeps; only her topgallant sail was above the horizon. It looked as if
      the sea breeze would desert us. It usually came in about one o'clock, but
      that hour and another had passed and yet we watched for the first change.
      Without a breeze our chances of overhauling the stranger were gone. Only a
      white speck like the wing of a gull now marked her whereabouts on the edge
      of the horizon, and in another hour she would be invisible even from the
      masthead.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we were about to despair, our head Krooman drew the captain's
      attention to the westward and said the breeze was coming. We saw no signs
      of it, but his quick eye had noticed light feathery clouds rising to the
      westward, a sure indication of the coming breeze. Soon we could see the
      glassy surface ruffled at different points as the breeze danced over it,
      coming on like an advancing line of skirmishers; and as we felt its first
      gentle movement on our parched faces, it was welcome indeed, putting new
      life into all of us. The crew needed no encouragement to spring to their
      work. As the little brig felt the breeze and gathered steerageway, she was
      headed for the chase, bringing the wind on her starboard quarter. In less
      than five minutes all the studding sails that would draw were set, as well
      as everything that would pull. The best quartermaster was sent to the
      wheel, with orders to keep the chase directly over the weather end of the
      spritsail yard. The captain ordered the sails wet, an expedient I never
      had much faith in, unless the sails are very old. But as if to recompense
      us for the delay, the breeze came in strong and steady. Our one hope now
      was to follow it up close, and to carry it within gunshot of the brig, for
      if she caught it before we were within range she would certainly escape.
      All hands were piped to quarters, and the long eighteen-pounder on the
      forecastle was loaded with a full service charge; on this piece we relied
      to cripple the chase. We were now rapidly raising her, and I was sent
      aloft on the fore topsail yard, with a good glass to watch her movements.
      Her hull was in sight and she was still becalmed, though her head was
      pointed in the right direction, and everything was set to catch the coming
      breeze. She carried a boat on each side at the davits like a man-of-war,
      and I reported that I could make out men securing them. They had been
      towing her, and only stopped when they saw us drawing near.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anxiously we watched the breeze on the water as it narrowed the sheen
      between us, and we were yet two miles or more distant when she first felt
      the breeze. As she did so we hoisted the English blue ensign,&mdash;for
      the fleet at this time was under a Rear Admiral of the Blue,&mdash;and
      fired a weather gun, but no response was made. Fortunately the wind
      continued to freshen and the Porpoise was doing wonderfully well. We were
      rapidly closing the distance between us. We fired another gun, but no
      attention was paid to it. I noticed from the movements of the crew of the
      brig that they were getting ready for some manoeuvre, and reported to the
      captain. He divined at once what the manoeuvre would be, and ordered the
      braces be led along, hands by the studding-sail halyards and tacks, and
      everything ready to haul by the wind. We felt certain now of the character
      of our friend, and the men were already calculating the amount of their
      prize money. We were now within range, and must clip her wings if
      possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first lieutenant was ordered to open fire with the eighteen-pounder.
      Carefully the gun was laid, and as the order "fire" was given, down came
      our English flag, and the stop of the Stars and Stripes was broken at the
      gaff. The first shot touched the water abeam of the chase and ricochetted
      ahead of her. She showed the Spanish flag. The captain of the gun was
      ordered to elevate a little more and try again. The second shot let
      daylight through her fore topsail, but the third was wide again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the sharp, quick order of the captain, "Fore topsail yard there, come
      down on deck, sir!" brought me down on the run. "Have both cutters cleared
      away and ready for lowering," were my orders as I reached the
      quarter-deck. Practice from the bow chasers continued, but the smoke that
      drifted ahead of us interfered with the accuracy of the firing, and no
      vital part was touched, though a number of shots went through her sails.
      The captain in the main rigging never took his eye from the Spaniard,
      evidently expecting that as a fox when hard pressed doubles on the hounds,
      the chase would attempt the same thing. And he was not disappointed, for
      when we had come within easy range of her, the smoke hid her from view for
      a few minutes, and as it dispersed the first glimpse showed the captain
      that her studding sails had all gone, and that she had hauled by the wind,
      standing across our weather bow. Her captain had lost no time in taking in
      his studding sails; halyards, tacks, and sheets had all been cut together
      and dropped overboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a bold and well-executed manoeuvre, and we could not help admiring
      the skill with which she was handled. However, we had been prepared for
      this move. "Ease down your helm." "Lower away. Haul down the studding
      sails." "Ease away the weather braces. Brace up." "Trim down the head
      sheets," were the orders which followed in rapid succession, and were as
      quickly executed. The Spaniard was now broad on our lee bow, distant not
      more than half a mile, but as she felt the wind which we brought down she
      fairly spun through the water, exposing her bright copper. She was both
      head-reaching and outsailing us; in half an hour she would have been right
      ahead of us, and in an hour the sun would be down. It was now or never. We
      could bring nothing to bear except the gun on the forecastle. Fortunately
      it continued smooth, and we were no longer troubled with smoke. Shot after
      shot went hissing through the air after her; a number tore through the
      sails or rigging, but not a spar was touched nor an important rope cut. We
      could see some of her crew aloft reeving and stopping braces and ready to
      repair any damage done, working as coolly under fire as old man-of-war's
      men. But while we were looking, down came the gaff of her mainsail, and
      the gaff-topsail fell all adrift; a lucky shot had cut her peak halyards.
      Our crew cheered with a will. "Well done, Hobson; try it again!" called
      the captain to the boatswain's mate, who was captain of the gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the next shot, the topgallant yard swayed for a few minutes and fell
      forward. The order was given to cease firing; she was at our mercy. We
      were rapidly nearing the chase, when she backed her topsail. We kept off,
      and when within easy range of the carronades "hove to" to windward.
      Lieutenant Bukett was ordered to board her in the first cutter and take
      charge. I followed in the second cutter, with orders to bring the captain
      on board with his papers. A few strokes sent us alongside of a brig about
      our tonnage, but with a low rail and a flush deck. The crew, some eighteen
      or twenty fine-looking seamen, were forward eagerly discussing the
      situation of affairs. The captain was aft with his two officers, talking
      to Lieutenant Bukett. He was fair, with light hair curling all over his
      head, beard cut short, about forty years of age, well set up, with a frame
      like a Roman wrestler, evidently a tough customer in a rough-and-ready
      scrimmage.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke fairly good English, and was violently denouncing the outrage
      done to his flag; his government would demand instant satisfaction for
      firing upon a legitimate trader on the high seas. I have the lieutenant
      Captain Thompson's orders, to bring the captain and his papers on board at
      once. His harangue was cut short by orders to get on board my boat. He
      swore with a terrible oath that he would never leave his vessel. "Come on
      board, men," said I, and twenty of our crew were on deck in a jiffy. I
      stationed my coxswain, Parker, at the cabin companion way with orders to
      allow no one to pass. "Now," said Lieutenant Bukett to the Spaniard, "I
      will take you on board in irons unless you go quietly." He hesitated a
      moment, then said he would come as soon as he had gone below to bring up
      his papers. "No, never mind your papers; I will find them," said the
      lieutenant, for he saw the devil in the Spaniard's eyes, and knew he meant
      mischief. Our captive made one bound for the companion way, however, and
      seizing Parker by the throat hurled him into the water ways as if he had
      been a rag baby. But fortunately he slipped on a small grating and fell on
      his knees, and before he could recover himself two of our men threw
      themselves upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      I closed the companion way. The struggle was desperate for a few minutes,
      for the Spaniard seemed possessed of the furies, and his efforts were
      almost superhuman. Twice he threw the men from him across the deck, but
      they were reinforced by Parker, who, smarting under his discomfiture,
      rushed in, determined to down him. I was anxious to end it with my pistol,
      but Lieutenant Bukett would not consent. The Spaniard's officers and men
      made some demonstration to assist, but they were quickly disposed of: his
      two mates were put in irons and the crew driven forward. Struggling,
      fighting, every limb and every muscle at work, the captain was
      overpowered; a piece of the signal halyards brought his hands together,
      and handcuffs were slipped on his wrists. Only then he succumbed, and
      begged Lieutenant Bukett to blow out his brains, for he had been treated
      like a pirate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without doubt if he had reached the cabin he would have blown up the
      vessel, for in a locker over the transom were two open kegs of powder. I
      led him to my boat, assisted him in, and returned to the Porpoise. As soon
      as the Spaniard reached the deck the captain ordered his irons removed,
      and expressed his regret that it had been necessary to use force. The
      prisoner only bowed and said nothing. The captain asked him what his cargo
      consisted of. He replied, "About four hundred blacks bound to the
      Brazils."
    </p>
    <p>
      I was then ordered to return to the brig, bring on board her crew, leaving
      only the cook and steward, and to take charge of the prize as Lieutenant
      Bukett, our first lieutenant, was not yet wholly recovered from an attack
      of African fever. The crew of twenty men, when brought on board, consisted
      of Spaniards, Greeks, Malays, Arabs, white and black, but had not one
      Anglo-Saxon. They were ironed in pairs and put under guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the time we first got on board we had heard moans, cries, and
      rumblings coming from below, and as soon as the captain and crew were
      removed, the hatches had been taken off, when there arose a hot blast as
      from a charnel house, sickening and overpowering. In the hold were three
      or four hundred human beings, gasping, struggling for breath, dying; their
      bodies, limbs, faces, all expressing terrible suffering. In their
      agonizing fight for life, some had torn or wounded themselves or their
      neighbors dreadfully; some were stiffened in the most unnatural positions.
      As soon as I knew the condition of things I sent the boat back for the
      doctor and some whiskey. It returned bringing Captain Thompson, and for an
      hour or more we were all hard at work lifting and helping the poor
      creatures on deck, where they were laid out in rows. A little water and
      stimulant revived most of them; some, however, were dead or too far gone
      to be resuscitated. The doctor worked earnestly over each one, but
      seventeen were beyond human skill. As fast as he pronounced them dead they
      were quickly dropped overboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Night closed in with our decks covered so thickly with the ebony bodies
      that with difficulty we could move about; fortunately they were as quiet
      as so many snakes. In the meantime the first officer, Mr. Block, was
      sending up a new topgallant yard, reeving new rigging, repairing the
      sails, and getting everything ataunto aloft. The Kroomen were busy washing
      out and fumigating the hold, getting ready for our cargo again. It would
      have been a very anxious night, except that I felt relieved by the
      presence of the brig which kept within hail. Soon after daybreak Captain
      Thompson came on board again, and we made a count of the captives as they
      were sent below; 188 men and boys, and 166 women and girls. Seeing
      everything snug and in order the captain returned to the brig, giving me
      final orders to proceed with all possible dispatch to Monrovia, Liberia,
      land the negroes, then sail for Porto Praya, Cape de Verde Islands, and
      report to the commodore. As the brig hauled to the wind and stood to the
      southward and eastward I dipped my colors, when her crew jumped into the
      rigging and gave us three cheers, which we returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she drew away from us I began to realize my position and
      responsibility: a young midshipman, yet in my teens, commanding a prize,
      with three hundred and fifty prisoners on board, two or three weeks' sail
      from port, with only a small crew. From the first I kept all hands aft
      except two men on the lookout, and the weather was so warm that we could
      all sleep on deck. I also ordered the men never to lay aside their pistols
      or cutlasses, except when working aloft, but my chief reliance was in my
      knowledge of the negro,&mdash;of his patient, docile disposition. Born and
      bred a slave he never thought of any other condition, and he accepted the
      situation without a murmur. I had never heard of blacks rising or
      attempting to gain their freedom on board a slaver.
    </p>
    <p>
      My charges were all of a deep black; from fifteen to twenty-five years of
      age, and, with a few exceptions, nude, unless copper or brass rings on
      their ankles or necklaces of cowries can be described as articles of
      dress. All were slashed, or had the scars of branding on their foreheads
      and cheeks; these marks were the distinguishing features of different
      tribes or families. The men's hair had been cut short, and their heads
      looked in some cases as if they had been shaven. The women, on the
      contrary, wore their hair "a la pompadour;" the coarse kinky locks were
      sometimes a foot or more above their heads, and trained square or round
      like a boxwood bush. Their features were of the pronounced African type,
      but, notwithstanding this disfigurement, were not unpleasing in
      appearance. The figures of all were very good, straight, well developed,
      some of the young men having bodies that would have graced a Mercury or an
      Apollo. Their hands were small, showing no evidences of work, only the
      cruel marks of shackles. These in some cases had worn deep furrows on
      their wrists or ankles.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were obedient to all orders as far as they understood them, and
      would, I believe, have jumped overboard if told to do so. I forbade the
      men to treat them harshly or cruelly. I had the sick separated from the
      others, and allowed them to remain on deck all the time, and in this way I
      partly gained their confidence. I was anxious to learn their story.
      Fortunately one of the Kroomen found among the prisoners a native of a
      tribe living near the coast, and with him as interpreter was able to make
      himself understood. After a good deal of questioning I learned that most
      of them were from a long distance in the interior, some having been one
      and some two moons on the way, traveling partly by land and partly by
      river until they reached the coast. They had been sold by their kings or
      by their parents to the Arab trader for firearms or for rum. Once at the
      depots near the coast, they were sold by the Arabs or other traders to the
      slave captains for from twenty-five to fifty dollars a head. In the
      Brazils or West Indies they were worth from two to five hundred dollars.
      This wide margin, of course, attracted unscrupulous and greedy
      adventurers, who if they succeeded in running a few cargoes would enrich
      themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our daily routine was simple. At six in the morning the rope netting over
      the main hatch which admitted light and air was taken off, and twenty-five
      of each sex were brought up, and seated in two circles, one on each side
      of the deck. A large pan of boiled paddy was then placed in the centre by
      the cook and all went to work with their hands. A few minutes sufficed to
      dispose of every grain; then one of the Kroomen gave each of them a cup of
      water from a bucket. For half an hour after the meal they had the liberty
      of the deck, except the poop, for exercise, to wash and to sun themselves;
      for sunshine to a negro is meat and drink. At the end of this time they
      were sent below and another fifty brought up, and so on until all had been
      fed and watered. Paddy or rice was the staple article of food. At dinner
      boiled yams were given with the rice. Our passengers were quartered on a
      flying deck extending from the foremast to a point twenty feet abaft the
      main hatch from which came light and air. The height was about five feet;
      the men had one side and the women the other. Of course there was no
      furnishing of any kind, but all lay prone upon the bare deck in rows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every morning after breakfast the Kroomen would rig the force pump, screw
      on the hose and drench them all, washing out thoroughly between decks.
      They appeared to enjoy this, and it was cooling, for be it remembered we
      were close under the equator, the thermometer dancing about 90 deg. As the
      water was sluiced over them they would rub and scrub each other. Only the
      girls would try not to get their hair wet, for they were at all times
      particular about their headdress. It may be that this was the only part of
      their toilet that gave them any concern.
    </p>
    <p>
      The winds were baffling and light, so we made but slow progress.
      Fortunately frequent rains, with sometimes a genuine tropical downpour or
      cloud-burst, gave us an opportunity of replenishing our water casks, and
      by spreading the awnings we were able to get a good supply. I found on
      inspection that there were at least thirty days' provisions on board, so
      on this score and that of water I felt easy. I lived on deck, seldom using
      the cabin, which was a veritable arsenal, with racks of muskets and
      cutlasses on two sides, many more than the captain needed to arm his crew,
      evidently intended for barter. Two or three prints of his favorite saints,
      ornamented with sharks' teeth, hung on one bulkhead. A well-thrummed
      mandolin and a number of French novels proved him to be a musical and
      literary fellow, who could probably play a bolero while making a
      troublesome slave walk a plank. I found also some choice vintages from the
      Douro and Bordeaux snugly stowed in his spirit locker, which proved good
      medicines for some of our captives, who required stimulants. Several of
      the girls were much reduced, refused nearly all food, and were only kept
      alive by a little wine and water. Two finally died of mere inanition.
      Their death did not in the least affect their fellows, who appeared
      perfectly indifferent and callous to all their surroundings, showing not
      the least sympathy or desire to help or wait on one another.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fifth day after parting from the brig we encountered a tropical storm.
      The sun rose red and angry, and owing to the great refraction appeared
      three times its natural size. It climbed lazily to the zenith, and at noon
      we were shadowless. The sky was as calm as a vault, and the surface of the
      water was like burnished steel. The heat became so stifling that even the
      Africans were gasping for breath, and we envied them their freedom from
      all impediments. The least exertion was irksome, and attended with extreme
      lassitude. During the afternoon thin cirri clouds, flying very high,
      spread out over the western heavens like a fan. As the day lengthened they
      thickened to resemble the scales of a fish, bringing to mind the old
      saying, "A mackerel sky and a mare's tail," etc. The signs were all
      unmistakable, and even the gulls recognized a change, and, screaming,
      sought shelter on our spars. Mr. Block was ordered to send down all the
      light yards and sails; to take in and furl everything, using storm
      gaskets, except on the fore and main storm staysails; to lash everything
      on deck; to batten down the hatches, except one square of the main; see
      all the shifting boards in place, so that our living cargo would not be
      thrown to leeward higgledy-piggledy, and to take four or five of the worst
      cases of the sick into the cabin and lay them on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun disappeared behind a mountainous mass of leaden-colored clouds
      which rose rapidly in the southern and western quarters. To the eastward,
      also, the signs were threatening. Night came on suddenly as it does in the
      tropics. Soon the darkness enveloped us, a palpable veil. A noise like the
      march of a mighty host was heard, which proved to be the approach of a
      tropical flood, heralded by drops as large as marbles. It churned the
      still waters into a phosphorescent foam which rendered the darkness only
      more oppressive. The rain came down as it can come only in the Bight of
      Benin. The avalanche cooled us, reducing the temperature ten or fifteen
      degrees, giving us new life, and relieving our fevered blood. I told Mr.
      Block to throw back the tarpaulin over the main hatch and let our dusky
      friends get some benefit of it. In half an hour the rain ceased, but it
      was as calm and ominous as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      I knew this was but the forerunner of something worse to follow, and we
      had not long to wait, for suddenly a blinding flash of lightning darted
      through the gloom from east to west, followed by one in the opposite
      direction. Without intermission, one blaze after another and thunder
      crashing until our eyes were blinded and our ears deafened, a thousand
      times ten thousand pieces of artillery thundered away. We seemed utterly
      helpless and insignificant. "How wonderful are Thy works," came to my
      mind. Still no wind; the brig lay helpless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly, as a slap in the face, the wind struck us,&mdash;on the
      starboard quarter, fortunately. "Hard-a-starboard." "Hanl aft port fore
      staysail sheet," I called. But before she could gather way she was thrown
      down by the wind like a reed. She was "coming to" instead of "going off,"
      and I tried to get the main storm staysail down but could not make myself
      heard. She was lying on her broadside. Luckily the water was smooth as
      yet. The main staysail shot out of the boltropes with a report like a
      twelve-pounder, and this eased her so that if the fore staysail would only
      hold she would go off. For a few minutes all we could do was to hold on,
      our lee rail in the water; but the plucky little brig rallied a little,
      her head went off inch by inch, and as she gathered way she righted, and
      catching the wind on our quarter we were off like a shot out of a gun. I
      knew we were too near the vortex of the disturbance for the wind to hang
      long in one quarter, so watched anxiously for a change. The sea rose
      rapidly while we were running to the northward on her course, and after a
      lull of a few minutes the wind opened from the eastward, butt end
      foremost, a change of eight points. Nothing was to be done but heave to,
      and this in a cross sea where pitch, weather roll, lee lurch, followed one
      another in such earnest that it was a wonder her masts were not switched
      out of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      I passed an anxious night, most concerned about the poor creatures under
      hatches, whose sufferings must have been terrible. To prevent their
      suffocating I kept two men at the main hatch with orders to lift one
      corner of the tarpaulin whenever possible, even if some water did go
      below. Toward morning the wind and the sea went down rapidly, and as the
      sun rose it chased the clouds off, giving us the promise of a fine day.
      When the cook brought me a cup of coffee, I do not know that I ever
      enjoyed anything more. Hatches off, I jumped down into the hold to look
      after my prisoners. Battered and bruised they lay around in heaps. Only
      the shifting boards had kept them from being beaten into an
      indistinguishable mass. As fast as possible they were sent on deck, and
      the sun's rays, with a few buckets of water that were thrown over them,
      accomplished wonders in bringing them to life and starting them to care
      for their sore limbs and bruises.
    </p>
    <p>
      One boy, when I motioned for him to go on deck, pointed quietly to his
      leg, and upon examination I found a fracture just above the knee. Swelling
      had already commenced. I had seen limbs set, and had some rough idea how
      it should be done. So while getting some splints of keg staves and
      bandages ready, I kept a stream of water pouring on the fracture, and then
      ordered two men to pull the limb in place, and it took all their strength.
      That done I put on the splints and wrapped the bandages tightly. Three
      weeks later I landed him in a fair way of recovery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gradually I allowed a larger number of the blacks to remain on deck, a
      privilege which they greatly enjoyed. To lie basking in the sun like
      saurians, half sleeping, half waking, appeared to satisfy all their
      wishes. They were perfectly docile and obedient, and not by word, gesture,
      or look did they express any dissatisfaction with orders given them. But
      again for any little acts of kindness they expressed no kind of
      appreciation or gratitude. Physically they were men and women, but
      otherwise as far removed from the Anglo-Saxon as the oyster from the
      baboon, or the mole from the horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the fourteenth day from parting with the brig we made the palms on Cape
      Mesurado, the entrance to Monrovia Harbor. A light sea breath wafted us to
      the anchorage, a mile from the town, and when the anchor dropped from the
      bows and the chain ran through the hawse pipe, it was sweet music to my
      ears; for the strain had been great, and I felt years older than when I
      parted from my messmates. A great responsibility seemed lifted from my
      shoulders, and I enjoyed a long and refreshing sleep for the first time in
      a fortnight. At nine the next morning I went on shore and reported to the
      authorities, the officials of Liberia, of which Monrovia is the capital.
    </p>
    <p>
      This part of the African coast had been selected by the United States
      government as the home of emancipated slaves; for prior to the abolition
      excitement which culminated in the war, numbers of slaves in the South had
      been manumitted by their masters with the understanding that they should
      be deported to Liberia, and the Colonization Society, an influential body,
      comprising some of the leading men, like Madison, Webster, and Clay, had
      assisted in the same work. The passages of the negroes were paid; each
      family was given a tract of land and sufficient means to build a house.
      Several thousand had been sent out, most of whom had settled at Monrovia,
      and a few at other places on the coast. They had made no impression on the
      natives. On the contrary, many of them had intermarried with the natives,
      and the off-spring of these unions had lost the use of the English tongue,
      and had even gone back to the life and customs of their ancestors, sans
      clothing, sans habitations, and worship of a fetich.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course there were some notable exceptions, especially President
      Roberts, who proved himself a safe and prudent ruler, taking into
      consideration his surroundings and the material with which he had to work.
      The form of government was modeled after that of the United States, but it
      was top-heavy. Honorables, colonels, and judges were thicker than in
      Georgia. Only privates were scarce; for nothing delights a negro more than
      a little show or a gaudy uniform. On landing I was met by a dark mulatto,
      dressed in a straw hat, blue tail coat, silver epaulettes, linen trousers,
      with bare feet, and a heavy cavalry sabre hanging by his side. With him
      were three or four others in the same rig, except the epaulettes. He
      introduced himself as Colonel Harrison, chief of police. I asked to be
      directed to the custom house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The collector proved to be an old negro from Raleigh, N. C., gray as a
      badger, spectacled, with manners of Lord Grandison and language of Mrs.
      Malaprop. I reported my arrival, and asked permission to land my cargo as
      soon as possible. He replied that in a matter of so much importance,
      devolving questions of momentous interest, it would be obligatory on him
      to consult the Secretary of the Treasury. I said I trusted he would so
      facilitate affairs that I might at an early hour disembarrass myself of my
      involuntary prisoners. I returned on board, and the day passed without any
      answer. The next morning I determined to go at once to headquarters and
      find out the cause of the delay by calling on the President.
    </p>
    <p>
      He received me without any formality. I made my case as strong as
      possible, and pressed for an immediate answer. In reply he assured me he
      would consult with other members of his cabinet, and give me a final
      answer the next morning. That evening I dined with him en famille, and
      recognized some old Virginia dishes on the table. The next morning I
      waited impatiently for his decision, having made up my mind however, if it
      was unfavorable, to land my poor captives, be the consequences what they
      might.
    </p>
    <p>
      About eleven o'clock a boat came off with an officer in full uniform, who
      introduced himself as Colonel Royal, bearer of dispatches from his
      Excellency the President. He handed me a letter couched in diplomatic
      language, as long as some of his brother presidents' messages on this side
      of the Atlantic. I had hardly patience to read it. The gist of it was, I
      might not land the captives at Monrovia, but might land them at Grand
      Bassa, about a hundred and fifty miles to the eastward; that Colonel Royal
      would accompany me with orders to the governor there to receive them. This
      was something I had not anticipated, and outside of my instructions.
      However, I thought it best to comply with the wishes of the government of
      our only colony.
    </p>
    <p>
      Getting under way we stood to the southward and eastward, taking advantage
      of the light land and sea breeze, keeping the coast close aboard. The
      colonel had come on board without any impediments, and I wondered if he
      intended to make the voyage in his cocked hat, epaulettes, sword, etc. But
      soon after we had started he disappeared and emerged from the cabin
      bareheaded, barefooted, and without clothing except a blue dungaree shirt
      and trousers. Like a provident negro, having stowed away all his
      trappings, he appeared as a roustabout on a Western steamer. But he had
      not laid aside with his toggery any of his important and consequential
      airs. He ran foul of Mr. Block, who called him Mr. Cuffy, and ordered him
      to give him a pull with the main sheet. The colonel complained to me that
      he was not addressed by his name or title, and that he was not treated as
      a representative of his government should be. I reprimanded Mr. Block, and
      told him to give the visitor all his title. "All right, sir, but the
      colonel must keep off the weather side of the deck," growled the officer.
      The cook, the crew, and even the Kroomen, all took their cue from the
      first officer, and the colonel's lot was made most unhappy.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the third day we reached Grand Bassa, and anchored off the beach about
      two miles, along which the surf was breaking so high that any attempt to
      land would be hazardous. Toward evening it moderated, and a canoe with
      three naked natives came off. One I found could speak a little English. I
      told him to say to the governor that I would come on shore in the morning
      and see him, and land my cargo at the same time.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning at sunrise we were boarded by a party of natives headed
      by one wearing a black hat half covered with a tarnished silver band, an
      old navy frock coat, much too small, between the buttons of which his
      well-oiled skin showed clearly. A pair of blue flannel trousers completed
      his outfit. An interpreter introduced him as King George of Grand Bassa.
      With him were about a dozen followers, each one wearing a different sort
      of garment&mdash;and seldom more than a single one&mdash;representing old
      uniforms of many countries. Two coats I noticed were buttoned up the back.
    </p>
    <p>
      The king began by saying that he was and always had been a friend of the
      Americans; that he was a big man, had plenty of men and five wives, etc.
      While he was speaking, a white-bearded old colored gentleman came over the
      gangway, dressed in a linen roundabout and trousers, with a wide-brimmed
      straw hat. At the same time Colonel Royal came up from the cabin in grande
      tenue and introduced us to the Hon. Mr. Marshall, governor of Bassa,
      formerly of Kentucky.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few minutes he explained the situation. With a few settlers he was
      located at this place, on the frontier of the colony, and they were there
      on sufferance only from the natives. I told him Colonel Royal would
      explain my mission to him and the king. The colonel, bowing low to the
      king, the governor, and myself, and bringing his sword down with a thud on
      the deck, drew from between the bursting buttons of his coat the
      formidable document I had seen at Monrovia, and with most impressive voice
      and gesture commenced to read it. The king listened for a few minutes, and
      then interrupted him. I asked the interpreter what he said. He replied,
      "King say he fool nigger; if he comes on shore he give him to Voodoo
      women." Then turning his back he walked forward. The colonel dropped his
      paper, and drawing his sword, in the most dramatic manner claimed
      protection in the name of the government, declaring that he had been
      insulted. I told him to keep cool, since he was certainly safe as long as
      he was on board my ship. He grumbled and muttered terrible things, but
      subsided gradually like the departing thunder of a summer storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      I arranged the landing of the passengers with Governor Marshall, whom I
      found a sensible, clear-headed old man, ready to cooperate in every way.
      But he suggested that I had better consult the king before doing anything.
      I did so, and he at once said they could not land. I told the interpreter
      to say they would be landed at once and put under the protection of the
      governor; that if the king or his people hurt them or ran them off I would
      report it to our commodore, who would certainly punish him severely.
      Finding me determined, he began to temporize, and asked that the landing
      be put off until the next day, that he might consult with his head people,
      for if I sent them on shore before he had done so they would kill them.
      "If that is the case," I replied, "I will hold you on board as a hostage
      for their good behavior." This threat surprised him, and he changed his
      tactics. After a little powwow with some of his followers, he said that if
      I would give him fifty muskets, twenty pounds of powder, the colonel's
      sword, and some red cloth for his wives, I might land them. I replied that
      I had not a musket to spare nor an ounce of powder, that the colonel was a
      high officer of his government, and that he of course would not give up
      his uniform. Fortunately the colonel had retired to the cabin and did not
      hear this modest demand, or he would have been as much outraged as if his
      sable Majesty had asked for him to be served "roti a l'Ashantee." However,
      I told the king I would send his wives some cloth and buttons. He grunted
      his approval but returned again to the charge, and asked that he might
      choose a few of the captives for his own use, before landing. "Certainly
      not," I answered, "neither on board nor on shore," and added that he would
      be held accountable for their good treatment as free men and women. He
      left thoroughly disappointed and bent on mischief.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime Mr. Block had made all preparations for landing, and had
      the boats lowered and ranged alongside, with sufficient rice to last the
      blacks a week or ten days. The men and boys were sent first. When they
      were called up from the hold and ordered into the boats not one of them
      moved. They evidently divined what had been going on and dreaded leaving
      the vessel, though our Kroomen tried to explain that they would be safe
      and free on shore. The explanation was without effect, however, and they
      refused to move. The could only understand that they were changing
      masters, and they preferred the present ones. Sending three or four men
      down, I told them to pass up the negroes one at a time. Only a passive
      resistance was offered, such as one often sees exhibited by cattle being
      loaded on the cars or on a steamer, and were silent, not uttering a word
      of complaint. By noon the men were all on shore, and then we began with
      the girls. They were more demonstrative than the men, and by their looks
      and gestures begged not to be taken out of the vessel. I was much moved,
      for it was a painful duty, and I had become interested in these beings, so
      utterly helpless, so childlike in their dependence on those around them.
      And I could not help thinking what their fate would be, thrown upon the
      shore hundreds of miles from their homes, and among a people strange to
      them in language.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Mr. Block was deeply stirred. "He had not shipped," he said, "for
      such work." I went to my cabin and left him in charge. In the course of an
      hour he reported, "All ashore, sir." I told him to have the gig manned and
      I would go on shore with Colonel Royal, and get a receipt from Governor
      Marshall for my late cargo. The colonel declined to accompany me, alleging
      sickness and requesting me to get the necessary papers signed. No doubt he
      felt safer on board than within reach of King George.
    </p>
    <p>
      We landed through the surf on a sandy beach, on which the waves of the
      Atlantic were fretting. Near by was a thick grove of cocoanut trees, under
      which in groups of four and five were those who had just been landed. They
      were seated on the ground, their heads resting on their knees, in a
      position of utter abnegation, surrounded by three or four hundred
      chattering savages of all ages, headed by the king. With the exception of
      him and a few of his head men, the clothing of the company would not have
      covered a rag baby. They were no doubt discussing the appearance of the
      strangers and making their selections.
    </p>
    <p>
      I found the governor's house and the houses of the few settlers some
      distance back on a slight elevation. The governor was comfortably, though
      plainly situated, with a large family around him. He gave me a receipt for
      the number of blacks landed, but said it would be impossible for him to
      prevent the natives from taking and enslaving them. I agreed with him, and
      said he must repeat to the king what I had told him. Then bidding him
      good-by I returned on board, sad and weary as one often feels after being
      relieved of a great burden. At the same time I wondered whether the fate
      of these people would have been any worse if the captain of the slaver had
      succeeded in landing them in the Brazils or the West Indies. Sierra Leone
      being a crown colony, the English could land all their captives there and
      provide for them until they were able to work for themselves. In this
      respect they had a great advantage over us.
    </p>
    <p>
      Getting under way, I proceeded to Monrovia to land Colonel Royal, and then
      to Porto Praya, our squadron's headquarters. There I found Commodore
      Gregory in the flagship corvette Portsmouth, and reported to him. Soon
      after the Porpoise came in, and I joined my old craft, giving up my
      command of the captured slaver rather reluctantly.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      MR. CHARLES W. CHESNUTT'S STORIES by W. D. Howells
    </h2>
    <p>
      The critical reader of the story called The Wife of his Youth, which
      appeared in these pages two years ago, must have noticed uncommon traits
      in what was altogether a remarkable piece of work. The first was the
      novelty of the material; for the writer dealt not only with people who
      were not white, but with people who were not black enough to contrast
      grotesquely with white people,&mdash;who in fact were of that near
      approach to the ordinary American in race and color which leaves, at the
      last degree, every one but the connoisseur in doubt whether they are
      Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-African. Quite as striking as this novelty of the
      material was the author's thorough mastery of it, and his unerring
      knowledge of the life he had chosen in its peculiar racial
      characteristics. But above all, the story was notable for the passionless
      handling of a phase of our common life which is tense with potential
      tragedy; for the attitude, almost ironical, in which the artist observes
      the play of contesting emotions in the drama under his eyes; and for his
      apparently reluctant, apparently helpless consent to let the spectator
      know his real feeling in the matter. Any one accustomed to study methods
      in fiction, to distinguish between good and bad art, to feel the joy which
      the delicate skill possible only from a love of truth can give, must have
      known a high pleasure in the quiet self-restraint of the performance; and
      such a reader would probably have decided that the social situation in the
      piece was studied wholly from the outside, by an observer with special
      opportunities for knowing it, who was, as it were, surprised into final
      sympathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, however, it is known that the author of this story is of negro blood,&mdash;diluted,
      indeed, in such measure that if he did not admit this descent few would
      imagine it, but still quite of that middle world which lies next, though
      wholly outside, our own. Since his first story appeared he has contributed
      several others to these pages, and he now makes a showing palpable to
      criticism in a volume called The Wife of his Youth, and Other Stories of
      the Color Line; a volume of Southern sketches called The Conjure Woman;
      and a short life of Frederick Douglass, in the Beacon Series of
      biographies. The last is a simple, solid, straight piece of work, not
      remarkable above many other biographical studies by people entirely white,
      and yet important as the work of a man not entirely white treating of a
      great man of his inalienable race. But the volumes of fiction ARE
      remarkable above many, above most short stories by people entirely white,
      and would be worthy of unusual notice if they were not the work of a man
      not entirely white.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is not from their racial interest that we could first wish to speak of
      them, though that must have a very great and very just claim upon the
      critic. It is much more simply and directly, as works of art, that they
      make their appeal, and we must allow the force of this quite independently
      of the other interest. Yet it cannot always be allowed. There are times in
      each of the stories of the first volume when the simplicity lapses, and
      the effect is as of a weak and uninstructed touch. There are other times
      when the attitude, severely impartial and studiously aloof, accuses itself
      of a little pompousness. There are still other times when the literature
      is a little too ornate for beauty, and the diction is journalistic,
      reporteristic. But it is right to add that these are the exceptional
      times, and that for far the greatest part Mr. Chesnutt seems to know quite
      as well what he wants to do in a given case as Maupassant, or Tourguenief,
      or Mr. James, or Miss Jewett, or Miss Wilkins, in other given cases, and
      has done it with an art of kindred quiet and force. He belongs, in other
      words, to the good school, the only school, all aberrations from nature
      being so much truancy and anarchy. He sees his people very clearly, very
      justly, and he shows them as he sees them, leaving the reader to divine
      the depth of his feeling for them. He touches all the stops, and with
      equal delicacy in stories of real tragedy and comedy and pathos, so that
      it would be hard to say which is the finest in such admirably rendered
      effects as The Web of Circumstance, The Bouquet, and Uncle Wellington's
      Wives. In some others the comedy degenerates into satire, with a look in
      the reader's direction which the author's friend must deplore.
    </p>
    <p>
      As these stories are of our own time and country, and as there is not a
      swashbuckler of the seventeenth century, or a sentimentalist of this, or a
      princess of an imaginary kingdom, in any of them, they will possibly not
      reach half a million readers in six months, but in twelve months possibly
      more readers will remember them than if they had reached the half million.
      They are new and fresh and strong, as life always is, and fable never is;
      and the stories of The Conjure Woman have a wild, indigenous poetry, the
      creation of sincere and original imagination, which is imparted with a
      tender humorousness and a very artistic reticence. As far as his race is
      concerned, or his sixteenth part of a race, it does not greatly matter
      whether Mr. Chesnutt invented their motives, or found them, as he feigns,
      among his distant cousins of the Southern cabins. In either case, the
      wonder of their beauty is the same; and whatever is primitive and sylvan
      or campestral in the reader's heart is touched by the spells thrown on the
      simple black lives in these enchanting tales. Character, the most precious
      thing in fiction, is as faithfully portrayed against the poetic background
      as in the setting of the Stories of the Color Line.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet these stories, after all, are Mr. Chesnutt's most important work,
      whether we consider them merely as realistic fiction, apart from their
      author, or as studies of that middle world of which he is naturally and
      voluntarily a citizen. We had known the nethermost world of the grotesque
      and comical negro and the terrible and tragic negro through the white
      observer on the outside, and black character in its lyrical moods we had
      known from such an inside witness as Mr. Paul Dunbar; but it had remained
      for Mr. Chesnutt to acquaint us with those regions where the paler shades
      dwell as hopelessly, with relation to ourselves, as the blackest negro. He
      has not shown the dwellers there as very different from ourselves. They
      have within their own circles the same social ambitions and prejudices;
      they intrigue and truckle and crawl, and are snobs, like ourselves, both
      of the snobs that snub and the snobs that are snubbed. We may choose to
      think them droll in their parody of pure white society, but perhaps it
      would be wiser to recognize that they are like us because they are of our
      blood by more than a half, or three quarters, or nine tenths. It is not,
      in such cases, their negro blood that characterizes them; but it is their
      negro blood that excludes them, and that will imaginably fortify them and
      exalt them. Bound in that sad solidarity from which there is no hope of
      entrance into polite white society for them, they may create a
      civilization of their own, which need not lack the highest quality. They
      need not be ashamed of the race from which they have sprung, and whose
      exile they share; for in many of the arts it has already shown, during a
      single generation of freedom, gifts which slavery apparently only
      obscured. With Mr. Booker Washington the first American orator of our
      time, fresh upon the time of Frederick Douglass; with Mr. Dunbar among the
      truest of our poets; with Mr. Tanner, a black American, among the only
      three Americans from whom the French government ever bought a picture, Mr.
      Chesnutt may well be willing to own his color.
    </p>
    <p>
      But that is his personal affair. Our own more universal interest in him
      arises from the more than promise he has given in a department of
      literature where Americans hold the foremost place. In this there is,
      happily, no color line; and if he has it in him to go forward on the way
      which he has traced for himself, to be true to life as he has known it, to
      deny himself the glories of the cheap success which awaits the charlatan
      in fiction, one of the places at the top is open to him. He has sounded a
      fresh note, boldly, not blatantly, and he has won the ear of the more
      intelligent public.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      PATHS OF HOPE FOR THE NEGRO by Jerome Dowd
    </h2>
    <h3>
      PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS OF A SOUTHERNER
    </h3>
    <p>
      It is too late in the day to discuss whether it would have been better had
      the Negro never been brought into the Southern States. If his presence
      here has been beneficial, or is ever to prove so, the price of the benefit
      has already been dearly paid for. He was the occasion of the deadliest and
      most expensive war in modern times. In the next place, his presence has
      corrupted politics and has limited statesmanship to a mere question of
      race supremacy. Great problems concerning the political, industrial, and
      moral life of the people have been subordinated or overshadowed, so that,
      while important strides have been made elsewhere in the investigation of
      social conditions and in the administration of State and municipal
      affairs, in civil-service reform, in the management of penal and
      charitable institutions, and in the field of education, the South has
      lagged behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the charts of illiteracy and crime the South is represented by an
      immense black spot. Such are a few items of the account. It will require
      millions more of dollars and generations more of earnest work before the
      total cost is met of bringing the black man to this side of the globe. But
      the debt has been incurred and must be liquidated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The welfare of the Negro is bound up with that of the white man in many
      important particulars:
    </p>
    <p>
      First, the low standard of living among the blacks keeps down the wages of
      all classes of whites. So long as the Negroes are content to live in
      miserable huts, wear rags, and subsist upon hog fat and cow-pease, so long
      must the wages of white people in the same kind of work be pressed toward
      the same level. The higher we raise the standard of living among the
      Negroes, the higher will be the wages of the white people in the same
      occupations. The low standard of the Negroes is the result of low
      productive power. The less intelligent and skilled the Negroes are, the
      less they can produce, whether working for themselves or others, and
      hence, the less will be the total wealth of the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it may be asked, When the standard of living of the Negroes is raised,
      will not wages go up, and will not that be a drawback? Certainly wages
      will go up, because the income of all classes will be increased. High
      wages generally indicate high productive power and general wealth, while
      low wages indicate the opposite. Only benefits can arise from better
      wages.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the next place, the Negro's propensity to crime tends to excite the
      criminal tendencies of the white man. The South enjoys the distinction of
      having the highest percentage of crime in all the civilized world, and the
      reason is that the crimes of the one race provoke counter-crimes in the
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      The physical well-being of the one race has such a conspicuous influence
      upon that of the other that the subject requires no elaboration. The
      uncleanliness of person and habits of the Negroes in their homes and in
      the homes of their employers tends to propagate diseases, and thus impairs
      the health and increases the death-rate of the whole population.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, the lack of refinement in intellect, manners, and dress among the
      Negroes is an obstacle to the cultivated life of the whites. Ignorance and
      the absence of taste and self-respect in servants result in badly kept
      homes and yards, destruction of furniture and ware, ill-prepared food,
      poor table service, and a general lowering of the standard of living.
      Furthermore, the corrupt, coarse, and vulgar language of the Negroes is
      largely responsible for the jumbled and distorted English spoken by many
      of the Southern whites.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing that the degradation of the Negro is an impediment to the progress
      and civilization of the white man, how may we effect an improvement in his
      condition?
    </p>
    <p>
      First, municipalities should give more attention to the streets and alleys
      that traverse Negro settlements. In almost every town in the South there
      are settlements, known by such names as "New Africa," "Haiti," "Log Town,"
      "Smoky Hollow," or "Snow Hill," exclusively inhabited by Negroes. These
      settlements are often outside the corporate limits. The houses are built
      along narrow, crooked, and dirty lanes, and the community is without
      sanitary regulations or oversight. These quarters should be brought under
      municipal control, the lanes widened into streets and cleaned, and
      provision made to guard against the opening of similar ones in the future.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the next place, property-owners should build better houses for the
      Negroes to live in. The weakness in the civilization of the Negroes is
      most pronounced in their family life. But improvement in this respect is
      not possible without an improvement in the character and the comforts of
      the houses they live in. Bad houses breed bad people and bad
      neighborhoods. There is no more distinctive form of crime than the
      building and renting of houses unfit for human habitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely second in importance to improvements in house architecture is the
      need among Negroes of more time to spend with their families. Employers of
      Negro labor should be less exacting in the number of hours required for a
      day's work. Many domestic servants now work from six in the morning until
      nine and ten o'clock at night. The Southern habit of keeping open
      shopping-places until late at night encourages late suppers, retains
      cooks, butlers, and nurses until bedtime, and robs them of all home life.
      If the merchants would close their shops at six o'clock, as is the custom
      in the North, the welfare of both races would be greatly promoted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, a revolution is needed in the character of the Negro's religion. At
      present it is too largely an affair of the emotions. He needs to be taught
      that the religious life is something to grow into by the perfection of
      personality, and not to be jumped into or sweated into at camp-meetings.
      The theological seminaries and the graduate preachers should assume the
      task of grafting upon the religion of the Negro that much sanity at least.
    </p>
    <p>
      A reform is as much needed in the methods and aims of Negro education. Up
      to the present Negro education has shared with that of the white man the
      fault of being top-heavy. Colleges and universities have developed out of
      proportion to, and at the expense of, common schools. Then, the kind of
      education afforded the Negro has not been fitted to his capacities and
      needs. He has been made to pursue courses of study parallel to those
      prescribed for the whites, as though the individuals of both races had to
      fill the same positions in life. Much of the Negro's education has had
      nothing to do with his real life-work. It has only made him discontented
      and disinclined to unfold his arms. The survival of the Negroes in the
      race for existence depends upon their retaining possession of the few
      bread-winning occupations now open to them. But instead of better
      qualifying themselves for these occupations they have been poring over
      dead languages and working problems in mathematics. In the meantime the
      Chinaman and the steam-laundry have abolished the Negro's wash-tub,
      trained white "tonsorial artists" have taken away his barber's chair, and
      skilled painters and plasterers and mechanics have taken away his
      paint-brushes and tool-chests. Every year the number of occupations open
      to him becomes fewer because of his lack of progress in them. Unless a
      radical change takes place in the scope of his education, so that he may
      learn better how to do his work, a tide of white immigration will set in
      and force him out of his last stronghold, domestic service, and limit his
      sphere to the farm.
    </p>
    <p>
      All primary schools for the Negroes should be equipped for industrial
      training in such work as sewing, cooking, laundering, carpentry, and
      house-cleaning, and, in rural districts, in elementary agriculture.
    </p>
    <p>
      Secondary schools should add to the literary courses a more advanced
      course in industrial training, so as to approach as nearly as possible the
      objects and methods of the Tuskegee and Hampton Industrial and Normal
      Schools. Too much cannot be said in behalf of the revolution in the life
      of the Negro which the work of these schools promises and, in part, has
      already wrought. The writer is fully aware that education has a value
      aside from and above its bread-winning results, and he would not dissuade
      the Negro from seeking the highest culture that he may be capable of; but
      it is folly for him to wing his way through the higher realms of the
      intellect without some acquaintance with the requirements and duties of
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Changes are needed in the methods of Negro education as well as in its
      scope. Educators should take into account, more than they have yet done,
      the differences in the mental characteristics of the two races. It is a
      well-established fact that, while the lower races possess marked capacity
      to deal with simple, concrete ideas, they lack power of generalization,
      and soon fatigue in the realm of the abstract. It is also well known that
      the inferior races, being deficient in generalization, which is a
      subjective process, are absorbed almost entirely in the things that are
      objective. They have strong and alert eyesight, and are susceptible to
      impressions through the medium of the eye to an extent that is impossible
      to any of the white races. This fact is evidenced in the great number of
      pictures found in the homes of the Negroes. In default of anything better,
      they will paper their walls with advertisements of the theater and the
      circus, and even with pictures from vicious newspapers. They delight in
      street pageantry, fancy costumes, theatrical performances, and similar
      spectacles. Factories employing Negroes generally find it necessary to
      suspend operations on "circus day." They love stories of adventure and any
      fiction that gives play to their imaginations. All their tastes lie in the
      realm of the objective and the concrete.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hence, in the school-room stress should be laid on those studies that
      appeal to the eye and the imagination. Lessons should be given in
      sketching, painting, drawing, and casting. Reprints of the popular works
      of art should be placed before the Negroes, that their love for art may be
      gratified and their taste cultivated at the same time. Fancy needlework,
      dress-making, and home decorations should also have an important place.
      These studies, while not contributing directly to bread-winning, have a
      refining and softening influence upon character, and inspire efforts to
      make the home more attractive. The more interest we can make the Negro
      take in his personal appearance and in the comforts of his home, the more
      we shall strengthen and promote his family life and raise the level of his
      civilization.
    </p>
    <p>
      The literary education of the Negro should consist of carefully selected
      poems and novels that appeal to his imagination and produce clear images
      upon his mind, excluding such literature as is in the nature of
      psychological or moral research. Recitations and dialogues should be more
      generally and more frequently required. In history emphasis should be
      given to what is picturesque, dramatic, and biographical.
    </p>
    <p>
      Coming to the political phase of the Negro problem, there is a general
      agreement among white men that the Southern States cannot keep pace with
      the progress of the world as long as they are menaced by Negro domination,
      and that, therefore, it is necessary to eliminate the Negro vote from
      politics. When the Negroes become intelligent factors in society, when
      they become thrifty and accumulate wealth, they will find the way to
      larger exercise of citizenship. They can never sit upon juries to pass
      upon life and property until they are property-owners themselves, and they
      can never hold the reins of government by reason of mere superiority of
      numbers. Before they can take on larger political responsibilities they
      must demonstrate their ability to meet them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Negroes will never be allowed to control State governments so long as
      they vote at every election upon the basis of color, without regard
      whatever to political issues or private convictions. If the Negroes would
      divide their votes according to their individual opinions, as the lamented
      Charles Price, one of their best leaders, advised, there would be no
      danger of Negro domination and no objection to their holding offices which
      they might be competent to fill. But as there is no present prospect of
      their voting upon any other basis than that of color, the white people are
      forced to accept the situation and protect themselves accordingly. Years
      of bitter and costly experience have demonstrated over and over again that
      Negro rule is not only incompetent and corrupt, but a menace to
      civilization. Some people imagine that there is something anomalous,
      peculiar, or local in the race prejudice that binds all Negroes together;
      but this clan spirit is a characteristic of all savage and semi-civilized
      peoples.
    </p>
    <p>
      It should be well understood by this time that no foreign race inhabiting
      this country and acting together politically can dominate the native
      whites. To permit an inferior race, holding less than one tenth of the
      property of the community, to take the reins of government in its hands,
      by reason of mere numerical strength, would be to renounce civilization.
      Our national government, in making laws for Hawaii, has carefully provided
      for white supremacy by an educational qualification for suffrage that
      excludes the semi-civilized natives. No sane man, let us hope, would think
      of placing Manila under the control of a government of the Philippine
      Islands based upon universal suffrage. Yet the problem in the South and
      the problem in the Philippines and in Hawaii differ only in degree.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only proper safeguard against Negro rule in States where the blacks
      outnumber or approximate in number the whites lies in constitutional
      provisions establishing an educational test for suffrage applicable to
      black and white alike. If the suffrage is not thus limited it is necessary
      for the whites to resort to technicalities and ballot laws, to bribery or
      intimidation. To set up an educational test with a "grandfather clause,"
      making the test apply for a certain time to the blacks only, seems to an
      outsider unnecessary, arbitrary, and unjust. The reason for such a clause
      arises from the belief that no constitutional amendment could ever carry
      if it immediately disfranchised the illiterate whites, as many
      property-holding whites belong to that class. But the writer does not
      believe in the principle nor in the necessity for a "grandfather clause."
      If constitutional amendments were to be submitted in North Carolina and
      Virginia applying the educational test to both races alike after 1908, the
      question would be lifted above the level of party gain, and would receive
      the support of white men of all parties and the approbation of the moral
      sentiment of the American people. A white man who would disfranchise a
      Negro because of his color or for mere party advantage is himself unworthy
      of the suffrage. With the suffrage question adjusted upon an educational
      basis the Negroes would have the power to work out their political
      emancipation, the white people having made education necessary and
      provided the means for attaining it.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the question of Negro domination is settled the path of progress of
      both races will be very much cleared. Race conflicts will then be less
      frequent and race feeling less bitter. With more friendly relations
      growing up, and with more concentration of energy on the part of the
      Negroes in industrial lines, the opportunities for them will be widened
      and the task of finding industrial adjustment in the struggle for life
      made easier. The wisest and best leaders among the Negroes, such as Booker
      Washington and the late Charles Price, have tried to turn the attention of
      the Negroes from politics to the more profitable pursuits of industry, and
      if the professional politician would cease inspiring the Negroes to seek
      salvation in political domination over the whites, the race issue would
      soon cease to exist.
    </p>
    <p>
      The field is broad enough in the South for both races to attain all that
      is possible to them. In spite of the periodic political conflicts and
      occasional local riots and acts of individual violence, the relations
      between the races, in respect to nine tenths of the population, are very
      friendly. The general condition has been too often judged by the acts of a
      small minority. The Southern people understand the Negroes, and feel a
      real fondness for those that are thrifty and well behaved. When fairly
      treated the Negro has a strong affection for his employer. He seldom
      forgets a kindness, and is quick to forget a wrong. If he does not stay
      long at one place, it is not that he dislikes his employer so much as that
      he has a restless temperament and craves change. His disposition is full
      of mirth and sunshine, and not a little of the fine flavor of Southern wit
      and humor is due to his influence. His nature is plastic, and while he is
      easily molded into a monster, he is also capable of a high degree of
      culture. Many Negroes are thoroughly honest, notwithstanding their bad
      environment and hereditary disposition to steal. Negro servants are
      trusted with the keys to households to an extent that, probably, is not
      the case among domestics elsewhere in the civilized world.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is strange that two races working side by side should possess so many
      opposite traits of character. The white man has strong will and
      convictions and is set in his ways. He lives an indoor, monotonous life,
      restrains himself like a Puritan, and is inclined to melancholy. The
      prevalence of Populism throughout the South is nothing but the outcome of
      this morbid tendency. Farmers and merchants are entirely absorbed in their
      business, and the women, especially the married women, contrast with the
      women of France, Germany, and even England, in their indoor life and
      disinclination to mingle with the world outside. Public parks and public
      concerts, such as are found in Europe, which call out husband, wife, and
      children for a few hours of rest and communion with their friends, are
      almost unknown in the South. The few entertainments that receive sanction
      generally exclude all but the well-to-do by the cost of admission. The
      life of the poor in town and country is bleak and bare to the last degree.
    </p>
    <p>
      Contrasting with this tendency is the free-and-easy life of the blacks.
      The burdens of the present and the future weigh lightly upon their
      shoulders. They love all the worldly amusements; in their homes they are
      free entertainers, and in their fondness for conversation and love of
      street life they are equal to the French or Italians.
    </p>
    <p>
      May we not hope that the conflict of these two opposite races is working
      out some advantages to both, and that the final result will justify all
      that the conflict has cost?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      SIGNS OF PROGRESS AMONG THE NEGROES by Booker T. Washington
    </h2>
    <p>
      In addition to the problem of educating eight million negroes in our
      Southern States and ingrafting them into American citizenship, we now have
      the additional responsibility, either directly or indirectly, of educating
      and elevating about eight hundred thousand others of African descent in
      Cuba and Porto Rico, to say nothing of the white people of these islands,
      many of whom are in a condition about as deplorable as that of the
      negroes. We have, however, one advantage in approaching the question of
      the education of our new neighbors.
    </p>
    <p>
      The experience that we have passed through in the Southern States during
      the last thirty years in the education of my race, whose history and needs
      are not very different from the history and needs of the Cubans and Porto
      Ricans, will prove most valuable in elevating the blacks of the West
      Indian Islands. To tell what has already been accomplished in the South
      under most difficult circumstances is to tell what may be done in Cuba and
      Porto Rico.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this end let me tell a story.
    </p>
    <p>
      In what is known as the black belt of the South&mdash;that is, where the
      negroes outnumber the whites&mdash;there lived before the Civil War a
      white man who owned some two hundred slaves, and was prosperous. At the
      close of the war he found his fortune gone, except that which was
      represented in land, of which he owned several thousand acres. Of the two
      hundred slaves a large proportion decided, after their freedom, to
      continue on the plantation of their former owner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some years after the war a young black boy, who seemed to have "rained
      down," was discovered on the plantation by Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;-, the
      owner. In daily rides through the plantation Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- saw this
      boy sitting by the roadside, and his condition awakened his pity, for,
      from want of care, he was covered from head to foot with sores, and Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;-
      soon grew into the habit of tossing him a nickel or a dime as he rode by.
      In some way this boy heard of the Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute
      in Alabama, and of the advantages which it offered poor but deserving
      colored men and women to secure an education through their own labor while
      taking the course of study. This boy, whose name was William, made known
      to the plantation hands his wish to go to the Tuskegee school. By each one
      "chipping in," and through the efforts of the boy himself, a few decent
      pieces of clothing were secured, and a little money, but not enough to pay
      his railroad fare, so the boy resolved to walk to Tuskegee, a distance of
      about one hundred and fifty miles. Strange to say, he made the long
      distance with an expenditure of only twenty cents in cash. He frankly told
      every one with whom he came in contact where he was going and what he was
      seeking. Both white and colored people along the route gave him food and a
      place to sleep free of cost, and even the usually exacting ferrymen were
      so impressed with the young negro's desire for an education that, except
      in one case, he was given free ferriage across the creeks and rivers.
    </p>
    <p>
      One can easily imagine his appearance when he first arrived at Tuskegee,
      with his blistered feet and small white bundle, which contained all the
      clothing he possessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      On being shown into my office his first words were: "I's come. S'pose you
      been lookin' for me, but I didn't come on de railroad." Looking up the
      records, it was found that this young man had been given permission to
      come several months ago, but the correspondence had long since been
      forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      After being sent to the bath-room and provided with a tooth-brush,&mdash;for
      the tooth-brush at Tuskegee is the emblem of civilization,&mdash;William
      was assigned to a room, and was given work on the school farm of fourteen
      hundred acres, seven hundred of which are cultivated by student labor.
      During his first year at Tuskegee William worked on the farm during the
      day, where he soon learned to take a deep interest in all that the school
      was doing to teach the students the best and most improved methods of
      farming, and studied for two hours at night in the class-room after his
      hard day's work was over. At first he seemed drowsy and dull in the
      night-school, and would now and then fall asleep while trying to study;
      but he did not grow discouraged. The new machinery that he was compelled
      to use on the farm interested him because it taught him that the farm work
      could be stripped of much of the old-time drudgery and toil, and seemed to
      awaken his sleeping intellect. Soon he began asking the farm-instructors
      such questions as where the Jersey and Holstein cattle came from, and why
      they produced more milk and butter than the common long-tailed and
      long-horned cows that he had seen at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      His night-school teachers found that he ceased to sleep in school, and
      began asking questions about his lessons, and was soon able to calculate
      the number of square yards in an acre and to tell the number of
      peach-trees required to plant an acre of land. After he had been at
      Tuskegee two or three months the farm-manager came into my office on a
      cold, rainy day, and said that William was virtually barefooted, the soles
      of his shoes having separated from the uppers, though William had fastened
      them together as best he could with bits of wire. In this condition the
      farm-instructor found him plowing without a word of complaint. A pair of
      second-hand shoes was secured for him, and he was soon very happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      I will not take this part of the story further except to say that at the
      end of his first year at Tuskegee this young man, having made a start in
      his books, and having saved a small sum of money above the cost of his
      board, which was credited to his account, entered the next year our
      regular day-classes, though still dividing his time between the class-room
      and work on the farm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toward the end of the year he found himself in need of money with which to
      buy books, clothing, etc., and so wrote a carefully worded letter to Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;-,
      the white man on whose plantation he had lived, and who had been, in
      slavery, the owner of his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the letter he told Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- how he got to Tuskegee, what he
      was doing, and what his needs were, and asked Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- to lend
      him fifteen dollars. Before receiving this letter Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- had
      not thought once about the boy during his two years' absence; in fact, did
      not know that he had left the plantation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- was a good deal shocked, as well as amused, over such
      a request from such a source. The letter went to the wastebasket without
      being answered. A few weeks later William sent a second letter, in which
      he took it for granted that the first letter had not been received. The
      second letter shared the same fate as the first. A third letter reached
      Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- in a few weeks, making the same request. In answer to
      the third letter Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- told me that, moved by some impulse
      which he himself never understood, he sent William the fifteen dollars.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two or three years passed, and Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- had about forgotten
      William and the fifteen dollars; but one morning while sitting upon his
      porch a bright young colored man walked up and introduced himself as
      William, the boy to whom he used to toss small pieces of money, and the
      one to whom he had sent fifteen dollars.
    </p>
    <p>
      William paid Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;- the fifteen dollars with interest, which
      he had earned while teaching school after leaving Tuskegee.
    </p>
    <p>
      This simple experience with this young colored man made a new and
      different person of Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;-, so far as the negro was
      concerned.
    </p>
    <p>
      He began to think. He thought of the long past, but he thought most of the
      future, and of his duty toward the hundreds of colored people on his
      plantation and in his community. After careful thought he asked William
      Edwards to open a school on his plantation in a vacant log cabin. That was
      seven years ago. On this same plantation at Snow Hill, Wilcox county,
      Alabama, a county where, according to the last census, there are
      twenty-four thousand colored people and about six thousand whites, there
      is now a school with two hundred pupils, five teachers from Tuskegee, and
      three school buildings. The school has forty acres of land. In addition to
      the text-book lessons, the boys are taught farming and carpentry, and the
      girls sewing and general house-keeping, and the school is now in the act
      of starting a blacksmith and wheelwright department. This school owes its
      existence almost wholly to Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;-, who gave to the trustees
      the forty acres of land, and has contributed liberally to the building
      fund, as well as to the pay of the teachers. Gifts from a few friends in
      the North have been received, and the colored people have given their
      labor and small sums in cash. When the people cannot find money to give,
      they have often given corn, chickens, and eggs. The school has grown so
      popular that almost every leading white man in the community is willing to
      make a small gift toward its maintenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      In addition to the work done directly in the school for the children, the
      teachers in the Snow Hill school have organized a kind of university
      extension movement. The farmers are organized into conferences, which hold
      meetings each month. In these meetings they are taught better methods of
      agriculture, how to buy land, how to economize and keep out of debt, how
      to stop mortgaging, how to build school-houses and dwelling-houses with
      more than one room, how to bring about a higher moral and religious
      standing, and are warned against buying cheap jewelry, snuff, and whisky.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one is a more interested visitor at these meetings than Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;-himself.
      The matter does not end in mere talk and advice. The women teachers go
      right into the cabins of the people and show them how to keep them clean,
      how to dust, sweep, and cook.
    </p>
    <p>
      When William Edwards left this community a few years ago for the Tuskegee
      school, he left the larger proportion in debt, mortgaging their crops
      every year for the food on which to live. Most of them were living on
      rented land in small one-room log cabins, and attempting to pay an
      enormous rate of interest on the value of their food advances. As one old
      colored man expressed it, "I ain't got but six feet of land, and I is got
      to die to git dat." The little school taught in a cabin lasted only three
      or four months in the year. The religion was largely a matter of the
      emotions, with almost no practical ideas of morality. It was the white man
      for himself and the negro for himself, each in too many cases trying to
      take advantage of the other. The situation was pretty well described by a
      black man who said to me: "I tells you how we votes. We always watches de
      white man, and we keeps watchin' de white man. De nearer it gits to
      'lection-time de more we watches de white man. We keeps watchin' de white
      man till we find out which way he gwine to vote; den we votes 'zactly de
      odder way. Den we knows we is right."
    </p>
    <p>
      Now how changed is all at Snow Hill, and how it is gradually changing each
      year! Instead of the hopelessness and dejection that were there a few
      years ago, there are now light and buoyancy in the countenances and
      movements of the people. The negroes are getting out of debt and buying
      land, ceasing to mortgage their crops, building houses with two or three
      rooms, and a higher moral and religious standard has been established.
    </p>
    <p>
      Last May, on the day that the school had its closing exercises, there were
      present, besides the hundreds of colored-people, about fifty of the
      leading white men and women of the county, and these white people seemed
      as much interested in the work of the school as the people of my own race.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only a few years ago in the State of Alabama the law in reference to the
      education of the negro read as follows: "Any person or persons who shall
      attempt to teach any free person of color or slave to spell, read, or
      write shall, upon conviction thereof by indictment, be fined in a sum not
      less than two hundred and fifty dollars nor more than five hundred
      dollars."
    </p>
    <p>
      Within half a dozen years I have heard Dr. J. L. M. Curry, a brave, honest
      ex-Confederate officer, in addressing both the Alabama and Georgia State
      legislatures, say to those bodies in the most emphatic manner that it was
      as much the duty of the State to educate the negro children as the white
      children, and in each case Dr. Curry's words were cheered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here at Snow Hill is the foundation for the solution of the legal and
      political difficulties that exist in the South, and the improvement of the
      industrial condition of the negro in Cuba and Porto Rico. This solution
      will not come all at once, but gradually. The foundation must exist in the
      commercial and industrial development of the people of my race in the
      South and in the West Indian Islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most intelligent whites are beginning to realize that they cannot go
      much higher than they lift the negro at the same time. When a black man
      owns and cultivates the best farm to be found in his county he will have
      the confidence and respect of most of the white people in that county.
      When a black man is the largest taxpayer in his community his white
      neighbor will not object very long to his voting, and having that vote
      honestly counted. Even now a black man who has five hundred dollars to
      lend has no trouble in finding a white man who is willing to borrow his
      money. The negro who is a large stockholder in a railroad company will
      always be treated with justice on that railroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many of the most intelligent colored people are learning that while there
      are many bad white men in the South, there are Southern whites who have
      the highest interests of the negro just as closely at heart as have any
      other people in any part of the country. Many of the negroes are learning
      that it is folly not to cultivate in every honorable way the friendship of
      the white man who is their next-door neighbor.
    </p>
    <p>
      To describe the work being done in connection with the public schools by
      graduates of Tuskegee and other institutions in the South, at such places
      as Mount Meigs, under Miss Cornelia Bowen; Denmark, South Carolina;
      Abbeville and Newville, Alabama; Christiansburg, Virginia, and numbers of
      other places in the Gulf States, would be only to repeat in a larger or
      smaller degree what I have said of Snow Hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not very long after the last national election I visited a town in the
      South, to speak at a meeting which had for its object the raising of money
      to complete the school-house. The audience was about equally divided
      between white men and women and black men and women. When the time for the
      collection came it was intensely satisfactory to observe that the white
      side of the audience was just as eager to make its small contributions as
      were the members of my own race. But I was anxious to see how the late
      election had been conducted in that community. I soon found out that the
      Republican party, composed almost wholly of the black people, was
      represented by an election officer in the person of one of the
      best-educated colored men in the town, that both the Democratic and
      Populist parties were equally well represented, and that there was no
      suspicion of unfairness.
    </p>
    <p>
      But I wished to go a little deeper, and I soon found that one of the
      leading stores in this community was owned by a colored man; that a
      cotton-gin was owned by a colored man; that the sawmill was owned by
      another colored man. Colored men had mortgages on white men's crops, and
      vice versa, and colored people not only owned land, but in several cases
      were renting land to white men. Black men were in debt to white men, and
      white men were in debt to black men. In a word, the industrial and
      commercial relations of the races were interwoven just as if all had been
      of one race.
    </p>
    <p>
      An object-lesson in civilization is more potent in compelling people to
      act right than a law compelling them to do so. Some years ago a colored
      woman who had graduated at Tuskegee began her life-work in a Southern
      community where the force of white public sentiment was opposed to the
      starting of what was termed a "nigger school." At first this girl was
      tempted to abuse her white sister, but she remembered that perhaps the
      white woman had been taught from her earliest childhood, through reading
      and conversation, that education was not good for the negro, that it would
      result only in trouble to the community, and that no amount of abuse could
      change this prejudice.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a while this colored teacher was married to an educated colored man,
      and they built a little cottage, which, in connection with her husband's
      farm, was a model. One morning one of the white women who had been most
      intense in her feelings was passing this cottage, and her attention was
      attracted to the colored woman who was at work in her beautiful
      flower-garden. A conversation took place concerning the flowers. At
      another time this same white woman was so attracted by this flower-garden
      that she came inside the yard, and from the yard she went into the
      sitting-room and examined the books and papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      This acquaintance has now ripened and broadened, so that to-day there are
      few people in that community more highly respected than this colored
      family. What did it all? This object-lesson. No one could explain that
      away. One such object-lesson in every community in the South is more
      powerful than all the laws Congress can pass in the direction of bringing
      about right relations between blacks and whites.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few months ago an agricultural county fair, the first ever held in that
      county, was organized and held at Calhoun, Alabama, by the teachers in the
      Calhoun School, which is an offshoot of the Hampton Institute. Both the
      colored people and numbers of white visitors were astonished at the
      creditable exhibits made by the colored people. Most of these white people
      saw the school work at Calhoun for the first time. Perhaps no amount of
      abstract talk or advice could have brought them to this school, but the
      best hog, the largest pumpkin, or the most valuable bale of cotton
      possessed a common interest, and it has been a comparatively easy thing to
      extend their interest from the best hog to the work being done in the
      school-room. Further, this fair convinced these white people, as almost
      nothing else could have done, that education was making the negroes better
      citizens rather than worse; that the people were not being educated away
      from themselves, but with their elevation the conditions about them were
      being lifted in a manner that possessed an interest and value for both
      races.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was after speaking, not long ago, to the colored people at such a
      county fair in North Carolina that I was asked the next morning to speak
      to the white students at their college, who gave me as hearty a greeting
      as I have ever received at Northern colleges.
    </p>
    <p>
      But such forces as I have described&mdash;forces that are gradually
      regenerating the entire South and will regenerate Cuba and Porto Rico&mdash;are
      not started and kept in motion without a central plant&mdash;a
      power-house, where the power is generated. I cannot describe all these
      places of power. Perhaps the whole South and the whole country are most
      indebted to the Hampton Institute in Virginia. Then there is Fisk
      University at Nashville, Tennessee; Talladega College at Talladega,
      Alabama; Spelman Seminary, Atlanta University, and Atlanta Baptist College
      at Atlanta; Biddle University in North Carolina; Claflin University at
      Orangeburg, South Carolina; and Knoxville College at Knoxville, Tennessee.
      Some of these do a different grade of work, but one much needed.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Tuskegee, Alabama, starting fifteen years ago in a little shanty with
      one teacher and thirty students, with no property, there has grown up an
      industrial and educational village where the ideas that I have referred to
      are put into the heads, hearts, and hands of an army of colored men and
      women, with the purpose of having them become centers of light and
      civilization in every part of the South. One visiting the Tuskegee Normal
      and Industrial Institute to-day will find eight hundred and fifty students
      gathered from twenty-four States, with eighty-eight teachers and officers
      training these students in literary, religious, and industrial work.
    </p>
    <p>
      Counting the students and the families of the instructors, the visitor
      will find a black village of about twelve hundred people. Instead of the
      old, worn-out plantation that was there fifteen years ago, there is a
      modern farm of seven hundred acres cultivated by student labor. There are
      Jersey and Holstein cows and Berkshire pigs, and the butter used is made
      by the most modern process.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aside from the dozens of neat, comfortable cottages owned by individual
      teachers and other persons, who have settled in this village for the
      purpose of educating their children, he will find thirty-six buildings of
      various kinds and sizes, owned and built by the school, property valued at
      three hundred thousand dollars. Perhaps the most interesting thing in
      connection with these buildings is that, with the exception of three, they
      have been built by student labor. The friends of the school have furnished
      money to pay the teachers and for material.
    </p>
    <p>
      When a building is to be erected, the teacher in charge of the mechanical
      and architectural drawing department gives to the class in drawing a
      general description of the building desired, and then there is a
      competition to see whose plan will be accepted. These same students in
      most cases help do the practical work of putting up the building&mdash;some
      at the sawmill, the brick-yard, or in the carpentry, brickmaking,
      plastering, painting, and tinsmithing departments. At the same time care
      is taken to see not only that the building goes up properly, but that the
      students, who are under intelligent instructors in their special branch,
      are taught at the same time the principles as well as the practical part
      of the trade.
    </p>
    <p>
      The school has the building in the end, and the students have the
      knowledge of the trade. This same principle applies, whether in the
      laundry, where the washing for seven or eight hundred people is done, or
      in the sewing-room, where a large part of the clothing for this colony is
      made and repaired, or in the wheelwright and blacksmith departments, where
      all the wagons and buggies used by the school, besides a large number for
      the outside public, are manufactured, or in the printing-office, where a
      large part of the printing for the white and colored people in this region
      is done. Twenty-six different industries are here in constant operation.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the student is through with his course of training he goes out
      feeling that it is just as honorable to labor with the hand as with the
      head, and instead of his having to look for a place, the place usually
      seeks him, because he has to give that which the South wants. One other
      thing should not be overlooked in our efforts to develop the black man. As
      bad as slavery was, almost every large plantation in the South during that
      time was, in a measure, an industrial school. It had its farming
      department, its blacksmith, wheelwright, brickmaking, carpentry, and
      sewing departments. Thus at the close of the war our people were in
      possession of all the common and skilled labor in the South. For nearly
      twenty years after the war we overlooked the value of the ante-bellum
      training, and no one was trained to replace these skilled men and women
      who were soon to pass away; and now, as skilled laborers from foreign
      countries, with not only educated hands but trained brains, begin to come
      into the South and take these positions once held by us, we are gradually
      waking up to the fact that we must compete with the white man in the
      industrial world if we would hold our own. No one understands his value in
      the labor world better than the old colored man. Recently, when a
      convention was held in the South by the white people for the purpose of
      inducing white settlers from the North and West to settle in the South,
      one of these colored men said to the president of the convention: "'Fore
      de Lord, boss, we's got as many white people down here now as we niggers
      can support."
    </p>
    <p>
      The negro in the South has another advantage. While there is prejudice
      against him along certain lines,&mdash;in the matter of business in
      general, and the trades especially,&mdash;there is virtually no prejudice
      so far as the native Southern white man is concerned. White men and black
      men work at the same carpenter's bench and on the same brick wall.
      Sometimes the white man is the "boss," sometimes the black man is the
      boss.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some one chaffed a colored man recently because, when he got through with
      a contract for building a house, he cleared just ten cents; but he said:
      "All right, boss; it was worth ten cents to be de boss of dem white men."
      If a Southern white man has a contract to let for the building of a house,
      he prefers the black contractor, because he has been used to doing
      business of this character with a negro rather than with a white man.
    </p>
    <p>
      The negro will find his way up as a man just in proportion as he makes
      himself valuable, possesses something that a white man wants, can do
      something as well as, or better than, a white man.
    </p>
    <p>
      I would not have my readers get the thought that the problem in the South
      is settled, that there is nothing else to be done; far from this. Long
      years of patient, hard work will be required for the betterment of the
      condition of the negro in the South, as well as for the betterment of the
      condition of the negro in the West Indies.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are bright spots here and there that point the way. Perhaps the most
      that we have accomplished in the last thirty years is to show the North
      and the South how the fourteen slaves landed a few hundred years ago at
      Jamestown, Virginia,&mdash;now nearly eight millions of freemen in the
      South alone,&mdash;are to be made a safe and useful part of our democratic
      and Christian institutions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The main thing that is now needed to bring about a solution of the
      difficulties in the South is money in large sums, to be used largely for
      Christian, technical, and industrial education.
    </p>
    <p>
      For more than thirty years we have been trying to solve one of the most
      serious problems in the history of the world largely by passing around a
      hat in the North. Out of their poverty the Southern States have done well
      in assisting; many more millions are needed, and these millions will have
      to come before the question as to the negro in the South is settled.
    </p>
    <p>
      There never was a greater opportunity for men of wealth to place a few
      million dollars where they could be used in lifting up and regenerating a
      whole race; and let it always be borne in mind that every dollar given for
      the proper education of the negro in the South is almost as much help to
      the Southern white man as to the negro himself. So long as the whites in
      the South are surrounded by a race that is, in a large measure, in
      ignorance and poverty, so long will this ignorance and poverty of the
      negro in a score of ways prevent the highest development of the white man.
    </p>
    <p>
      The problem of lifting up the negro in Cuba and Porto Rico is an easier
      one in one respect, even if it proves more difficult in others. It will be
      less difficult, because there is the absence of that higher degree of race
      feeling which exists in many parts of the United States. Both the white
      Cuban and the white Spaniard have treated the people of African descent,
      in civil, political, military, and business matters, very much as they
      have treated others of their own race. Oppression has not cowed and
      unmanned the Cuban negro in certain respects as it has the American negro.
    </p>
    <p>
      In only a few instances is the color-line drawn. How Americans will treat
      the negro Cuban, and what will be the tendency of American influences in
      the matter of the relation of the races, remains an interesting and open
      question. Certainly it will place this country in an awkward position to
      have gone to war to free a people from Spanish cruelty, and then as soon
      as it gets them within its power to treat a large proportion of the
      population worse than did even Spain herself, simply on account of color.
    </p>
    <p>
      While in the matter of the relation of the races the problem before us in
      the West Indies is easier, in respect to the industrial, moral, and
      religious sides it is more difficult. The negroes on these islands are
      largely an agricultural people, and for this reason, in addition to a
      higher degree of mental and religious training, they need the same
      agricultural, mechanical, and domestic training that is fast helping the
      negroes in our Southern States. Industrial training will not only help
      them to the ownership of property, habits of thrift and economy, but the
      acquiring of these elements of strength will go further than anything else
      in improving the moral and religious condition of the masses, just as has
      been and is true of my people in the Southern States.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the idea of getting the methods of industrial education pursued at
      Hampton and Tuskegee permanently and rightly started in Cuba and Porto
      Rico, a few of the most promising men and women from these islands have
      been brought to the Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute, and educated
      with the view of having them return and take the lead in affording
      industrial training on these islands, where the training can best be given
      to the masses.
    </p>
    <p>
      The emphasis that I have placed upon an industrial education does not mean
      that the negro is to be excluded from the higher interests of life, but it
      does mean that in proportion as the negro gets the foundation,&mdash;the
      useful before the ornamental,&mdash;in the same proportion will he
      accelerate his progress in acquiring those elements which do not pertain
      so directly to the utilitarian.
    </p>
    <p>
      Phillips Brooks once said, "One generation gathers the material, and the
      next builds the palaces." Very largely this must be the material-gathering
      generation of black people, but in due time the palaces will come if we
      are patient.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      THE MARCH OF PROGRESS by Charles W. Chesnutt
    </h2>
    <p>
      The colored people of Patesville had at length gained the object they had
      for a long time been seeking&mdash;the appointment of a committee of
      themselves to manage the colored schools of the town. They had argued,
      with some show of reason, that they were most interested in the education
      of their own children, and in a position to know, better than any
      committee of white men could, what was best for their children's needs.
      The appointments had been made by the county commissioners during the
      latter part of the summer, and a week later a meeting was called for the
      purpose of electing a teacher to take charge of the grammar school at the
      beginning of the fall term.
    </p>
    <p>
      The committee consisted of Frank Gillespie, or "Glaspy," a barber, who
      took an active part in local politics; Bob Cotten, a blacksmith, who owned
      several houses and was looked upon as a substantial citizen; and Abe
      Johnson, commonly called "Ole Abe" or "Uncle Abe," who had a large family,
      and drove a dray, and did odd jobs of hauling; he was also a class-leader
      in the Methodist church. The committee had been chosen from among a number
      of candidates&mdash;Gillespie on account of his political standing, Cotten
      as representing the solid element of the colored population, and Old Abe,
      with democratic impartiality, as likely to satisfy the humbler class of a
      humble people. While the choice had not pleased everybody,&mdash;for
      instance, some of the other applicants,&mdash;it was acquiesced in with
      general satisfaction. The first meeting of the new committee was of great
      public interest, partly by reason of its novelty, but chiefly because
      there were two candidates for the position of teacher of the grammar
      school.
    </p>
    <p>
      The former teacher, Miss Henrietta Noble, had applied for the school. She
      had taught the colored children of Patesville for fifteen years. When the
      Freedmen's Bureau, after the military occupation of North Carolina, had
      called for volunteers to teach the children of the freedmen, Henrietta
      Nobel had offered her services. Brought up in a New England household by
      parents who taught her to fear God and love her fellow-men, she had seen
      her father's body brought home from a Southern battle-field and laid to
      rest in the village cemetery; and a short six months later she had buried
      her mother by his side. Henrietta had no brothers or sisters, and her
      nearest relatives were cousins living in the far West. The only human
      being in whom she felt any special personal interest was a certain captain
      in her father's regiment, who had paid her some attention. She had loved
      this man deeply, in a maidenly, modest way; but he had gone away without
      speaking, and had not since written. He had escaped the fate of many
      others, and at the close of the war was alive and well, stationed in some
      Southern garrison.
    </p>
    <p>
      When her mother died, Henrietta had found herself possessed only of the
      house where she lived and the furniture it contained, neither being of
      much value, and she was thrown upon her own resources for a livelihood.
      She had a fair education and had read many good books. It was not easy to
      find employment such as she desired. She wrote to her Western cousins, and
      they advised her to come to them, as they thought they could do something
      for her if she were there. She had almost decided to accept their offer,
      when the demand arose for teachers in the South. Whether impelled by some
      strain of adventurous blood from a Pilgrim ancestry, or by a sensitive
      pride that shrank from dependence, or by some dim and unacknowledged hope
      that she might sometime, somewhere, somehow meet Captain Carey&mdash;whether
      from one of these motives or a combination of them all, joined to
      something of the missionary spirit, she decided to go South, and wrote to
      her cousins declining their friendly offer.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had come to Patesville when the children were mostly a mob of dirty
      little beggars. She had distributed among them the cast-off clothing that
      came from their friends in the North; she had taught them to wash their
      faces and to comb their hair; and patiently, year after year, she had
      labored to instruct them in the rudiments of learning and the first
      principles of religion and morality. And she had not wrought in vain.
      Other agencies, it is true, had in time cooperated with her efforts, but
      any one who had watched the current of events must have been compelled to
      admit that the very fair progress of the colored people of Patesville in
      the fifteen years following emancipation had been due chiefly to the
      unselfish labors of Henrietta Noble, and that her nature did not belie her
      name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fifteen years is a long time. Miss Noble had never met Captain Carey; and
      when she learned later that he had married a Southern girl in the
      neighborhood of his post, she had shed her tears in secret and banished
      his image from her heart. She had lived a lonely life. The white people of
      the town, though they learned in time to respect her and to value her
      work, had never recognized her existence by more than the mere external
      courtesy shown by any community to one who lives in the midst of it. The
      situation was at first, of course, so strained that she did not expect
      sympathy from the white people; and later, when time had smoothed over
      some of the asperities of war, her work had so engaged her that she had
      not had time to pine over her social exclusion. Once or twice nature had
      asserted itself, and she had longed for her own kind, and had visited her
      New England home. But her circle of friends was broken up, and she did not
      find much pleasure in boarding-house life; and on her last visit to the
      North but one, she had felt so lonely that she had longed for the dark
      faces of her pupils, and had welcomed with pleasure the hour when her task
      should be resumed.
    </p>
    <p>
      But for several reasons the school at Patesville was of more importance to
      Miss Noble at this particular time than it ever had been before. During
      the last few years her health had not been good. An affection of the heart
      similar to that from which her mother had died, while not interfering
      perceptibly with her work, had grown from bad to worse, aggravated by
      close application to her duties, until it had caused her grave alarm. She
      did not have perfect confidence in the skill of the Patesville physicians,
      and to obtain the best medical advice had gone to New York during the
      summer, remaining there a month under the treatment of an eminent
      specialist. This, of course, had been expensive and had absorbed the
      savings of years from a small salary; and when the time came for her to
      return to Patesville, she was reduced, after paying her traveling
      expenses, to her last ten-dollar note.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is very fortunate," the great man had said at her last visit, "that
      circumstances permit you to live in the South, for I am afraid you could
      not endure a Northern winter. You are getting along very well now, and if
      you will take care of yourself and avoid excitement, you will be better."
      He said to himself as she went away: "It's only a matter of time, but that
      is true about us all; and a wise physician does as much good by what he
      withholds as by what he tells."
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Noble had not anticipated any trouble about the school. When she went
      away the same committee of white men was in charge that had controlled the
      school since it had become part of the public-school system of the State
      on the withdrawal of support from the Freedmen's Bureau. While there had
      been no formal engagement made for the next year, when she had last seen
      the chairman before she went away, he had remarked that she was looking
      rather fagged out, had bidden her good-by, and had hoped to see her much
      improved when she returned. She had left her house in the care of the
      colored woman who lived with her and did her housework, assuming, of
      course, that she would take up her work again in the autumn.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was much surprised at first, and later alarmed, to find a rival for
      her position as teacher of the grammar school. Many of her friends and
      pupils had called on her since her return, and she had met a number of the
      people at the colored Methodist church, where she taught in the
      Sunday-school. She had many friends and supporters, but she soon found out
      that her opponent had considerable strength. There had been a time when
      she would have withdrawn and left him a clear field, but at the present
      moment it was almost a matter of life and death to her&mdash;certainly the
      matter of earning a living&mdash;to secure the appointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other candidate was a young man who in former years had been one of
      Miss Noble's brightest pupils. When he had finished his course in the
      grammar school, his parents, with considerable sacrifice, had sent him to
      a college for colored youth. He had studied diligently, had worked
      industriously during his vacations, sometimes at manual labor, sometimes
      teaching a country school, and in due time had been graduated from his
      college with honors. He had come home at the end of his school life, and
      was very naturally seeking the employment for which he had fitted himself.
      He was a "bright" mulatto, with straight hair, an intelligent face, and a
      well-set figure. He had acquired some of the marks of culture, wore a
      frock-coat and a high collar, parted his hair in the middle, and showed by
      his manner that he thought a good deal of himself. He was the popular
      candidate among the progressive element of his people, and rather
      confidently expected the appointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The meeting of the committee was held in the Methodist church, where, in
      fact, the grammar school was taught, for want of a separate school-house.
      After the preliminary steps to effect an organization, Mr. Gillespie, who
      had been elected chairman, took the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The principal business to be brought befo' the meet'n' this evenin'," he
      said, "is the selection of a teacher for our grammar school for the
      ensuin' year. Two candidates have filed applications, which, if there is
      no objection, I will read to the committee. The first is from Miss Noble,
      who has been the teacher ever since the grammar school was started."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then read Miss Noble's letter, in which she called attention to her
      long years of service, to her need of the position, and to her affection
      for the pupils, and made formal application for the school for the next
      year. She did not, from motives of self-respect, make known the extremity
      of her need; nor did she mention the condition of her health, as it might
      have been used as an argument against her retention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gillespie then read the application of the other candidate, Andrew J.
      Williams. Mr. Williams set out in detail his qualifications for the
      position: his degree from Riddle University; his familiarity with the dead
      and living languages and the higher mathematics; his views of discipline;
      and a peroration in which he expressed the desire to devote himself to the
      elevation of his race and assist the march of progress through the medium
      of the Patesville grammar school. The letter was well written in a bold,
      round hand, with many flourishes, and looked very aggressive and
      overbearing as it lay on the table by the side of the sheet of small
      note-paper in Miss Noble's faint and somewhat cramped handwriting.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have heard the readin' of the applications," said the chairman.
      "Gentlemen, what is yo' pleasure?"
    </p>
    <p>
      There being no immediate response, the chairman continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      "As this is a matter of consid'able importance, involvin' not only the
      welfare of our schools, but the progress of our race, an' as our action is
      liable to be criticized, whatever we decide, perhaps we had better discuss
      the subjec' befo' we act. If nobody else has anything to obse've, I will
      make a few remarks."
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gillespie cleared his throat, and, assuming an oratorical attitude,
      proceeded:
    </p>
    <p>
      "The time has come in the history of our people when we should stand
      together. In this age of organization the march of progress requires that
      we help ourselves, or be forever left behind. Ever since the war we have
      been sendin' our child'n to school an' educatin' 'em; an' now the time has
      come when they are leavin' the schools an' colleges, an' are ready to go
      to work. An' what are they goin' to do? The white people won't hire 'em as
      clerks in their sto's an' factories an' mills, an' we have no sto's or
      factories or mills of our own. They can't be lawyers or doctors yet,
      because we haven't got the money to send 'em to medical colleges an' law
      schools. We can't elect many of 'em to office, for various reasons.
      There's just two things they can find to do&mdash;to preach in our own
      pulpits, an' teach in our own schools. If it wasn't for that, they'd have
      to go on forever waitin' on white folks, like their fo'fathers have done,
      because they couldn't help it. If we expect our race to progress, we must
      educate our young men an' women. If we want to encourage 'em to get
      education, we must find 'em employment when they are educated. We have now
      an opportunity to do this in the case of our young friend an'
      fellow-citizen, Mr. Williams, whose eloquent an' fine-lookin' letter ought
      to make us feel proud of him an' of our race.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of co'se there are two sides to the question. We have got to consider the
      claims of Miss Noble. She has been with us a long time an' has done much
      good work for our people, an' we'll never forget her work an' frien'ship.
      But, after all, she has been paid for it; she has got her salary regularly
      an' for a long time, an' she has probably saved somethin', for we all know
      she hasn't lived high; an', for all we know, she may have had somethin'
      left her by her parents. An' then again, she's white, an' has got her own
      people to look after her; they've got all the money an' all the offices
      an' all the everythin',&mdash;all that they've made an' all that we've
      made for fo' hundred years,&mdash;an' they sho'ly would look out for her.
      If she don't get this school, there's probably a dozen others she can get
      at the North. An' another thing: she is gettin' rather feeble, an' it
      'pears to me she's hardly able to stand teachin' so many child'n, an' a
      long rest might be the best thing in the world for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, gentlemen, that's the situation. Shall we keep Miss Noble, or shall
      we stand by our own people? It seems to me there can hardly be but one
      answer. Self-preservation is the first law of nature. Are there any other
      remarks?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Abe was moving restlessly in his seat. He did not say anything,
      however, and the chairman turned to the other member.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Brother Cotten, what is yo' opinion of the question befo' the board?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cotten rose with the slowness and dignity becoming a substantial
      citizen, and observed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think the remarks of the chairman have great weight. We all have
      nothin' but kind feelin's fer Miss Noble, an' I came here to-night
      somewhat undecided how to vote on this question. But after listenin' to
      the just an' forcible arguments of Brother Glaspy, it 'pears to me that,
      after all, the question befo' us is not a matter of feelin', but of
      business. As a business man, I am inclined to think Brother Glaspy is
      right. If we don't help ourselves when we get a chance, who is goin' to
      help us?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That bein' the case," said the chairman, "shall we proceed to a vote? All
      who favor the election of Brother Williams&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point Old Abe, with much preliminary shuffling, stood up in his
      place and interrupted the speaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. Chuhman," he said, "I s'pose I has a right ter speak in dis meet'n? I
      S'POSE I is a member er dis committee?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Certainly, Brother Johnson, certainly; we shall be glad to hear from
      you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I s'pose I's got a right ter speak my min', ef I is po' an' black, an'
      don' weah as good clo's as some other members er de committee?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Most assuredly, Brother Johnson," answered the chairman, with a barber's
      suavity, "you have as much right to be heard as any one else. There was no
      intention of cuttin' you off."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I s'pose," continued Abe, "dat a man wid fo'teen child'n kin be 'lowed
      ter hab somethin' ter say 'bout de schools er dis town?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am sorry, Brother Johnson, that you should feel slighted, but there was
      no intention to igno' yo' rights. The committee will be please' to have
      you ventilate yo' views."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ef it's all be'n an' done reco'nized an' 'cided dat I's got de right ter
      be heared in dis meet'n', I'll say w'at I has ter say, an' it won't take
      me long ter say it. Ef I should try ter tell all de things dat Miss Noble
      has done fer de niggers er dis town, it'd take me till ter-morrer mawnin'.
      Fer fifteen long yeahs I has watched her incomin's an' her outgoin's. Her
      daddy was a Yankee kunnel, who died fighting fer ou' freedom. She come
      heah when we&mdash;yas, Mr. Chuhman, when you an' Br'er Cotten&mdash;was
      jes sot free, an' when none er us didn' have a rag ter ou' backs. She come
      heah, an' she tuk yo' child'n an' my child'n, an' she teached 'em sense
      an' manners an' religion an' book-l'arnin'. When she come heah we didn'
      hab no chu'ch. Who writ up No'th an' got a preacher sent to us, an' de
      fun's ter buil' dis same chu'ch-house we're settin' in ter-night? Who got
      de money f'm de Bureau to s'port de school? An' when dat was stop', who
      got de money f'm de Peabody Fun'? Talk about Miss Noble gittin' a sal'ry!
      Who paid dat sal'ry up ter five years ago? Not one dollah of it come outer
      ou' pockets!
    </p>
    <p>
      "An' den, w'at did she git fer de yuther things she done? Who paid her fer
      de gals she kep' f'm throwin' deyse'ves away? Who paid fer de boys she
      kep' outer jail? I had a son dat seemed to hab made up his min' ter go
      straight ter hell. I made him go ter Sunday-school, an' somethin' dat
      woman said teched his heart, an' he behaved hisse'f, an' I ain' got no
      reason fer ter be 'shame' er 'im. An' I can 'member, Br'er Cotten, when
      you didn' own fo' houses an' a fahm. An' when yo' fus wife was sick, who
      sot by her bedside an' read de Good Book ter 'er, w'en dey wuzn' nobody
      else knowed how ter read it, an' comforted her on her way across de col',
      dahk ribber? An' dat ain' all I kin 'member, Mr. Chuhman! When yo' gal
      Fanny was a baby, an' sick, an' nobody knowed what was de matter wid 'er,
      who sent fer a doctor, an' paid 'im fer comin', an' who he'ped nuss dat
      chile, an' tol' yo' wife w'at ter do, an' save' dat chile's life, jes as
      sho' as de Lawd has save' my soul?
    </p>
    <p>
      "An' now, aftuh fifteen yeahs o' slavin' fer us, who ain't got no claim on
      her, aftuh fifteen yeahs dat she has libbed 'mongs' us an' made herse'f
      one of us, an' endyoed havin' her own people look down on her, aftuh she
      has growed ole an' gray wukkin' fer us an' our child'n, we talk erbout
      turnin' 'er out like a' ole hoss ter die! It 'pears ter me some folks has
      po' mem'ries! Whar would we 'a' be'n ef her folks at de No'th hadn'
      'membered us no bettuh? An' we hadn' done nothin', neither, fer dem to
      'member us fer. De man dat kin fergit w'at Miss Noble has done fer dis
      town is unworthy de name er nigger! He oughter die an' make room fer some
      'spectable dog!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Br'er Glaspy says we got a' educated young man, an' we mus' gib him
      sump'n' ter do. Let him wait; ef I reads de signs right he won't hab ter
      wait long fer dis job. Let him teach in de primary schools, er in de
      country; an' ef he can't do dat, let 'im work awhile. It don't hahm a'
      educated man ter work a little; his fo'fathers has worked fer hund'eds of
      years, an' we's worked, an' we're heah yet, an' we're free, an' we's
      gettin' ou' own houses an' lots an' hosses an' cows&mdash;an' ou' educated
      young men. But don't let de fus thing we do as a committee be somethin' we
      ought ter be 'shamed of as long as we lib. I votes fer Miss Noble, fus,
      las', an' all de time!"
    </p>
    <p>
      When Old Abe sat down the chairman's face bore a troubled look. He
      remembered how his baby girl, the first of his children that he could
      really call his own, that no master could hold a prior claim upon, lay
      dying in the arms of his distracted young wife, and how the thin, homely,
      and short-sighted white teacher had come like an angel into his cabin, and
      had brought back the little one from the verge of the grave. The child was
      a young woman now, and Gillespie had well-founded hopes of securing the
      superior young Williams for a son-in-law; and he realized with something
      of shame that this later ambition had so dazzled his eyes for a moment as
      to obscure the memory of earlier days.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cotten, too, had not been unmoved, and there were tears in his eyes as
      he recalled how his first wife, Nancy, who had borne with him the
      privations of slavery, had passed away, with the teacher's hand in hers,
      before she had been able to enjoy the fruits of liberty. For they had
      loved one another much, and her death had been to them both a hard and
      bitter thing. And, as Old Abe spoke, he could remember, as distinctly as
      though they had been spoken but an hour before, the words of comfort that
      the teacher had whispered to Nancy in her dying hour and to him in his
      bereavement.
    </p>
    <p>
      "On consideration, Mr. Chairman," he said, with an effort to hide a
      suspicious tremor in his voice and to speak with the dignity consistent
      with his character as a substantial citizen, "I wish to record my vote fer
      Miss Noble."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The chair," said Gillespie, yielding gracefully to the majority, and
      greatly relieved that the responsibility of his candidate's defeat lay
      elsewhere, "will make the vote unanimous, and will appoint Brother Cotten
      and Brother Johnson a committee to step round the corner to Miss Noble's
      and notify her of her election."
    </p>
    <p>
      The two committeemen put on their hats, and, accompanied by several people
      who had been waiting at the door to hear the result of the meeting, went
      around the corner to Miss Noble's house, a distance of a block or two
      away. The house was lighted, so they knew she had not gone to bed. They
      went in at the gate, and Cotten knocked at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colored maid opened it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is Miss Noble home?" said Cotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes; come in. She's waitin' ter hear from the committee."
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman showed them into the parlor. Miss Noble rose from her seat by
      the table, where she had been reading, and came forward to meet them. They
      did not for a moment observe, as she took a step toward them, that her
      footsteps wavered. In her agitation she was scarcely aware of it herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Miss Noble," announced Cotten, "we have come to let you know that you
      have be'n 'lected teacher of the grammar school fer the next year."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thank you; oh, thank you so much!" she said. "I am very glad. Mary"&mdash;she
      put her hand to her side suddenly and tottered&mdash;"Mary, will you&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      A spasm of pain contracted her face and cut short her speech. She would
      have fallen had Old Abe not caught her and, with Mary's help, laid her on
      a couch.
    </p>
    <p>
      The remedies applied by Mary, and by the physician who was hastily
      summoned, proved unavailing. The teacher did not regain consciousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      If it be given to those whose eyes have closed in death to linger
      regretfully for a while about their earthly tenement, or from some higher
      vantage-ground to look down upon it, then Henrietta Noble's tolerant
      spirit must have felt, mingling with its regret, a compensating thrill of
      pleasure; for not only those for whom she had labored sorrowed for her,
      but the people of her own race, many of whom, in the blindness of their
      pride, would not admit during her life that she served them also, saw so
      much clearer now that they took charge of her poor clay, and did it gentle
      reverence, and laid it tenderly away amid the dust of their own loved and
      honored dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      TWO weeks after Miss Noble's funeral the other candidate took charge of
      the grammar school, which went on without any further obstacles to the
      march of progress.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE FREEDMEN'S BUREAU by W. E. Burghardt Du Bois
    </h2>
    <p>
      The problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line; the
      relation of the darker to the lighter races of men in Asia and Africa, in
      America and the islands of the sea. It was a phase of this problem that
      caused the Civil War; and however much they who marched south and north in
      1861 may have fixed on the technical points of union and local autonomy as
      a shibboleth, all nevertheless knew, as we know, that the question of
      Negro slavery was the deeper cause of the conflict. Curious it was, too,
      how this deeper question ever forced itself to the surface, despite effort
      and disclaimer. No sooner had Northern armies touched Southern soil than
      this old question, newly guised, sprang from the earth,&mdash;What shall
      be done with slaves? Peremptory military commands, this way and that,
      could not answer the query; the Emancipation Proclamation seemed but to
      broaden and intensify the difficulties; and so at last there arose in the
      South a government of men called the Freedmen's Bureau, which lasted,
      legally, from 1865 to 1872, but in a sense from 1861 to 1876, and which
      sought to settle the Negro problems in the United States of America.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is the aim of this essay to study the Freedmen's Bureau,&mdash;the
      occasion of its rise, the character of its work, and its final success and
      failure,&mdash;not only as a part of American history, but above all as
      one of the most singular and interesting of the attempts made by a great
      nation to grapple with vast problems of race and social condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner had the armies, east and west, penetrated Virginia and Tennessee
      than fugitive slaves appeared within their lines. They came at night, when
      the flickering camp fires of the blue hosts shone like vast unsteady stars
      along the black horizon: old men, and thin, with gray and tufted hair;
      women with frightened eyes, dragging whimpering, hungry children; men and
      girls, stalwart and gaunt,&mdash;a horde of starving vagabonds, homeless,
      helpless, and pitiable in their dark distress. Two methods of treating
      these newcomers seemed equally logical to opposite sorts of minds. Said
      some, "We have nothing to do with slaves." "Hereafter," commanded Halleck,
      "no slaves should be allowed to come into your lines at all; if any come
      without your knowledge, when owners call for them, deliver them." But
      others said, "We take grain and fowl; why not slaves?" Whereupon Fremont,
      as early as August, 1861, declared the slaves of Missouri rebels free.
      Such radical action was quickly countermanded, but at the same time the
      opposite policy could not be enforced; some of the black refugees declared
      themselves freemen, others showed their masters had deserted them, and
      still others were captured with forts and plantations. Evidently, too,
      slaves were a source of strength to the Confederacy, and were being used
      as laborers and producers. "They constitute a military resource," wrote
      the Secretary of War, late in 1861; "and being such, that they should not
      be turned over to the enemy is too plain to discuss." So the tone of the
      army chiefs changed, Congress forbade the rendition of fugitives, and
      Butler's "contrabands" were welcomed as military laborers. This
      complicated rather than solved the problem; for now the scattering
      fugitives became a steady stream, which flowed faster as the armies
      marched.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the long-headed man, with care-chiseled face, who sat in the White
      House, saw the inevitable, and emancipated the slaves of rebels on New
      Year's, 1863. A month later Congress called earnestly for the Negro
      soldiers whom the act of July, 1862, had half grudgingly allowed to
      enlist. Thus the barriers were leveled, and the deed was done. The stream
      of fugitives swelled to a flood, and anxious officers kept inquiring:
      "What must be done with slaves arriving almost daily? Am I to find food
      and shelter for women and children?"
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a Pierce of Boston who pointed out the way, and thus became in a
      sense the founder of the Freedmen's Bureau. Being specially detailed from
      the ranks to care for the freedmen at Fortress Monroe, he afterward
      founded the celebrated Port Royal experiment and started the Freedmen's
      Aid Societies. Thus, under the timid Treasury officials and bold army
      officers, Pierce's plan widened and developed. At first, the able-bodied
      men were enlisted as soldiers or hired as laborers, the women and children
      were herded into central camps under guard, and "superintendents of
      contrabands" multiplied here and there. Centres of massed freedmen arose
      at Fortress Monroe, Va., Washington, D. C., Beaufort and Port Royal, S.
      C., New Orleans, La., Vicksburg and Corinth, Miss., Columbus, Ky., Cairo,
      Ill., and elsewhere, and the army chaplains found here new and fruitful
      fields.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then came the Freedmen's Aid Societies, born of the touching appeals for
      relief and help from these centres of distress. There was the American
      Missionary Association, sprung from the Amistad, and now full grown for
      work, the various church organizations, the National Freedmen's Relief
      Association, the American Freedmen's Union, the Western Freedmen's Aid
      Commission,&mdash;in all fifty or more active organizations, which sent
      clothes, money, school-books, and teachers southward. All they did was
      needed, for the destitution of the freedmen was often reported as "too
      appalling for belief," and the situation was growing daily worse rather
      than better.
    </p>
    <p>
      And daily, too, it seemed more plain that this was no ordinary matter of
      temporary relief, but a national crisis; for here loomed a labor problem
      of vast dimensions. Masses of Negroes stood idle, or, if they worked
      spasmodically, were never sure of pay; and if perchance they received pay,
      squandered the new thing thoughtlessly. In these and in other ways were
      camp life and the new liberty demoralizing the freedmen. The broader
      economic organization thus clearly demanded sprang up here and there as
      accident and local conditions determined. Here again Pierce's Port Royal
      plan of leased plantations and guided workmen pointed out the rough way.
      In Washington, the military governor, at the urgent appeal of the
      superintendent, opened confiscated estates to the cultivation of the
      fugitives, and there in the shadow of the dome gathered black farm
      villages. General Dix gave over estates to the freedmen of Fortress
      Monroe, and so on through the South. The government and the benevolent
      societies furnished the means of cultivation, and the Negro turned again
      slowly to work. The systems of control, thus started, rapidly grew, here
      and there, into strange little governments, like that of General Banks in
      Louisiana, with its 90,000 black subjects, its 50,000 guided laborers, and
      its annual budget of $100,000 and more. It made out 4000 pay rolls,
      registered all freedmen, inquired into grievances and redressed them, laid
      and collected taxes, and established a system of public schools. So too
      Colonel Eaton, the superintendent of Tennessee and Arkansas, ruled over
      100,000, leased and cultivated 7000 acres of cotton land, and furnished
      food for 10,000 paupers. In South Carolina was General Saxton, with his
      deep interest in black folk. He succeeded Pierce and the Treasury
      officials, and sold forfeited estates, leased abandoned plantations,
      encouraged schools, and received from Sherman, after the terribly
      picturesque march to the sea, thousands of the wretched camp followers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three characteristic things one might have seen in Sherman's raid through
      Georgia, which threw the new situation in deep and shadowy relief: the
      Conqueror, the Conquered, and the Negro. Some see all significance in the
      grim front of the destroyer, and some in the bitter sufferers of the lost
      cause. But to me neither soldier nor fugitive speaks with so deep a
      meaning as that dark and human cloud that clung like remorse on the rear
      of those swift columns, swelling at times to half their size, almost
      engulfing and choking them. In vain were they ordered back, in vain were
      bridges hewn from beneath their feet; on they trudged and writhed and
      surged, until they rolled into Savannah, a starved and naked horde of tens
      of thousands. There too came the characteristic military remedy: "The
      islands from Charleston south, the abandoned ricefields along the rivers
      for thirty miles back from the sea, and the country bordering the St.
      John's River, Florida, are reserved and set apart for the settlement of
      Negroes now made free by act of war." So read the celebrated field order.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these experiments, orders, and systems were bound to attract and
      perplex the government and the nation. Directly after the Emancipation
      Proclamation, Representative Eliot had introduced a bill creating a Bureau
      of Emancipation, but it was never reported. The following June, a
      committee of inquiry, appointed by the Secretary of War, reported in favor
      of a temporary bureau for the "improvement, protection, and employment of
      refugee freedmen," on much the same lines as were afterward followed.
      Petitions came in to President Lincoln from distinguished citizens and
      organizations, strongly urging a comprehensive and unified plan of dealing
      with the freedmen, under a bureau which should be "charged with the study
      of plans and execution of measures for easily guiding, and in every way
      judiciously and humanely aiding, the passage of our emancipated and yet to
      be emancipated blacks from the old condition of forced labor to their new
      state of voluntary industry."
    </p>
    <p>
      Some half-hearted steps were early taken by the government to put both
      freedmen and abandoned estates under the supervision of the Treasury
      officials. Laws of 1863 and 1864 directed them to take charge of and lease
      abandoned lands for periods not exceeding twelve months, and to "provide
      in such leases or otherwise for the employment and general welfare" of the
      freedmen. Most of the army officers looked upon this as a welcome relief
      from perplexing "Negro affairs;" but the Treasury hesitated and blundered,
      and although it leased large quantities of land and employed many Negroes,
      especially along the Mississippi, yet it left the virtual control of the
      laborers and their relations to their neighbors in the hands of the army.
    </p>
    <p>
      In March, 1864, Congress at last turned its attention to the subject, and
      the House passed a bill, by a majority of two, establishing a Bureau for
      Freedmen in the War Department. Senator Sumner, who had charge of the bill
      in the Senate, argued that freedmen and abandoned lands ought to be under
      the same department, and reported a substitute for the House bill,
      attaching the Bureau to the Treasury Department. This bill passed, but too
      late for action in the House. The debate wandered over the whole policy of
      the administration and the general question of slavery, without touching
      very closely the specific merits of the measure in hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the election took place, and the administration, returning from
      the country with a vote of renewed confidence, addressed itself to the
      matter more seriously. A conference between the houses agreed upon a
      carefully drawn measure which contained the chief provisions of Charles
      Sumner's bill, but made the proposed organization a department independent
      of both the War and Treasury officials. The bill was conservative, giving
      the new department "general superintendence of all freedmen." It was to
      "establish regulations" for them, protect them, lease them lands, adjust
      their wages, and appear in civil and military courts as their "next
      friend." There were many limitations attached to the powers thus granted,
      and the organization was made permanent. Nevertheless, the Senate defeated
      the bill, and a new conference committee was appointed. This committee
      reported a new bill, February 28, which was whirled through just as the
      session closed, and which became the act of 1865 establishing in the War
      Department a "Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and Abandoned Lands."
    </p>
    <p>
      This last compromise was a hasty bit of legislation, vague and uncertain
      in outline. A Bureau was created, "to continue during the present War of
      Rebellion, and for one year thereafter," to which was given "the
      supervision and management of all abandoned lands, and the control of all
      subjects relating to refugees and freedmen," under "such rules and
      regulations as may be presented by the head of the Bureau and approved by
      the President." A commissioner, appointed by the President and Senate, was
      to control the Bureau, with an office force not exceeding ten clerks. The
      President might also appoint commissioners in the seceded states, and to
      all these offices military officials might be detailed at regular pay. The
      Secretary of War could issue rations, clothing, and fuel to the destitute,
      and all abandoned property was placed in the hands of the Bureau for
      eventual lease and sale to ex-slaves in forty-acre parcels.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus did the United States government definitely assume charge of the
      emancipated Negro as the ward of the nation. It was a tremendous
      undertaking. Here, at a stroke of the pen, was erected a government of
      millions of men,&mdash;and not ordinary men, either, but black men
      emasculated by a peculiarly complete system of slavery, centuries old; and
      now, suddenly, violently, they come into a new birthright, at a time of
      war and passion, in the midst of the stricken, embittered population of
      their former masters. Any man might well have hesitated to assume charge
      of such a work, with vast responsibilities, indefinite powers, and limited
      resources. Probably no one but a soldier would have answered such a call
      promptly; and indeed no one but a soldier could be called, for Congress
      had appropriated no money for salaries and expenses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Less than a month after the weary emancipator passed to his rest, his
      successor assigned Major General Oliver O. Howard to duty as commissioner
      of the new Bureau. He was a Maine man, then only thirty-five years of age.
      He had marched with Sherman to the sea, had fought well at Gettysburg, and
      had but a year before been assigned to the command of the Department of
      Tennessee. An honest and sincere men, with rather too much faith in human
      nature, little aptitude for systematic business and intricate detail, he
      was nevertheless conservative, hard-working, and, above all, acquainted at
      first-hand with much of the work before him. And of that work it has been
      truly said, "No approximately correct history of civilization can ever be
      written which does not throw out in bold relief, as one of the great
      landmarks of political and social progress, the organization and
      administration of the Freedmen's Bureau."
    </p>
    <p>
      On May 12, 1865, Howard was appointed, and he assumed the duties of his
      office promptly on the 15th, and began examining the field of work. A
      curious mess he looked upon: little despotisms, communistic experiments,
      slavery, peonage, business speculations, organized charity, unorganized
      almsgiving,&mdash;all reeling on under the guise of helping the freedman,
      and all enshrined in the smoke and blood of war and the cursing and
      silence of angry men. On May 19 the new government&mdash;for a government
      it really was&mdash;issued its constitution; commissioners were to be
      appointed in each of the seceded states, who were to take charge of "all
      subjects relating to refugees and freedmen," and all relief and rations
      were to be given by their consent alone. The Bureau invited continued
      cooperation with benevolent societies, and declared, "It will be the
      object of all commissioners to introduce practicable systems of
      compensated labor," and to establish schools. Forthwith nine assistant
      commissioners were appointed. They were to hasten to their fields of work;
      seek gradually to close relief establishments, and make the destitute
      self-supporting; act as courts of law where there were no courts, or where
      Negroes were not recognized in them as free; establish the institution of
      marriage among ex-slaves, and keep records; see that freedmen were free to
      choose their employers, and help in making fair contracts for them; and
      finally, the circular said, "Simple good faith, for which we hope on all
      hands for those concerned in the passing away of slavery, will especially
      relieve the assistant commissioners in the discharge of their duties
      toward the freedmen, as well as promote the general welfare."
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner was the work thus started, and the general system and local
      organization in some measure begun, than two grave difficulties appeared
      which changed largely the theory and outcome of Bureau work. First, there
      were the abandoned lands of the South. It had long been the more or less
      definitely expressed theory of the North that all the chief problems of
      emancipation might be settled by establishing the slaves on the forfeited
      lands of their masters,&mdash;a sort of poetic justice, said some. But
      this poetry done into solemn prose meant either wholesale confiscation of
      private property in the South, or vast appropriations. Now Congress had
      not appropriated a cent, and no sooner did the proclamations of general
      amnesty appear than the 800,000 acres of abandoned lands in the hands of
      the Freedmen's Bureau melted quickly away. The second difficulty lay in
      perfecting the local organization of the Bureau throughout the wide field
      of work. Making a new machine and sending out officials of duly
      ascertained fitness for a great work of social reform is no child's task;
      but this task was even harder, for a new central organization had to be
      fitted on a heterogeneous and confused but already existing system of
      relief and control of ex-slaves; and the agents available for this work
      must be sought for in an army still busy with war operations,&mdash;men in
      the very nature of the case ill fitted for delicate social work,&mdash;or
      among the questionable camp followers of an invading host. Thus, after a
      year's work, vigorously as it was pushed, the problem looked even more
      difficult to grasp and solve than at the beginning. Nevertheless, three
      things that year's work did, well worth the doing: it relieved a vast
      amount of physical suffering; it transported 7000 fugitives from congested
      centres back to the farm; and, best of all, it inaugurated the crusade of
      the New England schoolma'am.
    </p>
    <p>
      The annals of this Ninth Crusade are yet to be written, the tale of a
      mission that seemed to our age far more quixotic than the quest of St.
      Louis seemed to his. Behind the mists of ruin and rapine waved the calico
      dresses of women who dared, and after the hoarse mouthings of the field
      guns rang the rhythm of the alphabet. Rich and poor they were, serious and
      curious. Bereaved now of a father, now of a brother, now of more than
      these, they came seeking a life work in planting New England schoolhouses
      among the white and black of the South. They did their work well. In that
      first year they taught 100,000 souls, and more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Evidently, Congress must soon legislate again on the hastily organized
      Bureau, which had so quickly grown into wide significance and vast
      possibilities. An institution such as that was well-nigh as difficult to
      end as to begin. Early in 1866 Congress took up the matter, when Senator
      Trumbull, of Illinois, introduced a bill to extend the Bureau and enlarge
      its powers. This measure received, at the hands of Congress, far more
      thorough discussion and attention than its predecessor. The war cloud had
      thinned enough to allow a clearer conception of the work of emancipation.
      The champions of the bill argued that the strengthening of the Freedmen's
      Bureau was still a military necessity; that it was needed for the proper
      carrying out of the Thirteenth Amendment, and was a work of sheer justice
      to the ex-slave, at a trifling cost to the government. The opponents of
      the measure declared that the war was over, and the necessity for war
      measures past; that the Bureau, by reason of its extraordinary powers, was
      clearly unconstitutional in time of peace, and was destined to irritate
      the South and pauperize the freedmen, at a final cost of possibly hundreds
      of millions. Two of these arguments were unanswered, and indeed
      unanswerable: the one that the extraordinary powers of the Bureau
      threatened the civil rights of all citizens; and the other that the
      government must have power to do what manifestly must be done, and that
      present abandonment of the freedmen meant their practical enslavement. The
      bill which finally passed enlarged and made permanent the Freedmen's
      Bureau. It was promptly vetoed by President Johnson, as
      "unconstitutional," "unnecessary," and "extrajudicial," and failed of
      passage over the veto. Meantime, however, the breach between Congress and
      the President began to broaden, and a modified form of the lost bill was
      finally passed over the President's second veto, July 16.
    </p>
    <p>
      The act of 1866 gave the Freedmen's Bureau its final form,&mdash;the form
      by which it will be known to posterity and judged of men. It extended the
      existence of the Bureau to July, 1868; it authorized additional assistant
      commissioners, the retention of army officers mustered out of regular
      service, the sale of certain forfeited lands to freedmen on nominal terms,
      the sale of Confederate public property for Negro schools, and a wider
      field of judicial interpretation and cognizance. The government of the
      un-reconstructed South was thus put very largely in the hands of the
      Freedmen's Bureau, especially as in many cases the departmental military
      commander was now made also assistant commissioner. It was thus that the
      Freedmen's Bureau became a full-fledged government of men. It made laws,
      executed them and interpreted them; it laid and collected taxes, defined
      and punished crime, maintained and used military force, and dictated such
      measures as it thought necessary and proper for the accomplishment of its
      varied ends. Naturally, all these powers were not exercised continuously
      nor to their fullest extent; and yet, as General Howard has said,
      "scarcely any subject that has to be legislated upon in civil society
      failed, at one time or another, to demand the action of this singular
      Bureau."
    </p>
    <p>
      To understand and criticise intelligently so vast a work, one must not
      forget an instant the drift of things in the later sixties: Lee had
      surrendered, Lincoln was dead, and Johnson and Congress were at
      loggerheads; the Thirteenth Amendment was adopted, the Fourteenth pending,
      and the Fifteenth declared in force in 1870. Guerrilla raiding, the ever
      present flickering after-flame of war, was spending its force against the
      Negroes, and all the Southern land was awakening as from some wild dream
      to poverty and social revolution. In a time of perfect calm, amid willing
      neighbors and streaming wealth, the social uplifting of 4,000,000 slaves
      to an assured and self-sustaining place in the body politic and economic
      would have been an herculean task; but when to the inherent difficulties
      of so delicate and nice a social operation were added the spite and hate
      of conflict, the Hell of War; when suspicion and cruelty were rife, and
      gaunt Hunger wept beside Bereavement,&mdash;in such a case, the work of
      any instrument of social regeneration was in large part foredoomed to
      failure. The very name of the Bureau stood for a thing in the South which
      for two centuries and better men had refused even to argue,&mdash;that
      life amid free Negroes was simply unthinkable, the maddest of experiments.
      The agents which the Bureau could command varied all the way from
      unselfish philanthropists to narrow-minded busybodies and thieves; and
      even though it be true that the average was far better than the worst, it
      was the one fly that helped to spoil the ointment. Then, amid all this
      crouched the freed slave, bewildered between friend and foe. He had
      emerged from slavery: not the worst slavery in the world, not a slavery
      that made all life unbearable,&mdash;rather, a slavery that had here and
      there much of kindliness, fidelity, and happiness,&mdash;but withal
      slavery, which, so far as human aspiration and desert were concerned,
      classed the black man and the ox together. And the Negro knew full well
      that, whatever their deeper convictions may have been, Southern men had
      fought with desperate energy to perpetuate this slavery, under which the
      black masses, with half-articulate thought, had writhed and shivered. They
      welcomed freedom with a cry. They fled to the friends that had freed them.
      They shrank from the master who still strove for their chains. So the
      cleft between the white and black South grew. Idle to say it never should
      have been; it was as inevitable as its results were pitiable. Curiously
      incongruous elements were left arrayed against each other: the North, the
      government, the carpetbagger, and the slave, here; and there, all the
      South that was white, whether gentleman or vagabond, honest man or rascal,
      lawless murderer or martyr to duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it is doubly difficult to write of this period calmly, so intense was
      the feeling, so mighty the human passions, that swayed and blinded men.
      Amid it all two figures ever stand to typify that day to coming men: the
      one a gray-haired gentleman, whose fathers had quit themselves like men,
      whose sons lay in nameless graves, who bowed to the evil of slavery
      because its abolition boded untold ill to all; who stood at last, in the
      evening of life, a blighted, ruined form, with hate in his eyes. And the
      other, a form hovering dark and mother-like, her awful face black with the
      mists of centuries, had aforetime bent in love over her white master's
      cradle, rocked his sons and daughters to sleep, and closed in death the
      sunken eyes of his wife to the world; ay, too, had laid herself low to his
      lust and borne a tawny man child to the world, only to see her dark boy's
      limbs scattered to the winds by midnight marauders riding after Damned
      Niggers. These were the saddest sights of that woeful day; and no man
      clasped the hands of these two passing figures of the present-past; but
      hating they went to their long home, and hating their children's children
      live to-day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, then, was the field of work for the Freedmen's Bureau; and since,
      with some hesitation, it was continued by the act of 1868 till 1869, let
      us look upon four years of its work as a whole. There were, in 1868, 900
      Bureau officials scattered from Washington to Texas, ruling, directly and
      indirectly, many millions of men. And the deeds of these rulers fall
      mainly under seven heads,&mdash;the relief of physical suffering, the
      overseeing of the beginnings of free labor, the buying and selling of
      land, the establishment of schools, the paying of bounties, the
      administration of justice, and the financiering of all these activities.
      Up to June, 1869, over half a million patients had been treated by Bureau
      physicians and surgeons, and sixty hospitals and asylums had been in
      operation. In fifty months of work 21,000,000 free rations were
      distributed at a cost of over $4,000,000,&mdash;beginning at the rate of
      30,000 rations a day in 1865, and discontinuing in 1869. Next came the
      difficult question of labor. First, 30,000 black men were transported from
      the refuges and relief stations back to the farms, back to the critical
      trial of a new way of working. Plain, simple instructions went out from
      Washington,&mdash;the freedom of laborers to choose employers, no fixed
      rates of wages, no peonage or forced labor. So far so good; but where
      local agents differed toto coelo in capacity and character, where the
      personnel was continually changing, the outcome was varied. The largest
      element of success lay in the fact that the majority of the freedmen were
      willing, often eager, to work. So contracts were written,&mdash;50,000 in
      a single state,&mdash;laborers advised, wages guaranteed, and employers
      supplied. In truth, the organization became a vast labor bureau; not
      perfect, indeed,&mdash;notably defective here and there,&mdash;but on the
      whole, considering the situation, successful beyond the dreams of
      thoughtful men. The two great obstacles which confronted the officers at
      every turn were the tyrant and the idler: the slaveholder, who believed
      slavery was right, and was determined to perpetuate it under another name;
      and the freedman, who regarded freedom as perpetual rest. These were the
      Devil and the Deep Sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the work of establishing the Negroes as peasant proprietors the Bureau
      was severely handicapped, as I have shown. Nevertheless, something was
      done. Abandoned lands were leased so long as they remained in the hands of
      the Bureau, and a total revenue of $400,000 derived from black tenants.
      Some other lands to which the nation had gained title were sold, and
      public lands were opened for the settlement of the few blacks who had
      tools and capital. The vision of landowning, however, the righteous and
      reasonable ambition for forty acres and a mule which filled the freedmen's
      dreams, was doomed in most cases to disappointment. And those men of
      marvelous hind-sight, who to-day are seeking to preach the Negro back to
      the soil, know well, or ought to know, that it was here, in 1865, that the
      finest opportunity of binding the black peasant to the soil was lost. Yet,
      with help and striving, the Negro gained some land, and by 1874, in the
      one state of Georgia, owned near 350,000 acres.
    </p>
    <p>
      The greatest success of the Freedmen's Bureau lay in the planting of the
      free school among Negroes, and the idea of free elementary education among
      all classes in the South. It not only called the schoolmistress through
      the benevolent agencies, and built them schoolhouses, but it helped
      discover and support such apostles of human development as Edmund Ware,
      Erastus Cravath, and Samuel Armstrong. State superintendents of education
      were appointed, and by 1870 150,000 children were in school. The
      opposition to Negro education was bitter in the South, for the South
      believed an educated Negro to be a dangerous Negro. And the South was not
      wholly wrong; for education among all kinds of men always has had, and
      always will have, an element of danger and revolution, of dissatisfaction
      and discontent. Nevertheless, men strive to know. It was some inkling of
      this paradox, even in the unquiet days of the Bureau, that allayed an
      opposition to human training, which still to-day lies smouldering, but not
      flaming. Fisk, Atlanta, Howard, and Hampton were founded in these days,
      and nearly $6,000,000 was expended in five years for educational work,
      $750,000 of which came from the freedmen themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such contributions, together with the buying of land and various other
      enterprises, showed that the ex-slave was handling some free capital
      already. The chief initial source of this was labor in the army, and his
      pay and bounty as a soldier. Payments to Negro soldiers were at first
      complicated by the ignorance of the recipients, and the fact that the
      quotas of colored regiments from Northern states were largely filled by
      recruits from the South, unknown to their fellow soldiers. Consequently,
      payments were accompanied by such frauds that Congress, by joint
      resolution in 1867, put the whole matter in the hands of the Freedmen's
      Bureau. In two years $6,000,000 was thus distributed to 5000 claimants,
      and in the end the sum exceeded $8,000,000. Even in this system, fraud was
      frequent; but still the work put needed capital in the hands of practical
      paupers, and some, at least, was well spent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most perplexing and least successful part of the Bureau's work lay in
      the exercise of its judicial functions. In a distracted land where slavery
      had hardly fallen, to keep the strong from wanton abuse of the weak, and
      the weak from gloating insolently over the half-shorn strength of the
      strong, was a thankless, hopeless task. The former masters of the land
      were peremptorily ordered about, seized and imprisoned, and punished over
      and again, with scant courtesy from army officers. The former slaves were
      intimidated, beaten, raped, and butchered by angry and revengeful men.
      Bureau courts tended to become centres simply for punishing whites, while
      the regular civil courts tended to become solely institutions for
      perpetuating the slavery of blacks. Almost every law and method ingenuity
      could devise was employed by the legislatures to reduce the Negroes to
      serfdom,&mdash;to make them the slaves of the state, if not of individual
      owners; while the Bureau officials too often were found striving to put
      the "bottom rail on top," and give the freedmen a power and independence
      which they could not yet use. It is all well enough for us of another
      generation to wax wise with advice to those who bore the burden in the
      heat of the day. It is full easy now to see that the man who lost home,
      fortune, and family at a stroke, and saw his land ruled by "mules and
      niggers," was really benefited by the passing of slavery. It is not
      difficult now to say to the young freedman, cheated and cuffed about, who
      has seen his father's head beaten to a jelly and his own mother namelessly
      assaulted, that the meek shall inherit the earth. Above all, nothing is
      more convenient than to heap on the Freedmen's Bureau all the evils of
      that evil day, and damn it utterly for every mistake and blunder that was
      made.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this is easy, but it is neither sensible nor just. Some one had
      blundered, but that was long before Oliver Howard was born; there was
      criminal aggression and heedless neglect, but without some system of
      control there would have been far more than there was. Had that control
      been from within, the Negro would have been reenslaved, to all intents and
      purposes. Coming as the control did from without, perfect men and methods
      would have bettered all things; and even with imperfect agents and
      questionable methods, the work accomplished was not undeserving of much
      commendation. The regular Bureau court consisted of one representative of
      the employer, one of the Negro, and one of the Bureau. If the Bureau could
      have maintained a perfectly judicial attitude, this arrangement would have
      been ideal, and must in time have gained confidence; but the nature of its
      other activities and the character of its personnel prejudiced the Bureau
      in favor of the black litigants, and led without doubt to much injustice
      and annoyance. On the other hand, to leave the Negro in the hands of
      Southern courts was impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      What the Freedmen's Bureau cost the nation is difficult to determine
      accurately. Its methods of bookkeeping were not good, and the whole system
      of its work and records partook of the hurry and turmoil of the time.
      General Howard himself disbursed some $15,000,000 during his incumbency;
      but this includes the bounties paid colored soldiers, which perhaps should
      not be counted as an expense of the Bureau. In bounties, prize money, and
      all other expenses, the Bureau disbursed over $20,000,000 before all of
      its departments were finally closed. To this ought to be added the large
      expenses of the various departments of Negro affairs before 1865; but
      these are hardly extricable from war expenditures, nor can we estimate
      with any accuracy the contributions of benevolent societies during all
      these years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the work of the Freedmen's Bureau. To sum it up in brief, we may
      say: it set going a system of free labor; it established the black peasant
      proprietor; it secured the recognition of black freemen before courts of
      law; it founded the free public school in the South. On the other hand, it
      failed to establish good will between ex-masters and freedmen; to guard
      its work wholly from paternalistic methods that discouraged self-reliance;
      to make Negroes landholders in any considerable numbers. Its successes
      were the result of hard work, supplemented by the aid of philanthropists
      and the eager striving of black men. Its failures were the result of bad
      local agents, inherent difficulties of the work, and national neglect. The
      Freedmen's Bureau expired by limitation in 1869, save its educational and
      bounty departments. The educational work came to an end in 1872, and
      General Howard's connection with the Bureau ceased at that time. The work
      of paying bounties was transferred to the adjutant general's office, where
      it was continued three or four years longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such an institution, from its wide powers, great responsibilities, large
      control of moneys, and generally conspicuous position, was naturally open
      to repeated and bitter attacks. It sustained a searching congressional
      investigation at the instance of Fernando Wood in 1870. It was, with blunt
      discourtesy, transferred from Howard's control, in his absence, to the
      supervision of Secretary of War Belknap in 1872, on the Secretary's
      recommendation. Finally, in consequence of grave intimations of wrongdoing
      made by the Secretary and his subordinates, General Howard was
      court-martialed in 1874. In each of these trials, and in other attacks,
      the commissioner of the Freedmen's Bureau was exonerated from any willful
      misdoing, and his work heartily commended. Nevertheless, many unpleasant
      things were brought to light: the methods of transacting the business of
      the Bureau were faulty; several cases of defalcation among officials in
      the field were proven, and further frauds hinted at; there were some
      business transactions which savored of dangerous speculation, if not
      dishonesty; and, above all, the smirch of the Freedmen's Bank, which,
      while legally distinct from, was morally and practically a part of the
      Bureau, will ever blacken the record of this great institution. Not even
      ten additional years of slavery could have done as much to throttle the
      thrift of the freedmen as the mismanagement and bankruptcy of the savings
      bank chartered by the nation for their especial aid. Yet it is but fair to
      say that the perfect honesty of purpose and unselfish devotion of General
      Howard have passed untarnished through the fire of criticism. Not so with
      all his subordinates, although in the case of the great majority of these
      there were shown bravery and devotion to duty, even though sometimes
      linked to narrowness and incompetency.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most bitter attacks on the Freedmen's Bureau were aimed not so much at
      its conduct or policy under the law as at the necessity for any such
      organization at all. Such attacks came naturally from the border states
      and the South, and they were summed up by Senator Davis, of Kentucky, when
      he moved to entitle the act of 1866 a bill "to promote strife and conflict
      between the white and black races... by a grant of unconstitutional
      power." The argument was of tremendous strength, but its very strength was
      its weakness. For, argued the plain common sense of the nation, if it is
      unconstitutional, unpracticable, and futile for the nation to stand
      guardian over its helpless wards, then there is left but one alternative:
      to make those wards their own guardians by arming them with the ballot.
      The alternative offered the nation then was not between full and
      restricted Negro suffrage; else every sensible man, black and white, would
      easily have chosen the latter. It was rather a choice between suffrage and
      slavery, after endless blood and gold had flowed to sweep human bondage
      away. Not a single Southern legislature stood ready to admit a Negro,
      under any conditions, to the polls; not a single Southern legislature
      believed free Negro labor was possible without a system of restrictions
      that took all its freedom away; there was scarcely a white man in the
      South who did not honestly regard emancipation as a crime, and its
      practical nullification as a duty. In such a situation, the granting of
      the ballot to the black man was a necessity, the very least a guilty
      nation could grant a wronged race. Had the opposition to government
      guardianship of Negroes been less bitter, and the attachment to the slave
      system less strong, the social seer can well imagine a far better policy:
      a permanent Freedmen's Bureau, with a national system of Negro schools; a
      carefully supervised employment and labor office; a system of impartial
      protection before the regular courts; and such institutions for social
      betterment as savings banks, land and building associations, and social
      settlements. All this vast expenditure of money and brains might have
      formed a great school of prospective citizenship, and solved in a way we
      have not yet solved the most perplexing and persistent of the Negro
      problems.
    </p>
    <p>
      That such an institution was unthinkable in 1870 was due in part to
      certain acts of the Freedmen's Bureau itself. It came to regard its work
      as merely temporary, and Negro suffrage as a final answer to all present
      perplexities. The political ambition of many of its agents and proteges
      led it far afield into questionable activities, until the South, nursing
      its own deep prejudices, came easily to ignore all the good deeds of the
      Bureau, and hate its very name with perfect hatred. So the Freedmen's
      Bureau died, and its child was the Fifteenth Amendment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The passing of a great human institution before its work is done, like the
      untimely passing of a single soul, but leaves a legacy of striving for
      other men. The legacy of the Freedmen's Bureau is the heavy heritage of
      this generation. Today, when new and vaster problems are destined to
      strain every fibre of the national mind and soul, would it not be well to
      count this legacy honestly and carefully? For this much all men know:
      despite compromise, struggle, war, and struggle, the Negro is not free. In
      the backwoods of the Gulf states, for miles and miles, he may not leave
      the plantation of his birth; in well-nigh the whole rural South the black
      farmers are peons, bound by law and custom to an economic slavery, from
      which the only escape is death or the penitentiary. In the most cultured
      sections and cities of the South the Negroes are a segregated servile
      caste, with restricted rights and privileges. Before the courts, both in
      law and custom, they stand on a different and peculiar basis. Taxation
      without representation is the rule of their political life. And the result
      of all this is, and in nature must have been, lawlessness and crime. That
      is the large legacy of the Freedmen's Bureau, the work it did not do
      because it could not.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have seen a land right merry with the sun; where children sing, and
      rolling hills lie like passioned women, wanton with harvest. And there in
      the King's Highway sat and sits a figure, veiled and bowed, by which the
      traveler's footsteps hasten as they go. On the tainted air broods fear.
      Three centuries' thought has been the raising and unveiling of that bowed
      human heart, and now, behold, my fellows, a century new for the duty and
      the deed. The problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color
      line.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      OF THE TRAINING OF BLACK MEN by W. E. Burghardt Du Bois
    </h2>
    <p>
      From the shimmering swirl of waters where many, many thoughts ago the
      slave-ship first saw the square tower of Jamestown have flowed down to our
      day three streams of thinking: one from the larger world here and
      over-seas, saying, the multiplying of human wants in culture lands calls
      for the world-wide co-operation of men in satisfying them. Hence arises a
      new human unity, pulling the ends of earth nearer, and all men, black,
      yellow, and white. The larger humanity strives to feel in this contact of
      living nations and sleeping hordes a thrill of new life in the world,
      crying, If the contact of Life and Sleep be Death, shame on such Life. To
      be sure, behind this thought lurks the afterthought of force and dominion,&mdash;the
      making of brown men to delve when the temptation of beads and red calico
      cloys.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second thought streaming from the death-ship and the curving river is
      the thought of the older South: the sincere and passionate belief that
      somewhere between men and cattle God created a tertium quid, and called it
      a Negro,&mdash;a clownish, simple creature, at times even lovable within
      its limitations, but straitly foreordained to walk within the Veil. To be
      sure, behind the thought lurks the afterthought,&mdash;some of them with
      favoring chance might become men, but in sheer self-defense we dare not
      let them, and build about them walls so high, and hang between them and
      the light a veil so thick, that they shall not even think of breaking
      through.
    </p>
    <p>
      And last of all there trickles down that third and darker thought, the
      thought of the things themselves, the confused half-conscious mutter of
      men who are black and whitened, crying Liberty, Freedom, Opportunity&mdash;vouchsafe
      to us, O boastful World, the chance of living men! To be sure, behind the
      thought lurks the afterthought: suppose, after all, the World is right and
      we are less than men? Suppose this mad impulse within is all wrong, some
      mock mirage from the untrue?
    </p>
    <p>
      So here we stand among thoughts of human unity, even through conquest and
      slavery; the inferiority of black men, even if forced by fraud; a shriek
      in the night for the freedom of men who themselves are not yet sure of
      their right to demand it. This is the tangle of thought and afterthought
      wherein we are called to solve the problem of training men for life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind all its curiousness, so attractive alike to sage and dilettante,
      lie its dim dangers, throwing across us shadows at once grotesque and
      awful. Plain it is to us that what the world seeks through desert and wild
      we have within our threshold;&mdash;a stalwart laboring force, suited to
      the semi-tropics; if, deaf to the voice of the Zeitgeist, we refuse to use
      and develop these men, we risk poverty and loss. If, on the other hand,
      seized by the brutal afterthought, we debauch the race thus caught in our
      talons, selfishly sucking their blood and brains in the future as in the
      past, what shall save us from national decadence? Only that saner
      selfishness which, Education teaches men, can find the rights of all in
      the whirl of work.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, we may decry the color prejudice of the South, yet it remains a
      heavy fact. Such curious kinks of the human mind exist and must be
      reckoned with soberly. They cannot be laughed away, nor always
      successfully stormed at, nor easily abolished by act of legislature. And
      yet they cannot be encouraged by being let alone. They must be recognized
      as facts, but unpleasant facts; things that stand in the way of
      civilization and religion and common decency. They can be met in but one
      way: by the breadth and broadening of human reason, by catholicity of
      taste and culture. And so, too, the native ambition and aspiration of men,
      even though they be black, backward, and ungraceful, must not lightly be
      dealt with. To stimulate wildly weak and untrained minds is to play with
      mighty fires; to flout their striving idly is to welcome a harvest of
      brutish crime and shameless lethargy in our very laps. The guiding of
      thought and the deft coordination of deed is at once the path of honor and
      humanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so, in this great question of reconciling three vast and partially
      contradictory streams of thought, the one panacea of Education leaps to
      the lips of all; such human training as will best use the labor of all men
      without enslaving or brutalizing; such training as will give us poise to
      encourage the prejudices that bulwark society, and stamp out those that in
      sheer barbarity deafen us to the wail of prisoned souls within the Veil,
      and the mounting fury of shackled men.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when we have vaguely said Education will set this tangle straight,
      what have we uttered but a truism? Training for life teaches living; but
      what training for the profitable living together of black men and white?
      Two hundred years ago our task would have seemed easier. Then Dr. Johnson
      blandly assured us that education was needed solely for the embellishments
      of life, and was useless for ordinary vermin. To-day we have climbed to
      heights where we would open at least the outer courts of knowledge to all,
      display its treasures to many, and select the few to whom its mystery of
      Truth is revealed, not wholly by truth or the accidents of the stock
      market, but at least in part according to deftness and aim, talent and
      character. This programme, however, we are sorely puzzled in carrying out
      through that part of the land where the blight of slavery fell hardest,
      and where we are dealing with two backward peoples. To make here in human
      education that ever necessary combination of the permanent and the
      contingent&mdash;of the ideal and the practical in workable equilibrium&mdash;has
      been there, as it ever must be in every age and place, a matter of
      infinite experiment and frequent mistakes.
    </p>
    <p>
      In rough approximation we may point out four varying decades of work in
      Southern education since the Civil War. From the close of the war until
      1876 was the period of uncertain groping and temporary relief. There were
      army schools, mission schools, and schools of the Freedmen's Bureau in
      chaotic disarrangement, seeking system and cooperation. Then followed ten
      years of constructive definite effort toward the building of complete
      school systems in the South. Normal schools and colleges were founded for
      the freedmen, and teachers trained there to man the public schools. There
      was the inevitable tendency of war to underestimate the prejudice of the
      master and the ignorance of the slave, and all seemed clear sailing out of
      the wreckage of the storm. Meantime, starting in this decade yet
      especially developing from 1885 to 1895, began the industrial revolution
      of the South. The land saw glimpses of a new destiny and the stirring of
      new ideals. The educational system striving to complete itself saw new
      obstacles and a field of work ever broader and deeper. The Negro colleges,
      hurriedly founded, were inadequately equipped, illogically distributed,
      and of varying efficiency and grade; the normal and high schools were
      doing little more than common school work, and the common schools were
      training but a third of the children who ought to be in them, and training
      these too often poorly. At the same time the white South, by reason of its
      sudden conversion from the slavery ideal, by so much the more became set
      and strengthened in its racial prejudice, and crystallized it into harsh
      law and harsher custom; while the marvelous pushing forward of the poor
      white daily threatened to take even bread and butter from the mouths of
      the heavily handicapped sons of the freedmen. In the midst, then, of the
      larger problem of Negro education sprang up the more practical question of
      work, the inevitable economic quandary that faces a people in the
      transition from slavery to freedom, and especially those who make that
      change amid hate and prejudice, lawlessness and ruthless competition.
    </p>
    <p>
      The industrial school springing to notice in this decade, but coming to
      full recognition in the decade beginning with 1895, was the proffered
      answer to this combined educational and economic crisis, and an answer of
      singular wisdom and timeliness. From the very first in nearly all the
      schools some attention had been given to training in handiwork, but now
      was this training first raised to a dignity that brought it in direct
      touch with the South's magnificent industrial development, and given an
      emphasis which reminded black folk that before the Temple of Knowledge
      swing the Gates of Toil.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet after all they are but gates, and when turning our eyes from the
      temporary and the contingent in the Negro problem to the broader question
      of the permanent uplifting and civilization of black men in America, we
      have a right to inquire, as this enthusiasm for material advancement
      mounts to its height, if after all the industrial school is the final and
      sufficient answer in the training of the Negro race; and to ask gently,
      but in all sincerity, the ever recurring query of the ages, Is not life
      more than meat, and the body more than raiment? And men ask this to-day
      all the more eagerly because of sinister signs in recent educational
      movements. The tendency is here born of slavery and quickened to renewed
      life by the crazy imperialism of the day, to regard human beings as among
      the material resources of a land to be trained with an eye single to
      future dividends. Race prejudices, which keep brown and black men in their
      "places," we are coming to regard as useful allies with such a theory, no
      matter how much they may dull the ambition and sicken the hearts of
      struggling human beings. And above all, we daily hear that an education
      that encourages aspiration, that sets the loftiest of ideals and seeks as
      an end culture and character than bread-winning, is the privilege of white
      men and the danger and delusion of black.
    </p>
    <p>
      Especially has criticism been directed against the former educational
      efforts to aid the Negro. In the four periods I have mentioned, we find
      first boundless, planless enthusiasm and sacrifice; then the preparation
      of teachers for a vast public school system; then the launching and
      expansion of that school system amid increasing difficulties; and finally
      the training of workmen for the new and growing industries. This
      development has been sharply ridiculed as a logical anomaly and flat
      reversal of nature. Soothly we have been told that first industrial and
      manual training should have taught the Negro to work, then simple schools
      should have taught him to read and write, and finally, after years, high
      and normal schools could have completed the system, as intelligence and
      wealth demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      That a system logically so complete was historically impossible, it needs
      but a little thought to prove. Progress in human affairs is more often a
      pull than a push, surging forward of the exceptional man, and the lifting
      of his duller brethren slowly and painfully to his vantage ground. Thus it
      was no accident that gave birth to universities centuries before the
      common schools, that made fair Harvard the first flower of our wilderness.
      So in the South: the mass of the freedmen at the end of the war lacked the
      intelligence so necessary to modern workingmen. They must first have the
      common school to teach them to read, write, and cipher. The white teachers
      who flocked South went to establish such a common school system. They had
      no idea of founding colleges; they themselves at first would have laughed
      at the idea. But they faced, as all men since them have faced, that
      central paradox of the South, the social separation of the races. Then it
      was the sudden volcanic rupture of nearly all relations between black and
      white, in work and government and family life. Since then a new adjustment
      of relations in economic and political affairs has grown up,&mdash;an
      adjustment subtle and difficult to grasp, yet singularly ingenious, which
      leaves still that frightful chasm at the color line across which men pass
      at their peril. Thus, then and now, there stand in the South two separate
      worlds; and separate not simply in the higher realms of social
      intercourse, but also in church and school, on railway and street car, in
      hotels and theatres, in streets and city sections, in books and
      newspapers, in asylums and jails, in hospitals and graveyards. There is
      still enough of contact for large economic and group cooperation, but the
      separation is so thorough and deep, that it absolutely precludes for the
      present between the races anything like that sympathetic and effective
      group training and leadership of the one by the other, such as the
      American Negro and all backward peoples must have for effectual progress.
    </p>
    <p>
      This the missionaries of '68 soon saw; and if effective industrial and
      trade schools were impractical before the establishment of a common school
      system, just as certainly no adequate common schools could be founded
      until there were teachers to teach them. Southern whites would not teach
      them; Northern whites in sufficient numbers could not be had. If the Negro
      was to learn, he must teach himself, and the most effective help that
      could be given him was the establishment of schools to train Negro
      teachers. This conclusion was slowly but surely reached by every student
      of the situation until simultaneously, in widely separated regions,
      without consultation or systematic plan, there arose a series of
      institutions designed to furnish teachers for the untaught. Above the
      sneers of critics at the obvious defects of this procedure must ever stand
      its one crushing rejoinder: in a single generation they put thirty
      thousand black teachers in the South; they wiped out the illiteracy of the
      majority of the black people of the land, and they made Tuskegee possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such higher training schools tended naturally to deepen broader
      development: at first they were common and grammar schools, then some
      became high schools. And finally, by 1900, some thirty-four had one year
      or more of studies of college grade. This development was reached with
      different degrees of speed in different institutions: Hampton is still a
      high school, while Fisk University started her college in 1871, and
      Spelman Seminary about 1896. In all cases the aim was identical: to
      maintain the standards of the lower training by giving teachers and
      leaders the best practicable training; and above all to furnish the black
      world with adequate standards of human culture and lofty ideals of life.
      It was not enough that the teachers of teachers should be trained in
      technical normal methods; they must also, so far as possible, be
      broad-minded, cultured men and women, to scatter civilization among a
      people whose ignorance was not simply of letters, but of life itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      It can thus be seen that the work of education in the South began with
      higher institutions of training, which threw off as their foliage common
      schools, and later industrial schools, and at the same time strove to
      shoot their roots ever deeper toward college and university training. That
      this was an inevitable and necessary development, sooner or later, goes
      without saying; but there has been, and still is, a question in many minds
      if the natural growth was not forced, and if the higher training was not
      either overdone or done with cheap and unsound methods. Among white
      Southerners this feeling is widespread and positive. A prominent Southern
      journal voiced this in a recent editorial:
    </p>
    <p>
      "The experiment that has been made to give the colored students classical
      training has not been satisfactory. Even though many were able to pursue
      the course, most of them did so in a parrot-like way, learning what was
      taught, but not seeming to appropriate the truth and import of their
      instruction, and graduating without sensible aim or valuable occupation
      for their future. The whole scheme has proved a waste of time, efforts,
      and the money of the state."
    </p>
    <p>
      While most far-minded men would recognize this as extreme and overdrawn,
      still without doubt many are asking, Are there a sufficient number of
      Negroes ready for college training to warrant the undertaking? Are not too
      many students prematurely forced into this work? Does it not have the
      effect of dissatisfying the young Negro with his environment? And do these
      graduates succeed in real life? Such natural questions cannot be evaded,
      nor on the other hand must a nation naturally skeptical as to Negro
      ability assume an unfavorable answer without careful inquiry and patient
      openness to conviction. We must not forget that most Americans answer all
      queries regarding the Negro a priori, and that the least that human
      courtesy can do is to listen to evidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The advocates of the higher education of the Negro would be the last to
      deny the incompleteness and glaring defects of the present system: too
      many institutions have attempted to do college work, the work in some
      cases has not been thoroughly done, and quantity rather than quality has
      sometimes been sought. But all this can be said of higher education
      throughout the land: it is the almost inevitable incident of educational
      growth, and leaves the deeper question of the legitimate demand for the
      higher training of Negroes untouched. And this latter question can be
      settled in but one way&mdash;by a first-hand study of the facts. If we
      leave out of view all institutions which have not actually graduated
      students from a course higher than that of a New England high school, even
      though they be called colleges; if then we take the thirty-four remaining
      institutions, we may clear up many misapprehensions by asking searchingly,
      What kind of institutions are they, what do they teach, and what sort of
      men do they graduate?
    </p>
    <p>
      And first we may say that this type of college, including Atlanta, Fisk
      and Howard, Wilberforce and Lincoln, Biddle, Shaw, and the rest, is
      peculiar, almost unique. Through the shining trees that whisper before me
      as I write, I catch glimpses of a boulder of New England granite, covering
      a grave, which graduates of Atlanta University have placed there:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        "IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF THEIR
        FORMER TEACHER AND FRIEND
        AND OF THE UNSELFISH LIFE HE
        LIVED, AND THE NOBLE WORK HE
        WROUGHT; THAT THEY, THEIR
        CHILDREN, AND THEIR CHIL-
        DREN'S CHILDREN MIGHT BE
            BLESSED."
</pre>
    <p>
      This was the gift of New England to the freed Negro: not alms, but a
      friend; not cash, but character. It was not and is not money these
      seething millions want, but love and sympathy, the pulse of hearts beating
      with red blood; a gift which to-day only their own kindred and race can
      bring to the masses, but which once saintly souls brought to their favored
      children in the crusade of the sixties, that finest thing in American
      history, and one of the few things untainted by sordid greed and cheap
      vainglory. The teachers in these institutions came not to keep the Negroes
      in their place, but to raise them out of their places where the filth of
      slavery had wallowed them. The colleges they founded were social
      settlements; homes where the best of the sons of the freedmen came in
      close and sympathetic touch with the best traditions of New England. They
      lived and ate together, studies and worked, hoped and harkened in the
      dawning light. In actual formal content their curriculum was doubtless
      old-fashioned, but in educational power it was supreme, for it was the
      contact of living souls.
    </p>
    <p>
      From such schools about two thousand Negroes have gone forth with the
      bachelor's degree. The number in itself is enough to put at rest the
      argument that too large a proportion of Negroes are receiving higher
      training. If the ratio to population of all Negro students throughout the
      land, in both college and secondary training, be counted, Commissioner
      Harris assures us "it must be increased to five times its present average"
      to equal the average of the land.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fifty years ago the ability of Negro students in any appreciable numbers
      to master a modern college course would have been difficult to prove.
      To-day it is proved by the fact that four hundred Negroes, many of whom
      have been reported as brilliant students, have received the bachelor's
      degree from Harvard, Yale, Oberlin, and seventy other leading colleges.
      Here we have, then, nearly twenty-five hundred Negro graduates, of whom
      the crucial query must be made. How far did their training fit them for
      life? It is of course extremely difficult to collect satisfactory data on
      such a point,&mdash;difficult to reach the men, to get trustworthy
      testimony, and to gauge that testimony by any generally acceptable
      criterion of success. In 1900, the Conference at Atlanta University
      undertook to study these graduates, and published the results. First they
      sought to know what these graduates were doing, and succeeded in getting
      answers from nearly two thirds of the living. The direct testimony was in
      almost all cases corroborated by the reports of the colleges where they
      graduated, so that in the main the reports were worthy of credence.
      Fifty-three per cent of these graduates were teachers,&mdash;presidents of
      institutions, heads of normal schools, principals of city school systems,
      and the like. Seventeen per cent were clergymen; another seventeen per
      cent were in the professions, chiefly as physicians. Over six per cent
      were merchants, farmers, and artisans, and four per cent were in the
      government civil service. Granting even that a considerable proportion of
      the third unheard from are unsuccessful, this is a record of usefulness.
      Personally I know many hundreds of these graduates and have corresponded
      with more than a thousand; through others I have followed carefully the
      life-work of scores; I have taught some of them and some of the pupils
      whom they have taught, lived in homes which they have builded, and looked
      at life through their eyes. Comparing them as a class with my fellow
      students in New England and in Europe, I cannot hesitate in saying that
      nowhere have I met men and women with a broader spirit of helpfulness,
      with deeper devotion to their life-work, or with more consecrated
      determination to succeed in the face of bitter difficulties than among
      Negro college-bred men. They have, to be sure, their proportion of
      ne'er-do-weels, their pedants and lettered fools, but they have a
      surprisingly small proportion of them; they have not that culture of
      manner which we instinctively associate with university men, forgetting
      that in reality it is the heritage from cultured homes, and that no people
      a generation removed from slavery can escape a certain unpleasant rawness
      and gaucherie, despite the best of training.
    </p>
    <p>
      With all their larger vision and deeper sensibility, these men have
      usually been conservative, careful leaders. They have seldom been
      agitators, have withstood the temptation to head the mob, and have worked
      steadily and faithfully in a thousand communities in the South. As
      teachers they have given the South a commendable system of city schools
      and large numbers of private normal schools and academies. Colored
      college-bred men have worked side by side with white college graduates at
      Hampton; almost from the beginning the backbone of Tuskegee's teaching
      force has been formed of graduates from Fisk and Atlanta. And to-day the
      institute is filled with college graduates, from the energetic wife of the
      principal down to the teacher of agriculture, including nearly half of the
      executive council and a majority of the heads of departments. In the
      professions, college men are slowly but surely leavening the Negro church,
      are healing and preventing the devastations of disease, and beginning to
      furnish legal protection for the liberty and property of the toiling
      masses. All this is needful work. Who would do it if Negroes did not? How
      could Negroes do it if they were not trained carefully for it? If white
      people need colleges to furnish teachers, ministers, lawyers, and doctors,
      do black people need nothing of the sort?
    </p>
    <p>
      If it be true that there are an appreciable number of Negro youth in the
      land capable by character and talent to receive that higher training, the
      end of which is culture, and if the two and a half thousand who have had
      something of this training in the past have in the main proved themselves
      useful to their race and generation, the question then comes, What place
      in the future development of the South might the Negro college and
      college-bred man to occupy? That the present social separation and acute
      race sensitiveness must eventually yield to the influences of culture as
      the South grows civilized is clear. But such transformation calls for
      singular wisdom and patience. If, while the healing of this vast sore is
      progressing, the races are to live for many years side by side, united in
      economic effort, obeying a common government, sensitive to mutual thought
      and feeling, yet subtly and silently separate in many matters of deeper
      human intimacy&mdash;if this unusual and dangerous development is to
      progress amid peace and order, mutual respect and growing intelligence, it
      will call for social surgery at once the delicatest and nicest in modern
      history. It will demand broad-minded, upright men both white and black,
      and in its final accomplishment American civilization will triumph. So far
      as white men are concerned, this fact is to-day being recognized in the
      South, and a happy renaissance of university education seems imminent. But
      the very voices that cry Hail! to this good work are, strange to relate,
      largely silent or antagonistic to the higher education of the Negro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Strange to relate! for this is certain, no secure civilization can be
      built in the South with the Negro as an ignorant, turbulent proletariat.
      Suppose we seek to remedy this by making them laborers and nothing more:
      they are not fools, they have tasted of the Tree of Life, and they will
      not cease to think, will not cease attempting to read the riddle of the
      world. By taking away their best equipped teachers and leaders, by
      slamming the door of opportunity in the faces of their bolder and brighter
      minds, will you make them satisfied with their lot? or will you not rather
      transfer their leading from the hands of men taught to think to the hands
      of untrained demagogues? We ought not to forget that despite the pressure
      of poverty, and despite the active discouragement and even ridicule of
      friends, the demand for higher training steadily increases among Negro
      youth: there were, in the years from 1875 to 1880, twenty-two Negro
      graduates from Northern colleges; from 1885 to 1895 there were
      forty-three, and from 1895 to 1900, nearly 100 graduates. From Southern
      Negro colleges there were, in the same three periods, 143, 413, and over
      500 graduates. Here, then, is the plain thirst for training; by refusing
      to give this Talented Tenth the key to knowledge can any sane man imagine
      that they will lightly lay aside their yearning and contentedly become
      hewers of wood and drawers of water?
    </p>
    <p>
      No. The dangerously clear logic of the Negro's position will more and more
      loudly assert itself in that day when increasing wealth and more intricate
      social organization preclude the South from being, as it so largely is,
      simply an armed camp for intimidating black folk. Such waste of energy
      cannot be spared if the South is to catch up with civilization. And as the
      black third of the land grows in thrift and skill, unless skillfully
      guided in its larger philosophy, it must more and more brood over the red
      past and the creeping, crooked present, until it grasps a gospel of revolt
      and revenge and throws its new-found energies athwart the current of
      advance. Even to-day the masses of the Negroes see all too clearly the
      anomalies of their position and the moral crookedness of yours. You may
      marshal strong indictments against them, but their counter-cries, lacking
      though they be in formal logic, have burning truths within them which you
      may not wholly ignore, O Southern Gentlemen! If you deplore their presence
      here, they ask, Who brought us? When you shriek, Deliver us from the
      vision of intermarriage, they answer, that legal marriage is infinitely
      better than systematic concubinage and prostitution. And if in just fury
      you accuse their vagabonds of violating women, they also in fury quite as
      just may wail: the rape which your gentlemen have done against helpless
      black women in defiance of your own laws is written on the foreheads of
      two millions of mulattoes, and written in ineffaceable blood. And finally,
      when you fasten crime upon this race as its peculiar trait, they answer
      that slavery was the arch-crime, and lynching and lawlessness its twin
      abortion; that color and race are not crimes, and yet they it is which in
      this land receive most unceasing condemnation, North, East, South, and
      West.
    </p>
    <p>
      I will not say such arguments are wholly justified&mdash;I will not insist
      that there is no other side to the shield; but I do say that of the nine
      millions of Negroes in this nation, there is scarcely one out of the
      cradle to whom these arguments do not daily present themselves in the
      guise of terrible truth. I insist that the question of the future is how
      best to keep these millions from brooding over the wrongs of the past and
      the difficulties of the present, so that all their energies may be bent
      toward a cheerful striving and cooperation with their white neighbors
      toward a larger, juster, and fuller future. That one wise method of doing
      this lies in the closer knitting of the Negro to the great industrial
      possibilities of the South is a great truth. And this the common schools
      and the manual training and trade schools are working to accomplish. But
      these alone are not enough. The foundations of knowledge in this race, as
      in others, must be sunk deep in the college and university if we would
      build a solid, permanent structure. Internal problems of social advance
      must inevitably come,&mdash;problems of work and wages, of families and
      homes, of morals and the true valuing of the things of life; and all these
      and other inevitable problems of civilization the Negro must meet and
      solve largely for himself, by reason of his isolation; and can there be
      any possible solution other than by study and thought and an appeal to the
      rich experience of the past? Is there not, with such a group and in such a
      crisis, infinitely more danger to be apprehended from half-trained minds
      and shallow thinking than from over-education and over-refinement? Surely
      we have wit enough to found a Negro college so manned and equipped as to
      steer successfully between the dilettante and the fool. We shall hardly
      induce black men to believe that if their bellies be full it matters
      little about their brains. They already dimly perceive that the paths of
      peace winding between honest toil and dignified manhood call for the
      guidance of skilled thinkers, the loving, reverent comradeship between the
      black lowly and black men emancipated by training and culture.
    </p>
    <p>
      The function of the Negro college then is clear: it must maintain the
      standards of popular education, it must seek the social regeneration of
      the Negro, and it must help in the solution of problems of race contact
      and cooperation. And finally, beyond all this, it must develop men. Above
      our modern socialism, and out of the worship of the mass, must persist and
      evolve that higher individualism which the centres of culture protect;
      there must come a loftier respect for the sovereign human soul that seeks
      to know itself and the world about it; that seeks a freedom for expansion
      and self-development; that will love and hate and labor in its own way,
      untrammeled alike by old and new. Such souls aforetime have inspired and
      guided worlds, and if we be not wholly bewitched by our Rhine-gold, they
      shall again. Herein the longing of black men must have respect: the rich
      and bitter depth of their experience, the unknown treasures of their inner
      life, the strange rendings of nature they have seen, may give the world
      new points of view and make their loving, living, and doing precious to
      all human hearts. And to themselves in these the days that try their souls
      the chance to soar in the dim blue air above the smoke is to their finer
      spirits boon and guerdon for what they lose on earth by being black.
    </p>
    <p>
      I sit with Shakespeare and he winces not. Across the color line I move arm
      in arm with Balzac and Dumas, where smiling men and welcoming women glide
      in gilded halls. From out the caves of Evening that swing between the
      strong-limbed earth and the tracery of the stars, I summon Aristotle and
      Aurelius and what soul I will, and they come all graciously with no scorn
      nor condescension. So, wed with Truth, I dwell above the Veil. Is this the
      life you grudge us, O knightly America? Is this the life you long to
      change into the dull red hideousness of Georgia? Are you so afraid lest
      peering from this high Pisgah, between Philistine and Amalekite, we sight
      the Promised Land?
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    <h2>
      THE FRUITS OF INDUSTRIAL TRAINING by Booker T. Washington
    </h2>
    <p>
      The political, educational, social, and economic evolution through which
      the South passed during, say, the first fifteen or twenty years after the
      close of the civil war furnishes one of the most interesting periods that
      any country has passed through.
    </p>
    <p>
      A large share of the thought and activity of the white South, of the black
      South, and of that section of the North especially interested in my race,
      was directed during the years of the Reconstruction period toward
      politics, or toward matters bearing upon what were termed civil or social
      rights. The work of education was rather slow, and covered a large section
      of the South; still I think I am justified in saying that in the public
      mind the Negro's relation to politics overshadowed nearly every other
      interest. The education of the race was conducted quietly, and attracted
      comparatively little attention, just as is true at the present time. The
      appointment of one Negro postmaster at a third or fourth rate post office
      will be given wider publicity through the daily press than the founding of
      a school, or some important discovery in science.
    </p>
    <p>
      With reference to the black man's political relation to the state and
      Federal governments, I think I am safe in saying that for many years after
      the civil war there were sharp and antagonistic views between the North
      and the South, as well as between the white South and the black South. At
      practically every point where there was a political question to be decided
      in the South the blacks would array themselves on one side and the whites
      on the other. I remember that very soon after I began teaching school in
      Alabama an old colored man came to me just prior to an election. He said:
      "You can read de newspapers and most of us can't, but dar is one thing dat
      we knows dat you don't, and dat is how to vote down here; and we wants you
      to vote as we does." He added: "I tell you how we does. We watches de
      white man; we keeps watching de white man; de nearer it gits to election
      time de more we watches de white man. We watches him till we finds out
      which way he gwine to vote. After we finds out which way he gwine to vote,
      den we votes exactly de other way; den we knows we 's right."
    </p>
    <p>
      Stories on the other side might be given showing that a certain class of
      white people, both at the polls and in the Legislatures, voted just as
      unreasonably in opposing politically what they thought the Negro or the
      North wanted, no matter how much benefit might ensue from a contrary
      action. Unfortunately such antagonism did not end with matters political,
      but in many cases affected the relation of the races in nearly every walk
      of life. Aside from political strife, there was naturally deep feeling
      between the North and the South on account of the war. On nearly every
      question growing out of the war, which was debated in Congress, or in
      political campaigns, there was the keenest difference and often the
      deepest feeling. There was almost no question of even a semi-political
      nature, or having a remote connection with the Negro, upon which there was
      not sharp and often bitter division between the North and South. It is
      needless to say that in many cases the Negro was the sufferer. He was
      being ground between the upper and nether millstones. Even to this day it
      is well-nigh impossible, largely by reason of the force of habit, in
      certain states to prevent state and even local campaigns from being
      centred in some form upon the black man. In states like Mississippi, for
      example, where the Negro ceased nearly a score of years ago, by operation
      of law, to be a determining factor in politics, he forms in some way the
      principal fuel for campaign discussion at nearly every election. The sad
      feature of this is, that it prevents the presentation before the masses of
      the people of matters pertaining to local and state improvement, and to
      great national issues like finance, tariff, or foreign policies. It
      prevents the masses from receiving the broad and helpful education which
      every political campaign should furnish, and, what is equally unfortunate,
      it prevents the youth from seeing and hearing on the platform the great
      political leaders of the two national parties. During a national campaign
      few of the great Democratic leaders debate national questions in the
      South, because it is felt that the old antagonism to the Negro politically
      will keep the South voting one way. Few of the great Republican leaders
      appear on Southern platforms, because they feel that nothing will be
      gained.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the saddest instances of this situation that has come within my
      knowledge occurred some years ago in a certain Southern state where a
      white friend of mine was making the race for Congress on the Democratic
      ticket in a district that was overwhelmingly Democratic. I speak of this
      man as my friend, because there was no personal favor in reason which he
      would have refused me. He was equally friendly to the race, and was
      generous in giving for its education, and in helping individuals to buy
      land. His campaign took him into one of the "white" counties, where there
      were few colored people, and where the whites were unusually ignorant. I
      was surprised one morning to read in the daily papers of a bitter attack
      he had made on the Negro while speaking in this county. The next time I
      saw him I informed him of my surprise. He replied that he was ashamed of
      what he had said, and that he did not himself believe much that he had
      stated, but gave as a reason for his action that he had found himself
      before an audience which had heard little for thirty years in the way of
      political discussion that did not bear upon the Negro, and that he
      therefore knew it was almost impossible to interest them in any other
      subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this is somewhat aside from my purpose, which is, I repeat, to make
      plain that in all political matters there was for years after the war no
      meeting ground of agreement for the two races, or for the North and South.
      Upon the question of the Negro's civil rights, as embodied in what was
      called the Civil Rights Bill, there was almost the same sharp line of
      division between the races, and, in theory at least, between the Northern
      and Southern whites,&mdash;largely because the former were supposed to be
      giving the blacks social recognition, and encouraging intermingling
      between the races. The white teachers, who came from the North to work in
      missionary schools, received for years little recognition or encouragement
      from the rank and file of their own race. The lines were so sharply drawn
      that in cities where native Southern white women taught Negro children in
      the public schools, they would have no dealings with Northern white women
      who, perhaps, taught Negro children from the same family in a missionary
      school.
    </p>
    <p>
      I want to call attention here to a phase of Reconstruction policy which is
      often overlooked. All now agree that there was much in Reconstruction
      which was unwise and unfortunate. However we may regard that policy, and
      much as we may regret mistakes, the fact is too often overlooked that it
      was during the Reconstruction period that a public school system for the
      education of all the people of the South was first established in most of
      the states. Much that was done by those in charge of Reconstruction
      legislation has been overturned, but the public school system still
      remains. True, it has been modified and improved, but the system remains,
      and is every day growing in popularity and strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the difference of opinion between the North and the South regarding
      Negro education, I find that many people, especially in the North, have a
      wrong conception of the attitude of the Southern white people. It is and
      has been very generally thought that what is termed "higher education" of
      the Negro has been from the first opposed by the white South. This opinion
      is far from being correct. I remember that, in 1891, when I began the work
      of establishing the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama, practically all of the
      white people who talked to me on the subject took it for granted that
      instruction in the Greek, Latin, and modern languages would be one of the
      main features of our curriculum. I heard no one oppose what he thought our
      course of study was to embrace. In fact, there are many white people in
      the South at the present time who do not know that instruction in the dead
      languages is not given at the Tuskegee Institute. In further proof of what
      I have stated, if one will go through the catalogue of the schools
      maintained by the states for Negro people, and managed by Southern white
      people, he will find in almost every case that instruction in the higher
      branches is given with the consent and approval of white officials. This
      was true as far back as 1880. It is not unusual to meet at this time
      Southern white people who are as emphatic in their belief in the value of
      classical education as a certain element of colored people themselves. In
      matters relating to civil and political rights, the breach was broad, and
      without apparent hope of being bridged; even in the matter of religion,
      practically all of the denominations had split on the subject of the
      Negro, though I should add that there is now, and always has been, a
      closer touch and more cooperation in matters of religion between the white
      and colored people in the South than is generally known. But the breach
      between the white churches in the South and North remains.
    </p>
    <p>
      In matters of education the difference was much less sharp. The truth is
      that a large element in the South had little faith in the efficacy of the
      higher or any other kind of education of the Negro. They were indifferent,
      but did not openly oppose; on the other hand, there has always been a
      potent element of white people in all of the Southern states who have
      stood out openly and bravely for the education of all the people,
      regardless of race. This element has thus far been successful in shaping
      and leading public opinion, and I think that it will continue to do so
      more and more. This statement must not be taken to mean that there is as
      yet an equitable division of the school funds, raised by common taxation,
      between the two races in many sections of the South, though the Southern
      states deserve much credit for what has been done. In discussing the small
      amount of direct taxes the Negro pays, the fact that he pays tremendous
      indirect taxes is often overlooked.
    </p>
    <p>
      I wish, however, to emphasize the fact that while there was either open
      antagonism or indifference in the directions I have named, it was the
      introduction of industrial training into the Negro's education that seemed
      to furnish the first basis for anything like united and sympathetic
      interest and action between the two races in the South and between the
      whites in the North and those in the South. Aside from its direct benefit
      to the black race, industrial education has furnished a basis for mutual
      faith and cooperation, which has meant more to the South, and to the work
      of education, than has been realized.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was, at the least, something in the way of construction. Many people,
      I think, fail to appreciate the difference between the problems now before
      us and those that existed previous to the civil war. Slavery presented a
      problem of destruction; freedom presents a problem of construction.
    </p>
    <p>
      From its first inception the white people of the South had faith in the
      theory of industrial education, because they had noted, what was not
      unnatural, that a large element of the colored people at first interpreted
      freedom to mean freedom from work with the hands. They naturally had not
      learned to appreciate the fact that they had been WORKED, and that one of
      the great lessons for freemen to learn is to WORK. They had not learned
      the vast difference between WORKING and BEING WORKED. The white people saw
      in the movement to teach the Negro youth the dignity, beauty, and
      civilizing power of all honorable labor with the hands something that
      would lead the Negro into his new life of freedom gradually and sensibly,
      and prevent his going from one extreme of life to the other too suddenly.
      Furthermore, industrial education appealed directly to the individual and
      community interest of the white people. They saw at once that intelligence
      coupled with skill would add wealth to the community and to the state, in
      which both races would have an added share. Crude labor in the days of
      slavery, they believed, could be handled and made in a degree profitable,
      but ignorant and unskilled labor in a state of freedom could not be made
      so. Practically every white man in the South was interested in
      agricultural or in mechanical or in some form of manual labor; every white
      man was interested in all that related to the home life,&mdash;the cooking
      and serving of food, laundering, dairying, poultry-raising, and
      housekeeping in general. There was no family whose interest in intelligent
      and skillful nursing was not now and then quickened by the presence of a
      trained nurse. As already stated, there was general appreciation of the
      fact that the industrial education of the black people had direct, vital,
      and practical bearing upon the life of each white family in the South;
      while there was no such appreciation of the results of mere literary
      training. If a black man became a lawyer, a doctor, a minister, or an
      ordinary teacher, his professional duties would not ordinarily bring him
      in touch with the life of the white portion of the community, but rather
      confine him almost exclusively to his own race. While purely literary or
      professional education was not opposed by the white population, it was
      something in which they found little or no interest, beyond a confused
      hope that it would result in producing a higher and a better type of Negro
      manhood. The minute it was seen that through industrial education the
      Negro youth was not only studying chemistry, but also how to apply the
      knowledge of chemistry to the enrichment of the soil, or to cooking, or to
      dairying, and that the student was being taught not only geometry and
      physics, but their application to blacksmithing, brickmaking, farming, and
      what not, then there began to appear for the first time a common bond
      between the two races and cooperation between North and South.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the most interesting and valuable instances of the kind that I know
      of is presented in the case of Mr. George W. Carver, one of our
      instructors in agriculture at Tuskegee Institute. For some time it has
      been his custom to prepare articles containing information concerning the
      conditions of local crops, and warning the farmers against the ravages of
      certain insects and diseases. The local white papers are always glad to
      publish these articles, and they are read by white and colored farmers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some months ago a white land-holder in Montgomery County asked Mr. Carver
      to go through his farm with him for the purpose of inspecting it. While
      doing so Mr. Carver discovered traces of what he thought was a valuable
      mineral deposit, used in making a certain kind of paint. The interests of
      the land-owner and the agricultural instructor at once became mutual.
      Specimens of the deposits were taken to the laboratories of the Tuskegee
      Institute and analyzed by Mr. Carver. In due time the land-owner received
      a report of the analysis, together with a statement showing the commercial
      value and application of the mineral. I shall not go through the whole
      interesting story, except to say that a stock company, composed of some of
      the best white people in Alabama, has been organized, and is now preparing
      to build a factory for the purpose of putting their product on the market.
      I hardly need to add that Mr. Carver has been freely consulted at every
      step, and his services generously recognized in the organization of the
      concern. When the company was being formed the following testimonial,
      among others, was embodied in the printed copy of the circular:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "George W. Carver, Director of the Department of Agriculture, Tuskegee,
      Alabama, says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'The pigment is an ochreous clay. Its value as a paint is due to the
      presence of ferric oxide, of which it contains more than any of the
      French, Australian, American, Irish, or Welsh ochres. Ferric oxides have
      long been recognized as the essential constituents of such paints as
      Venetian red, Turkish red, oxide red, Indian red, and scarlet. They are
      most desirable, being quite permanent when exposed to light and air. As a
      stain they are most valuable.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      In further proof of what I wish to emphasize, I think I am safe in saying
      that the work of the Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute, under the
      late General S. C. Armstrong, was the first to receive any kind of
      recognition and hearty sympathy from the Southern white people, and
      General Armstrong was perhaps the first Northern educator of Negroes who
      won the confidence and cooperation of the white South. The effects of
      General Armstrong's introduction of industrial education at Hampton, and
      its extension to the Tuskegee Institute in the far South, are now actively
      and helpfully apparent in the splendid work being accomplished for the
      whole South by the Southern Education Board, with Mr. Robert C. Ogden at
      its head, and by the General Education Board, with Mr. William H. Baldwin,
      Jr., as its president. Without the introduction of manual training it is
      doubtful whether such work as is now being wrought through these two
      boards for both races in the South could have been possible within a
      quarter of a century to come. Later on in the history of our country it
      will be recognized and appreciated that the far-reaching and
      statesman-like efforts of these two boards for general education in the
      South, under the guidance of the two gentlemen named, and with the
      cooperation and assistance of such men as Mr. George Foster Peabody, Dr.
      Wallace Buttrick, Mr. John D. Rockefeller, of the North, and Mr. Edgar
      Gardner Murphy, Chancellor Hill, Dr. Alderman, Dr. McIver, Dr. Dabney, and
      others of the South, will have furnished the material for one of the
      brightest and most encouraging chapters in the history of our country. The
      fact that we have reached the point where men and women who were so far
      apart twenty years ago can meet in the South and discuss freely from the
      same platform questions relating to the industrial, educational,
      political, moral, and religious development of the two races marks a great
      step in advance. It is true that as yet the Negro has not been invited to
      share in these discussions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aside from the reasons I have given showing why the South favored
      industrial education, coupled with intellectual and moral training, many
      of the whites saw, for example, that the Negroes who were master
      carpenters and contractors, under the guidance of their owners, could
      become still greater factors in the development of the South if their
      children were not suddenly removed from the atmosphere and occupations of
      their fathers, and if they could be taught to use the thing in hand as a
      foundation for higher growth. Many of the white people were wise enough to
      see that such education would enable some of the Negro youths to become
      more skillful carpenters and contractors, and that if they laid an
      economic foundation in this way in their generation, they would be laying
      a foundation for a more abstract education of their children in the
      future.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, a large element of people at the South favored manual training for
      the Negro because they were wise enough to see that the South was largely
      free from the restrictive influences of the Northern trades unions, and
      that such organizations would secure little hold in the South so long as
      the Negro kept abreast in intelligence and skill with the same class of
      people elsewhere. Many realized that the South would be tying itself to a
      body of death if it did not help the Negro up. In this connection I want
      to call attention to the fact that the official records show that within
      one year about one million foreigners came into the United States.
      Notwithstanding this number, practically none went into the Southern
      states; to be more exact, the records show that in 1892 only 2278 all told
      went into the states of Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Kentucky, Mississippi,
      North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. One ship
      sometimes brings as many to New York. Various reasons are given to explain
      why these foreigners systematically avoid the South. One is that the
      climate is so hot; and another is that they do not like the restrictions
      thrown about the ballot; and still another is the presence of the Negro is
      so large numbers. Whatever the true reason is, the fact remains that
      foreigners avoid the South, and the South is more and more realizing that
      it cannot keep pace with the progress being made in other parts of the
      country if a third of its population is ignorant and without skill.
    </p>
    <p>
      The South must frankly face this truth, that for a long period it must
      depend upon the black man to do for it what the foreigner is now doing for
      the great West. If, by reason of his skill and knowledge, one man in Iowa
      learns to produce as much corn in a season as four men can produce in
      Alabama, it requires little reasoning to see that Alabama will buy most of
      her corn from Iowa.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another interesting result of the introduction of industrial education for
      the Negro has been its influence upon the white people of the South, and,
      I believe, upon the whites of the North as well. This phase of it has
      proved of interest in making hand training a conciliatory element between
      the races.
    </p>
    <p>
      In 1883 I was delivering an address on industrial education before the
      colored State Teachers' Association of one of our Southern states. When I
      had finished, some of the teachers began to ask the State Superintendent
      of Education, who was on the programme, some questions about the subject.
      He politely but firmly stopped the questions by stating that he knew
      absolutely nothing about industrial training, and had never heard it
      discussed before. At that time there was no such education being given at
      any white institution in that state. With one or two exceptions this case
      will illustrate what was true of all the Southern states. A careful
      investigation of the subject will show that it was not until after
      industrial education was started among the colored people, and its value
      proved, that it was taken up by the Southern white people.
    </p>
    <p>
      Manual training or industrial and technical schools for the whites have,
      for the most part, been established under state auspices, and are at this
      time chiefly maintained by the states. An investigation would also show
      that in securing money from the state legislatures for the purpose of
      introducing hand work, one of the main arguments used was the existence
      and success of industrial training among the Negroes. It was often argued
      that the white boys and girls would be left behind unless they had the
      opportunities for securing the same kind of training that was being given
      the colored people. Although it is, I think, not generally known, it is a
      fact that since the idea of industrial or technical education for white
      people took root within the last few years, much more money is spent
      annually for such education for the whites than for the colored people.
      Any one who has not looked into the subject will be surprised to find how
      thorough and high grade the work is. Take, for example, the state of
      Georgia, and it will be found that several times as much is being spent at
      the Industrial College for white girls at Milledgeville, and at the
      technical school for whites at Atlanta, as is being spent in the whole
      state for the industrial education of Negro youths. I have met no Southern
      white educators who have not been generous in their praise of the Negro
      schools for taking the initiative in hand training. This fact has again
      served to create in matters relating to education a bond of sympathy
      between the two races in the South. Referring again to the influence of
      industrial training for the Negro in education, in the Northern states I
      find, while writing this article, the following announcement in the
      advertisement of what is perhaps the most high-priced and exclusive girls'
      seminary in Massachusetts:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "In planning a system of education for young ladies, with the view of
      fitting them for the greatest usefulness in life, the idea was conceived
      of supplementing the purely intellectual work by a practical training in
      the art of home management and its related subjects.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was the first school of high literary grade to introduce courses in
      Domestic Science into the regular curriculum.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The results were so gratifying as to lead to the equipment of Experiment
      Hall, a special building, fitted for the purpose of studying the
      principles of Applied Housekeeping. Here the girls do the actual work of
      cooking, marketing, arranging menus, and attend to all the affairs of a
      well-arranged household.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Courses are arranged also in sewing, dressmaking, and millinery; they are
      conducted on a similarly practical basis, and equip the student with a
      thorough knowledge of the subject."
    </p>
    <p>
      A dozen years ago I do not believe that any such announcement would have
      been made.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beginning with the year 1877, the Negro in the South lost practically all
      political control; that is to say, as early as 1885 the Negro scarcely had
      any members of his race in the national Congress or state legislatures,
      and long before this date had ceased to hold state offices. This was true,
      notwithstanding the protests and fervent oratory of such strong race
      leaders as Frederick Douglass, B. K. Bruce, John R. Lynch, P. B. S.
      Pinchback, and John M. Langston, with a host of others. When Frederick
      Douglass, the greatest man that the race has produced, died in 1895, it is
      safe to say that the Negro in the Southern states, with here and there a
      few exceptions, had practically no political control or political
      influence, except in sending delegates to national conventions, or in
      holding a few Federal positions by appointment. It became evident to many
      of the wise Negroes that the race would have to depend for its success in
      the future less upon political agitations and the opportunity of holding
      office, and more upon something more tangible and substantial. It was at
      this period in the Negro's development, when the distance between the
      races was greatest, and the spirit and ambition of the colored people most
      depressed, that the idea of industrial or business development was
      introduced and began to be made prominent. It did not take the more
      level-headed members of the race long to see that while the Negro in the
      South was surrounded by many difficulties, there was practically no line
      drawn and little race discrimination in the world of commerce, banking,
      storekeeping, manufacturing, and the skilled trades, and in agriculture,
      and that in this lay his great opportunity. They understood that, while
      the whites might object to a Negro's being a postmaster, they would not
      object to his being the president of a bank, and in the latter occupation
      they would give him assistance and encouragement. The colored people were
      quick to see that while the negro would not be invited as a rule to attend
      the white man's prayer-meeting, he would be invited every time to attend
      the stockholders' meeting of a business concern in which he had an
      interest and that he could buy property in practically any portion of the
      South where the white man could buy it. The white citizens were all the
      more willing to encourage the Negro in this economic or industrial
      development, because they saw that the prosperity of the Negro meant also
      the prosperity of the white man. They saw, too, that when a Negro became
      the owner of a home and was a taxpayer, having a regular trade or other
      occupation, he at once became a conservative and safe citizen and voter;
      one who would consider the interests of his whole community before casting
      his ballot; and, further, one whose ballot could not be purchased.
    </p>
    <p>
      One case in point is that of the twenty-eight teachers at our school in
      Tuskegee who applied for life-voting certificates under the new
      constitution of Alabama, not one was refused registration; and if I may be
      forgiven a personal reference, in my own case, the Board of Registers were
      kind enough to send me a special request to the effect that they wished me
      not to fail to register as a life voter. I do not wish to convey the
      impression that all worthy colored people have been registered in Alabama,
      because there have been many inexcusable and unlawful omissions; but, with
      few exceptions, the 2700 who have been registered represent the best
      Negroes in the state.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though in some parts of the country he is now misunderstood, I believe
      that the time is going to come when matters can be weighed soberly, and
      when the whole people are going to see that president Roosevelt is, and
      has been from the first, in line with this policy,&mdash;that of
      encouraging the colored people who by industry and economy have won their
      way into the confidence and respect of their neighbors. Both before and
      since he became President I have had many conversations with him, and at
      all times I have found him enthusiastic over the plan that I have
      described.
    </p>
    <p>
      The growth of the race in industrial and business directions within the
      last few years cannot perhaps be better illustrated than by the fact that
      what is now the largest secular national organization among the colored
      people is the National Negro Business League. This organization brings
      together annually hundreds of men and women who have worked their way up
      from the bottom to the point where they are now in some cases bankers,
      merchants, manufacturers, planters, etc. The sight of this body of men and
      women would surprise a large part of American citizens who do not really
      know the better side of the Negro's life.
    </p>
    <p>
      It ought to be stated frankly here that at first, and for several years
      after the introduction of industrial training at such educational centres
      as Hampton and Tuskegee, there was opposition from colored people, and
      from portions of those Northern white people engaged in educational and
      missionary work among the colored people in the South. Most of those who
      manifested such opposition were actuated by the highest and most honest
      motives. From the first the rank and file of the blacks were quick to see
      the advantages of industrial training, as is shown by the fact that
      industrial schools have always been overcrowded. Opposition to industrial
      training was based largely on the old and narrow ground that it was
      something that the Southern white people favored, and therefore must be
      against the interests of the Negro. Again, others opposed it because they
      feared that it meant the abandonment of all political privileges, and the
      higher or classical education of the race. They feared that the final
      outcome would be the materialization of the Negro, and the smothering of
      his spiritual and aesthetic nature. Others felt that industrial education
      had for its object the limitation of the Negro's development, and the
      branding him for all time as a special hand-working class.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now that enough time has elapsed for those who opposed it to see that it
      meant none of these things, opposition, except from a very few of the
      colored people living in Boston and Washington, has ceased, and this
      system has the enthusiastic support of the Negroes and of most of the
      whites who formerly opposed it. All are beginning to see that it was never
      meant that ALL Negro youths should secure industrial education, any more
      than it is meant that ALL white youths should pass through the
      Massachusetts Institute of Technology, or the Amherst Agricultural
      College, to the exclusion of such training as is given at Harvard, Yale,
      or Dartmouth; but that in a peculiar sense a large proportion of the Negro
      youths needed to have that education which would enable them to secure an
      economic foundation, without which no people can succeed in any of the
      higher walks of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is because of the fact that the Tuskegee Institute began at the bottom,
      with work in the soil, in wood, in iron, in leather, that it has now
      developed to the point where it is able to furnish employment as teachers
      to twenty-eight Negro graduates of the best colleges in the country. This
      is about three times as many Negro college graduates as any other
      institution in the United States for the education of colored people
      employs, the total number of officers and instructors at Tuskegee being
      about one hundred and ten.
    </p>
    <p>
      Those who once opposed this see now that while the Negro youth who becomes
      skilled in agriculture and a successful farmer may not be able himself to
      pass through a purely literary college, he is laying the foundation for
      his children and grandchildren to do it if desirable. Industrial education
      in this generation is contributing in the highest degree to make what is
      called higher education a success. It is now realized that in so far as
      the race has intelligent and skillful producers, the greater will be the
      success of the minister, lawyer, doctor, and teacher. Opposition has
      melted away, too, because all men now see that it will take a long time to
      "materialize" a race, millions of which hold neither houses nor railroads,
      nor bank stocks, nor factories, nor coal and gold mines.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another reason for the growth of a better understanding of the objects and
      influence of industrial training is the fact, as before stated, that it
      has been taken up with such interest and activity by the Southern whites,
      and that it has been established at such universities as Cornell in the
      East, and in practically all of the state colleges of the great West.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is now seen that the result of such education will be to help the black
      man to make for himself an independent place in our great American life.
      It was largely the poverty of the Negro that made him the prey of
      designing politicians immediately after the war; and wherever poverty and
      lack of industry exist to-day, one does not find in him that deep
      spiritual life which the race must in the future possess in a higher
      degree.
    </p>
    <p>
      To those who still express the fear that perhaps too much stress is put
      upon industrial education for the Negro I would add that I should
      emphasize the same kind of training for any people, whether black or
      white, in the same stage of development as the masses of the colored
      people.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a number of years this country has looked to Germany for much in the
      way of education, and a large number of our brightest men and women are
      sent there each year. The official reports show that in Saxony, Germany,
      alone, there are 287 industrial schools, or one such school to every
      14,641 people. This is true of a people who have back of them centuries of
      wealth and culture. In the South I am safe in saying that there is not
      more than one effective industrial school for every 400,000 colored
      people.
    </p>
    <p>
      A recent dispatch from Germany says that the German Emperor has had a
      kitchen fitted up in the palace for the single purpose of having his
      daughter taught cooking. If all classes and nationalities, who are in most
      cases thousands of years ahead of the Negro in the arts of civilization,
      continue their interest in industrial training, I cannot understand how
      any reasonable person can object to such education for a large part of a
      people who are in the poverty-stricken condition that is true of a large
      element of my race, especially when such hand training is combined, as it
      should be, with the best education of head and heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE NEGRO IN THE REGULAR ARMY by Oswald Garrison Villard
    </h2>
    <p>
      When the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts Regiment stormed Fort Wagner July 18,
      1863, only to be driven back with the loss of its colonel, Robert Gould
      Shaw, and many of its rank and file, it established for all time the fact
      that the colored soldier would fight and fight well. This had already been
      demonstrated in Louisiana by colored regiments under the command of
      General Godfrey Weitzel in the attack upon Port Hudson on May 27 of the
      same year. On that occasion regiments composed for the greater part of raw
      recruits, plantation hands with centuries of servitude under the lash
      behind them, stormed trenches and dashed upon cold steel in the hands of
      their former masters and oppressors. After that there was no more talk in
      the portion of the country of the "natural cowardice" of the negro. But
      the heroic qualities of Colonel Shaw, his social prominence and that of
      his officers, and the comparative nearness of their battlefield to the
      North, attracted greater and more lasting attention to the daring and
      bravery of their exploit, until it finally became fixed in many minds as
      the first real baptism of fire of colored American soldiers.
    </p>
    <p>
      After Wagner the recruiting of colored regiments, originally opposed by
      both North and South, went on apace, particularly under the Federal
      government, which organized no less than one hundred and fifty-four,
      designated as "United States Colored Troops." Colonel Shaw's raising of a
      colored regiment aroused quite as much comment in the North because of the
      race prejudice it defied, as because of the novelty of the new
      organization. General Weitzel tendered his resignation the instant General
      B. F. Butler assigned black soldiers to his brigade, and was with
      difficulty induced to serve on. His change of mind was a wise one, and not
      only because these colored soldiers covered him with glory at Port Hudson.
      It was his good fortune to be the central figure in one of the dramatic
      incidents of a war that must ever rank among the most thrilling and tragic
      the world has seen. The black cavalrymen who rode into Richmond, the first
      of the Northern troops to enter the Southern capital, went in waving their
      sabres and crying to the negroes on the sidewalks, "We have come to set
      you free!" They were from the division of Godfrey Weitzel, and American
      history has no more stirring moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the South, notwithstanding the raising in 1861 of a colored Confederate
      regiment by Governor Moore of Louisiana (a magnificent body of educated
      colored men which afterwards became the First Louisiana National Guards of
      General Weitzel's brigade and the first colored regiment in the Federal
      Army), the feeling against negro troops was insurmountable until the last
      days of the struggle. Then no straw could be overlooked. When, in
      December, 1863, Major-General Patrick R. Cleburne, who commanded a
      division of Hardee's Corps of the Confederate Army of the Tennessee, sent
      in a paper in which the employment of the slaves as soldiers of the South
      was vigorously advocated, Jefferson Davis indorsed it with the statement,
      "I deem it inexpedient at this time to give publicity to this paper, and
      request that it be suppressed." General Cleburne urged that "freedom
      within a reasonable time" be granted to every slave remaining true to the
      Confederacy, and was moved to this action by the valor of the Fifty-fourth
      Massachusetts, saying, "If they [the negroes] can be made to face and
      fight bravely against their former masters, how much more probable is it
      that with the allurement of a higher reward, and led by those masters,
      they would submit to discipline and face dangers?"
    </p>
    <p>
      With the ending of the civil war the regular army of the United States was
      reorganized upon a peace footing by an act of Congress dated July 28,
      1866. In just recognition of the bravery of the colored volunteers six
      regiments, the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry and the Thirty-eighth,
      Thirty-ninth, Fortieth, and Forth-first Infantry, were designated as
      colored regiments. When the army was again reduced in 1869, the
      Thirty-eighth and Forty-first became the Twenty-fourth Infantry, and the
      Thirty-ninth and Fortieth became the Twenty-fifth. This left four colored
      regiments in the regular army as it was constituted from 1870 until 1901.
      There has never been a colored artillery organization in the regular
      service.
    </p>
    <p>
      To these new regiments came a motley mixture of veterans of volunteer
      organizations, newly released slaves, and some freedmen of several years'
      standing but without military experience. They were eager to learn, and
      soon showed the same traits which distinguish the black regiments to-day,&mdash;loyalty
      to their officers and to their colors, sobriety and courage, and a notable
      pride in the efficiency of their corps. But if ever officers had to
      "father and mother" their soldiers they were the company officers of these
      regiments. The captains in particular had to be bankers, secretaries,
      advisers, and judges for their men. As Lieutenant Grote Hutcheson has
      stated it, "The men knew nothing, and the non-commissioned officers but
      little more. From the very circumstances of their preceding life it could
      not be otherwise. They had no independence, no self-reliance, not a
      thought except for the present, and were filled with superstition." Yet
      the officers were determined to prove the wisdom of the experiment. To do
      this they were forced to give their own attention to the minutest details
      of military administration, and to act as non-commissioned officers. The
      total lack of education among the men necessitated an enormous amount of
      writing by the officers. In the Ninth Cavalry only one man was found able
      to write well enough to be sergeant-major, and not for several years was
      it possible to obtain troop clerks. When the Tenth Cavalry was being
      recruited an officer was sent to Philadelphia with the express purpose of
      picking up educated colored men for the non-commissioned positions.
      Difficult as the tasks of the officers thus were, most of them felt well
      repaid for their unusual labors by the affectionate regard in which they
      were held by their soldiers, and by the never-failing good humor with
      which the latter went about their duties.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the years passed the character of the colored soldiers naturally
      changed. In place of the war veterans, and of the men whose chains of
      servitude had just been struck off, came young men from the North and East
      with more education and more self-reliance. They depended less upon their
      officers, both in the barracks and in the field, yet they reverenced and
      cared for them as much as did their predecessors. Their greatest faults
      then as now were gambling and quarreling. On the other hand, the negro
      regiments speedily became favorably known because of greater sobriety and
      of fewer desertions than among the white soldiers. It was the Ninth
      Cavalry which a few years ago astonished the army by reporting not a
      single desertion in twelve months, an unheard-of and perhaps undreamed-of
      record. In all that goes to make a good soldier, in drill, fidelity, and
      smartness, the negro regular from the first took front rank.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was there ever any lack of the fighting quality which had gratified
      the nation at Fort Wagner, or at Fort Blakely, Ala., where the
      Seventy-third Colored Infantry, under Colonel Henry C. Merriam, stormed
      the enemy's works, in advance of orders, in one of the last actions of the
      war. It soon fell to the lot of the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry to prove that
      the negroes could do as well under fire in the Indian wars as they had
      when fighting for the freedom of their race. While the Twenty-fourth and
      Twenty-fifth Infantry had merely garrison work to do, the Ninth and Tenth
      Cavalry scouted for years against hostile Indians in Texas, New Mexico,
      Colorado, and Kansas, always acquitting themselves honorably. In
      September, 1868, a little over two years after their organization, three
      troops of the Ninth Cavalry did well in an action against Indians at
      Horsehead Hills, Texas. When General George A. Forsyth and his detachment
      of fifty scouts were surrounded and "corralled" by seven hundred Indians
      on an island in the Republican River, it was the troop of Captain Louis H.
      Carpenter, of the Tenth Cavalry, which first came to their rescue.
      Similarly when Major T. T. Thornburg's command was nearly wiped out by
      Utes in 1879, it was Captain F. S. Dodge's Troop D of the Ninth which
      succeeded in reaching it in time, losing all its horses in so doing. This
      regiment alone took part in sixty Indian fights between 1868 and 1890,
      during which time it lost three officers and twenty-seven men killed, and
      had three officers and thirty-four men wounded. The Tenth Cavalry's
      casualties were also heavy during this same period, and it fought for many
      years over a most difficult country in New Mexico and Arizona, taking a
      conspicuous part in running to earth Geronimo's and Victoria's bands of
      Apaches.
    </p>
    <p>
      On one of these campaigns Lieutenant Powhatan H. Clarke gave effective
      proof of the affection which the officers of colored regiments have for
      their men. In the fight in the Pineto Mountains with a portion of
      Geronimo's forces this young Southerner risked his life to save a colored
      sergeant who had fallen wounded in an open space where both he and his
      rescuer were easy marks for the Apaches. For this gallant act Lieutenant
      Clarke rightly received a medal of honor. The Twenty-fourth Infantry, on
      the other hand, has contributed a striking instance of the devotion of
      colored soldiers to their officers. When Major Joseph W. Wham, paymaster,
      was attacked by robbers on May 11, 1889, his colored escort fought with
      such gallantry that every one of the soldiers was awarded a medal of honor
      or a certificate of merit. Some of them stood their ground although badly
      wounded, notably Sergeant Benjamin Brown, who continued to fight and to
      encourage his men until shot through both arms. In a fight against Apaches
      in the Cuchilo Negro Mountains of New Mexico on August 16, 1881, Moses
      Williams, First Sergeant of Troop I, Ninth Cavalry, displayed such
      gallantry that he was given a medal of honor by common consent. When the
      only officer with the detachment, Lieutenant Gustavus Valois, had his
      horse shot under him, and was cut off from his men, Sergeant Williams
      promptly rallied the detachment, and conducted the right flank in a
      running fight for several hours with such coolness, bravery, and
      unflinching devotion to duty that he undoubtedly saved the lives of at
      least three comrades. His action in standing by and rescuing Lieutenant
      Valois was the more noteworthy because he and his men were subjected, in
      an exposed position, to a heavy fire from a large number of Indians. For
      splendid gallantry against Indians, while serving as sergeant of Troop K,
      Ninth Cavalry, on May 14, 1880, and August 12, 1881, George Jordan was
      also given a medal of honor. Five of the medal of honor men now in the
      service are colored soldiers, while fifteen others have "certificates of
      merit" also awarded for conspicuous deeds of bravery.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until the battle of Santiago, however, that the bulk of the
      American people realized that the standing army comprised regiments
      composed wholly of black men. Up to that time only one company of colored
      soldiers had served at a post east of the Mississippi. Even Major, later
      Brigadier-General, Guy V. Henry's gallop to the rescue of the Seventh
      Cavalry on December 30, 1890, with four troops of the Ninth Cavalry,
      attracted but little attention. This feat was the more remarkable because
      Major Henry's command had just completed a march of more than one hundred
      miles in twenty-four hours. But in the battle at Santiago, the four
      colored regiments won praise from all sides, particularly for their
      advance upon Kettle Hill, in which the Rough Riders also figured. From the
      very beginning of the movement of the army after its landing, the negro
      troops were in the front of the fighting, and contributed largely to the
      successful result. Although they suffered heavy losses, especially in
      officers, the men fought with the same gallantry they had displayed on the
      plains, as is attested by the honors awarded. In every company there were
      instances of personal gallantry. The first sergeants especially lived up
      to the responsibilities placed upon them. The color sergeant of the Tenth
      Cavalry, Adam Houston, bore to the front not only his own flags, but those
      of the Third Cavalry when the latter's color sergeant was shot down. In
      several emergencies where troops or companies lost their white officers,
      the senior sergeants took command and handled their men in a faultless
      manner, notably in the Tenth Cavalry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, the conduct of these men has done much to dispel the old belief
      that colored soldiers will fight only when they have efficient white
      officers. This may well have been true at one period of the civil war when
      the colored race as a whole had never even had the responsibilities
      attaching to free men. It is growing less and less true as time passes and
      better educated men enter the ranks. In recognition of their achievements
      at Santiago a number of these black non-commissioned officers were made
      commissioned officers in several of the so-called "immune" regiments of
      United States Volunteers raised in July, 1898. None of these organizations
      were in service long enough to become really efficient, and a few were
      never properly disciplined. Nevertheless, a majority of the officers
      promoted from the colored regulars bore themselves well under exceedingly
      trying circumstances. Some of them, and a number of regular sergeants and
      corporals who had succeeded to their former places, were made lieutenants
      and captains in the Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth Volunteer Infantry, which
      served in the Philippines for two years, and to which we shall recur
      later.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Santiago the characteristic cheerfulness of the negro soldiers was as
      striking as their bravery. In his little book called The Nth Foot In War,
      Lieutenant M. B. Stewart says of them:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "The negro troops were in a high good humor. They had made the charge of
      the day; they had fought with a dash and vigor which forever established
      their reputation as fighters, and which would carry them down in the pages
      of history. To have heard them that night no one would have ever thought
      that they had lived for twelve mortal hours under a galling fire. They
      were laughing and joking over the events of the day, in the same manner
      they would have done had they been returning from a picnic.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Golly,' laughed a six-foot sergeant, 'dere was music in de air sho'
      nuff. Dat lead was flying around in sheets, I tell you. I seen a buzzard
      flying around in front of our line, and I says to myself, "Buzzard, you is
      in a mighty dangerous position. You better git out uf dat, 'cause dey
      ain't room out dar for a muskeeter."' Another remarked, 'Say, did you see
      dat man Brown; pity dat man been killed. He'd a been a corporal, sho.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the utter exhaustion of the moment all race and social distinctions
      were forgotten. Officers lay down among their men and slept like logs. The
      negro troops sought out soft places along the sides of the road and lay
      down with their white comrades. There was a little commotion among the
      latter, and an officer was heard to yell: 'Here, you man, take your feet
      off my stomach. Well, I'll be damned if it ain't a nigger. Get out, you
      black rascal.' As the commotion subsided, the negro was heard to remark,
      'Well, if dat ain't de mos' particler man I ever see.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Characteristic also is a story of the negro cavalryman who, returning to
      the rear, said to some troops anxious to get to the front: "Dat's all
      right, gemmen; don't git in a sweat; dere's lots of it lef' for you. You
      wants to look out for dese yere sharpshooters, for dey is mighty careless
      with dere weapons, and dey is specially careless when dey is officers
      aroun'."
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the army settled down in the trenches before Santiago, smuggled
      musical instruments&mdash;guitars, banjos, mouth organs, and what not&mdash;appeared
      among the negro troops as if by magic, and they were ever in use. It was
      at once a scene of cheerfulness and gayety, and the officers had their
      usual trouble in making the men go to sleep instead of spending the night
      in talking, singing, and gaming. In the peaceful camp of the Third
      Alabama, in that state, the scenes were similar. There was always "a
      steady hum of laughter and talk, dance, song, shout, and the twang of
      musical instruments." It was "a scene full of life and fun, of jostling,
      scuffling, and racing, of clown performances and cake-walks, of impromptu
      minstrelsy, speech-making, and preaching, of deviling, guying, and
      fighting, both real and mimic." The colonel found great difficulty in
      getting men to work alone. Two would volunteer for any service. "Colonel,"
      said a visitor to the camp, "your sentinels are sociable fellows. I saw
      No. 5 over at the end of his beat entertaining No. 6 with some fancy
      manual of arms. Afterwards, with equal amiability, No. 6 executed a most
      artistic cake-walk for his friend." It must be remembered here that this
      colonel's men were typical Southern negroes, literate and illiterate, and
      all new to military life.
    </p>
    <p>
      In addition to the Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth Volunteers, the four
      regular colored regiments have served in the Philippines. Here the work
      was particularly trying and the temptations to misconduct many. The
      Filipino women were especially attractive to the men because of their
      color, and it is on record that several soldiers were tempted from their
      allegiance to the United States. Two of these, whose sympathy and liking
      for the Filipinos overcame their judgment, paid the full penalty of
      desertion, being hanged by their former comrades. Both belonged to the
      Ninth Cavalry. On the other hand, in a remarkable order issued by General
      A. S. Burt in relinquishing command of the Twenty-fifth Infantry, on April
      17, 1902, on his promotion to brigadier-general, he was able to quote the
      Inspector-General of the army as saying: "The Twenty-fifth Infantry is the
      best regiment I have seen in the Philippines." General Burt praised highly
      the excellent conduct of the enlisted men while in the Archipelago, which
      proved to his mind that the American negroes are "as law-abiding as any
      race in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      Three of General Burt's sergeants, Russell, McBryar, and Hoffman, were
      promoted to the Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth Volunteers, and served, as
      lieutenants, for several months with their old regiment, the Twenty-fifth,
      until the arrival of their new regiments in Manila. During this time they
      were frequently under fire. General Burt bore high testimony to their
      soldierly bearing, their capacity and ability, and expressed great regret
      when he was forced to let them go. McBryar had won a medal of honor for
      gallantry against Indians in Arizona in 1890. In the Forty-ninth
      Volunteers, Company L, composed wholly of colored men, and commanded by
      Captain Edward L. Baker, a colored veteran of Santiago, who had served for
      seventeen years in the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry and in the Tenth "Immunes,"
      made a wonderful record. According to a statement which was widely
      published at the time and never denied, this company had on its rolls
      during a period of twelve months one hundred and six men who were fit for
      duty at all times and never lost a day on account of sickness. No white
      company remotely approached this record. More extraordinary still is the
      fact that during this same period not one of these men ever went before a
      court-martial. This is surely a striking illustration of what can be done
      by colored officers. It is noticeable, too, that neither the officers nor
      the men of any colored regiment have figured in the charges and
      counter-charges arising out of the use of the water-torture, except one
      man who at the time of his offense was not with his regiment. The
      Forty-ninth Volunteers was a very unhappy regiment during its brief life,
      but its troubles were largely due to its white officers. One of these, a
      major, was dismissed for misconduct, and his place was filled by the
      senior captain, a colored man. Several other white officers and one
      colored captain got into serious trouble, the last being dismissed. The
      Forty-eighth was, on the contrary, a contented organization in which the
      colored officers were treated in a kindly and courteous manner by their
      white associates and superiors. The two regiments afford a striking
      illustration of Napoleon's saying, "There are no such things as poor
      regiments,&mdash;only poor colonels."
    </p>
    <p>
      The negro regiment unquestionably calls for different treatment from that
      which would be accorded to white troops, just as the Indian troops of King
      Edward's army require different handling from that called for in the case
      of the King's Royal Rifles. Yet as fighting machines, the Indian soldiers
      may be the equals if not the superiors of the Englishmen. Major Robert L.
      Bullard, Twenty-eighth United States Infantry who commanded the colored
      Third Alabama Volunteers, already referred to, during the war with Spain,
      discusses in a remarkable paper published in the United Service Magazine
      for July, 1901, the differences between negro and white soldiers. They are
      so great, he says, as to require the military commander to treat the negro
      as a different species. He must fit his methods of instruction and
      discipline to the characteristics of the race. Major Bullard adds that
      "mistakes, injustices, and failures would result from his making the same
      rules and methods apply to the two races without regard to how far apart
      set by nature or separated by evolution." But Major Bullard would
      unquestionably concede that these differences in no way require a
      treatment of the negro soldier which implies that he is an inferior being
      and which ever impresses upon him his inferiority. Yet this seems to have
      been the case in the Forty-ninth United States Volunteers.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the regular army, as well as in the volunteers, officers have
      frequently appealed with success to the negroes' pride of race, and have
      urged them on to greater efficiency and better behavior by reminding them
      that they have the honor of their people in their hands. To such appeals
      there is ever a prompt response. One of the most effective ways of
      disciplining an offender is by holding him up to the ridicule of his
      fellows. The desire of the colored soldiers to amuse and to be amused
      gives the officers an easy way of obtaining a hold upon them and their
      affections. The regimental rifle team, the baseball nine, the minstrel
      troupe, and the regimental band offer positions of importance for which
      the competition is much keener than in the white regiments. There is also
      a friendly rivalry between companies, which is much missed elsewhere in
      the service. The negroes are natural horsemen and riders. It is a pleasure
      to them to take care of their mounts, and a matter of pride to keep their
      animals in good condition. Personally they are clean and neat, and they
      take the greatest possible pride in their uniforms. In no white regiment
      is there a similar feeling. With the negroes the canteen question is of
      comparatively slight importance, not only because the men can be more
      easily amused within their barracks, but because their appetite for drink
      is by no means as strong as that of the white men. Their sociability is
      astonishing. They would rather sit up and tell stories and crack jokes
      than go to bed, no matter how hard the day has been.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dark sides are, that the negro soldiers easily turn merited punishment
      into martyrdom, that their gambling propensities are almost beyond
      control, that their habit of carrying concealed weapons is incurable, and
      that there is danger of serious fighting when they fall out with one
      another. Frequent failure to act honorably toward a comrade in some
      trifling matter is apt to cause scuffling and fighting until the men are
      well disciplined. Women are another cause of quarrels, and are at all
      times a potent temptation to misconduct and neglect of duty. It is very
      difficult to impress upon the men the value of government property, and
      duty which requires memorizing of orders is always the most difficult to
      teach. For the study of guard duty manuals or of tactics they have no
      natural aptitude. The non-commissioned officers are of very great
      importance, and in the regulars they are looked up to and obeyed
      implicitly, much more so than is the case with white troops. It is
      necessary, however, for the officers to back up the sergeants and
      corporals very vigorously, even when they are slightly in the wrong. Then
      colored men are more easily "rattled" by poor officers than are their
      white comrades. There was a striking instance of this two or three years
      ago when a newly appointed and wholly untrained white officer lost his
      head at a post in Texas. His black subordinates, largely recruits,
      followed suit, and in carrying out his hysterical orders imperiled many
      lives in the neighboring town. Selections for service with colored troops
      should therefore be most carefully made. Major Bullard declares that the
      officer of negro troops "must not only be an officer and a gentleman, but
      he must be considerate, patient, laborious, self-sacrificing, a man of
      affairs, and he must have knowledge and wisdom in a great lot of things
      not really military."
    </p>
    <p>
      If the position of a white officer is a difficult one, that of the colored
      officer is still more so. He has not the self-assumed superiority of the
      white man, naturally feels that he is on trial, and must worry himself
      incessantly about his relations to his white comrades of the shoulder
      straps. While the United States Navy has hitherto been closed to negroes
      who aspire to be officers, the army has pursued a wiser and more just
      policy. The contrast between the two services is really remarkable. On
      almost every war vessel white and black sailors sleep and live together in
      crowded quarters without protest or friction. But the negro naval officer
      is kept out of the service by hook or by crook for the avowed reason that
      the cramped quarters of the wardroom would make association with him
      intolerable. In the army, on the other hand, the experiment of mixed
      regiments has never been tried. A good colored soldier can nevertheless
      obtain a commission by going through West Point, or by rising from the
      ranks, or by being appointed directly from civil life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since the foundation of the Military Academy there have been eighteen
      colored boys appointed to West Point, of whom fifteen failed in their
      preliminary examinations, or were discharged after entering because of
      deficiency in studies. Three were graduated and commissioned as second
      lieutenants of cavalry, Henry Ossian Flipper, John Hanks Alexander, and
      Charles Young. Of these, Lieutenant Flipper was dismissed June 30, 1882,
      for "conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman." The other two proved
      themselves excellent officers, notably Young, who is at this writing a
      captain, and a most efficient one, in the Ninth Cavalry, with which he
      recently served in the Philippines. Lieutenant Alexander died suddenly in
      1894. In announcing his death in a regimental order his colonel spoke of
      him in terms of high praise, and did not use the customary stereotyped
      phrases of regret. His fellow white officers all had good words for him.
      There never was more striking testimony to the discipline and spirit of
      fairness at West Point than was afforded by the sight of Cadet Charles
      Young, who is of very dark complexion, commanding white cadets. Nothing
      else has impressed foreign visitors at West Point half so much.
    </p>
    <p>
      An equally remarkable happening, and one which speaks even more for the
      democratic spirit in the army, was the commissioning in 1901 of
      Sergeant-Major Benjamin O. Davis, Ninth Cavalry, and of Corporal John E.
      Green, Twenty-fourth Infantry. Both these men were examined by boards of
      white officers, who might easily have excluded them because of color
      prejudice, in which case there would have been no appeal from their
      findings. Lieutenant Davis's former troop commander, a West Pointer,
      openly rejoiced at his success, and predicted that he would make an
      excellent officer. These are the first two colored men to rise from the
      ranks, but there will be many more if the same admirable spirit of fair
      play continues to rule in the army and is not altered by outside
      prejudice. It was thought that there would be a severe strain upon
      discipline when a colored officer rose to the rank of captain and to the
      command of white officers. But in Captain Young's case his white
      subordinates seem to have realized that it is the position and rank that
      they are compelled to salute and obey, and not the individual. This
      principle is at the bottom of all discipline. Only too frequently do
      subordinates throughout the army have to remind themselves of this when
      obeying men for whose social qualities and character they have neither
      regard nor respect. During the war with Spain Captain Young commanded a
      negro battalion from Ohio, which was pronounced the best drilled
      organization in the large army assembled at Camp Alger near Washington. In
      addition to these officers, Captain John R. Lynch, formerly a Congressman
      from Mississippi, and four colored chaplains represent their race on the
      commissioned rolls of the army. All of these men are doing well. One
      colored chaplain was dismissed for drunkenness in 1894. Beyond this their
      record is unblemished.
    </p>
    <p>
      Despite the fairness shown in these appointments, there has been
      considerable very just criticism of the War Department for its failure to
      appoint to the regulars any of the colored officers who did well in the
      Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth Volunteers. Every colonel of volunteers was
      allowed to designate for examination for appointment to the regular army
      the best officers in his regiment. Hundreds of white officers were
      selected in this way, but not a single colored officer was given an
      examination,&mdash;not even Lieutenant McBryar, with his medal of honor,
      or Captain Baker. Similarly fault has been found with Secretary Root
      because no new colored regiments were established under the law of
      February 2, 1901, increasing the army by five regiments of infantry, five
      of cavalry, and a large number of companies of artillery. The excuse most
      often heard is that the negroes already have sufficient representation in
      comparison with the percentage of negroes to white persons within the
      borders of the United States. But the sterling characteristics of the
      colored soldiers, their loyalty to the service as shown by the statistics
      of desertion, and, above all, their splendid service in Cuba, should have
      entitled them to additional organizations. To say the least, the decision
      of the War Department smacks considerably of ingratitude. Nevertheless,
      the negro regiments have come to stay, both in the regulars and in the
      volunteers. The hostilities of the last five years have dispelled any
      doubt which may have existed upon this point.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      BAXTER'S PROCRUSTES by Charles W. Chesnutt
    </h2>
    <p>
      Baxter's Procrustes is one of the publications of the Bodleian Club. The
      Bodleian Club is composed of gentlemen of culture, who are interested in
      books and book-collecting. It was named, very obviously, after the famous
      library of the same name, and not only became in our city a sort of shrine
      for local worshipers of fine bindings and rare editions, but was visited
      occasionally by pilgrims from afar. The Bodleian has entertained Mark
      Twain, Joseph Jefferson, and other literary and histrionic celebrities. It
      possesses quite a collection of personal mementos of distinguished
      authors, among them a paperweight which once belonged to Goethe, a lead
      pencil used by Emerson, an autograph letter of Matthew Arnold, and a chip
      from a tree felled by Mr. Gladstone. Its library contains a number of rare
      books, including a fine collection on chess, of which game several of the
      members are enthusiastic devotees.
    </p>
    <p>
      The activities of the club are not, however, confined entirely to books.
      We have a very handsome clubhouse, and much taste and discrimination have
      been exercised in its adornment. There are many good paintings, including
      portraits of the various presidents of the club, which adorn the entrance
      hall. After books, perhaps the most distinctive feature of the club is our
      collection of pipes. In a large rack in the smoking-room&mdash;really a
      superfluity, since smoking is permitted all over the house&mdash;is as
      complete an assortment of pipes as perhaps exists in the civilized world.
      Indeed, it is an unwritten rule of the club that no one is eligible for
      membership who cannot produce a new variety of pipe, which is filed with
      his application for membership, and, if he passes, deposited with the club
      collection, he, however, retaining the title in himself. Once a year, upon
      the anniversary of the death of Sir Walter Raleigh, who it will be
      remembered, first introduced tobacco into England, the full membership of
      the club, as a rule, turns out. A large supply of the very best smoking
      mixture is laid in. At nine o'clock sharp each member takes his pipe from
      the rack, fills it with tobacco, and then the whole club, with the
      president at the head, all smoking furiously, march in solemn procession
      from room to room, upstairs and downstairs, making the tour of the
      clubhouse and returning to the smoking-room. The president then delivers
      an address, and each member is called upon to say something, either by way
      of a quotation or an original sentiment, in praise of the virtues of
      nicotine. This ceremony&mdash;facetiously known as "hitting the pipe"&mdash;being
      thus concluded, the membership pipes are carefully cleaned out and
      replaced in the club rack.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I have said, however, the raison d'etre of the club, and the feature
      upon which its fame chiefly rests, is its collection of rare books, and of
      these by far the most interesting are its own publications. Even its
      catalogues are works of art, published in numbered editions, and sought by
      libraries and book-collectors. Early in its history it began the
      occasional publication of books which should meet the club standard,&mdash;books
      in which emphasis should be laid upon the qualities that make a book
      valuable in the eyes of collectors. Of these, age could not, of course, be
      imparted, but in the matter of fine and curious bindings, of hand-made
      linen papers, of uncut or deckle edges, of wide margins and limited
      editions, the club could control its own publications. The matter of
      contents was, it must be confessed, a less important consideration. At
      first it was felt by the publishing committee that nothing but the finest
      products of the human mind should be selected for enshrinement in the
      beautiful volumes which the club should issue. The length of the work was
      an important consideration,&mdash;long things were not compatible with
      wide margins and graceful slenderness. For instance, we brought out
      Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, an essay by Emerson, and another by Thoreau.
      Our Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam was Heron-Allen's translation of the original
      MS in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, which, though less poetical than
      FitzGerald's, was not so common. Several years ago we began to publish the
      works of our own members. Bascom's Essay on Pipes was a very creditable
      performance. It was published in a limited edition of one hundred copies,
      and since it had not previously appeared elsewhere and was copyrighted by
      the club, it was sufficiently rare to be valuable for that reason. The
      second publication of local origin was Baxter's Procrustes.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have omitted to say that once or twice a year, at a meeting of which
      notice has been given, an auction is held at the Bodleian. The members of
      the club send in their duplicate copies, or books they for any reason wish
      to dispose of, which are auctioned off to the highest bidder. At these
      sales, which are well attended, the club's publications have of recent
      years formed the leading feature. Three years ago, number three of
      Bascom's Essay on Pipes sold for fifteen dollars;&mdash;the original cost
      of publication was one dollar and seventy-five cents. Later in the evening
      an uncut copy of the same brought thirty dollars. At the next auction the
      price of the cut copy was run up to twenty-five dollars, while the uncut
      copy was knocked down at seventy-five dollars. The club had always
      appreciated the value of uncut copies, but this financial indorsement
      enhanced their desirability immensely. This rise in the Essay on Pipes was
      not without a sympathetic effect upon all the club publications. The
      Emerson essay rose from three dollars to seventeen, and the Thoreau, being
      by an author less widely read, and, by his own confession commercially
      unsuccessful, brought a somewhat higher figure. The prices, thus inflated,
      were not permitted to come down appreciably. Since every member of the
      club possessed one or more of these valuable editions, they were all
      manifestly interested in keeping up the price. The publication, however,
      which brought the highest prices, and, but for the sober second thought,
      might have wrecked the whole system, was Baxter's Procrustes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Baxter was, perhaps, the most scholarly member of the club. A graduate of
      Harvard, he had traveled extensively, had read widely, and while not so
      enthusiastic a collector as some of us, possessed as fine a private
      library as any man of his age in the city. He was about thirty-five when
      he joined the club, and apparently some bitter experience&mdash;some
      disappointment in love or ambition&mdash;had left its mark upon his
      character. With light, curly hair, fair complexion, and gray eyes, one
      would have expected Baxter to be genial of temper, with a tendency toward
      wordiness of speech. But though he had occasional flashes of humor, his
      ordinary demeanor was characterized by a mild cynicism, which, with his
      gloomy pessimistic philosophy, so foreign to the temperament that should
      accompany his physical type, could only be accounted for upon the
      hypothesis of some secret sorrow such as I have suggested. What it might
      be no one knew. He had means and social position, and was an uncommonly
      handsome man. The fact that he remained unmarried at thirty-five furnished
      some support for the theory of a disappointment in love, though this the
      several intimates of Baxter who belonged to the club were not able to
      verify.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had occurred to me, in a vague way, that perhaps Baxter might be an
      unsuccessful author. That he was a poet we knew very well, and typewritten
      copies of his verses had occasionally circulated among us. But Baxter had
      always expressed such a profound contempt for modern literature, had
      always spoken in terms of such unmeasured pity for the slaves of the pen,
      who were dependent upon the whim of an undiscriminating public for
      recognition and a livelihood, that no one of us had ever suspected him of
      aspirations toward publication, until, as I have said, it occurred to me
      one day that Baxter's attitude with regard to publication might be viewed
      in the light of effect as well as of cause&mdash;that his scorn of
      publicity might as easily arise from failure to achieve it, as his never
      having published might be due to his preconceived disdain of the vulgar
      popularity which one must share with the pugilist or balloonist of the
      hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The notion of publishing Baxter's Procrustes did not emanate from Baxter,&mdash;I
      must do him the justice to say this. But he had spoken to several of the
      fellows about the theme of his poem, until the notion that Baxter was at
      work upon something fine had become pretty well disseminated throughout
      our membership. He would occasionally read brief passages to a small
      coterie of friends in the sitting-room or library,&mdash;never more than
      ten lines at once, or to more than five people at a time,&mdash;and these
      excerpts gave at least a few of us a pretty fair idea of the motive and
      scope of the poem. As I, for one, gathered, it was quite along the line of
      Baxter's philosophy. Society was the Procrustes which, like the Greek
      bandit of old, caught every man born into the world, and endeavored to fit
      him to some preconceived standard, generally to the one for which he was
      least adapted. The world was full of men and women who were merely square
      pegs in round holes, and vice versa. Most marriages were unhappy because
      the contracting parties were not properly mated. Religion was mostly
      superstition, science for the most part sciolism, popular education merely
      a means of forcing the stupid and repressing the bright, so that all the
      youth of the rising generation might conform to the same dull, dead level
      of democratic mediocrity. Life would soon become so monotonously uniform
      and so uniformly monotonous as to be scarce worth the living.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Smith, I think, who first proposed that the club publish Baxter's
      Procrustes. The poet himself did not seem enthusiastic when the subject
      was broached; he demurred for some little time, protesting that the poem
      was not worthy of publication. But when it was proposed that the edition
      be limited to fifty copies he agreed to consider the proposition. When I
      suggested, having in mind my secret theory of Baxter's failure in
      authorship, that the edition would at least be in the hands of friends,
      that it would be difficult for a hostile critic to secure a copy, and that
      if it should not achieve success from a literary point of view, the extent
      of the failure would be limited to the size of the edition, Baxter was
      visibly impressed. When the literary committee at length decided to
      request formally of Baxter the privilege of publishing his Procrustes, he
      consented, with evident reluctance, upon condition that he should
      supervise the printing, binding, and delivery of the books, merely
      submitting to the committee, in advance, the manuscript, and taking their
      views in regard to the bookmaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      The manuscript was duly presented to the literary committee. Baxter having
      expressed the desire that the poem be not read aloud at a meeting of the
      club, as was the custom, since he wished it to be given to the world clad
      in suitable garb, the committee went even farther. Having entire
      confidence in Baxter's taste and scholarship, they, with great delicacy,
      refrained from even reading the manuscript, contenting themselves with
      Baxter's statement of the general theme and the topics grouped under it.
      The details of the bookmaking, however, were gone into thoroughly. The
      paper was to be of hand-made linen, from the Kelmscott Mills; the type
      black-letter, with rubricated initials. The cover, which was Baxter's own
      selection, was to be of dark green morocco, with a cap-and-bells border in
      red inlays, and doublures of maroon morocco with a blind-tooled design.
      Baxter was authorized to contract with the printer and superintend the
      publication. The whole edition of fifty numbered copies was to be disposed
      of at auction, in advance, to the highest bidder, only one copy to each,
      the proceeds to be devoted to paying for the printing and binding, the
      remainder, if any, to go into the club treasury, and Baxter himself to
      receive one copy by way of remuneration. Baxter was inclined to protest at
      this, on the ground that his copy would probably be worth more than the
      royalties on the edition, at the usual ten per cent, would amount to, but
      was finally prevailed upon to accept an author's copy.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the Procrustes was under consideration, some one read, at one of our
      meetings, a note from some magazine, which stated that a sealed copy of a
      new translation of Campanella's Sonnets, published by the Grolier Club,
      had been sold for three hundred dollars. This impressed the members
      greatly. It was a novel idea. A new work might thus be enshrined in a sort
      of holy of holies, which, if the collector so desired, could be forever
      sacred from the profanation of any vulgar or unappreciative eye. The
      possessor of such a treasure could enjoy it by the eye of imagination,
      having at the same time the exaltation of grasping what was for others the
      unattainable. The literary committee were so impressed with this idea that
      they presented it to Baxter in regard to the Procrustes. Baxter making no
      objection, the subscribers who might wish their copies delivered sealed
      were directed to notify the author. I sent in my name. A fine book, after
      all, was an investment, and if there was any way of enhancing its rarity,
      and therefore its value, I was quite willing to enjoy such an advantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Procrustes was ready for distribution, each subscriber received
      his copy by mail, in a neat pasteboard box. Each number was wrapped in a
      thin and transparent but very strong paper through which the cover design
      and tooling were clearly visible. The number of the copy was indorsed upon
      the wrapper, the folds of which were securely fastened at each end with
      sealing-wax, upon which was impressed, as a guaranty of its inviolateness,
      the monogram of the club.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the next meeting of the Bodleian, a great deal was said about the
      Procrustes, and it was unanimously agreed that no finer specimen of
      bookmaking had ever been published by the club. By a curious coincidence,
      no one had brought his copy with him, and the two club copies had not yet
      been received from the binder, who, Baxter had reported was retaining them
      for some extra fine work. Upon resolution, offered by a member who had not
      subscribed for the volume, a committee of three was appointed to review
      the Procrustes at the next literary meeting of the club. Of this committee
      it was my doubtful fortune to constitute one.
    </p>
    <p>
      In pursuance of my duty in the premises, it of course became necessary for
      me to read the Procrustes. In all probability I should have cut my own
      copy for this purpose, had not one of the club auctions intervened between
      my appointment and the date set for the discussion of the Procrustes. At
      this meeting a copy of the book, still sealed, was offered for sale, and
      bought by a non-subscriber for the unprecedented price of one hundred and
      fifty dollars. After this a proper regard for my own interests would not
      permit me to spoil my copy by opening it, and I was therefore compelled to
      procure my information concerning the poem from some other source. As I
      had no desire to appear mercenary, I said nothing about my own copy, and
      made no attempt to borrow. I did, however, casually remark to Baxter that
      I should like to look at his copy of the proof sheets, since I wished to
      make some extended quotations for my review, and would rather not trust my
      copy to a typist for that purpose. Baxter assured me, with every evidence
      of regret, that he had considered them of so little importance that he had
      thrown them into the fire. This indifference of Baxter to literary values
      struck me as just a little overdone. The proof sheets of Hamlet, corrected
      in Shakespeare's own hand, would be well-nigh priceless.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the next meeting of the club I observed that Thompson and Davis, who
      were with me on the reviewing committee, very soon brought up the question
      of the Procrustes in conversation in the smoking-room, and seemed anxious
      to get from the members their views concerning Baxter's production, I
      supposed upon the theory that the appreciation of any book review would
      depend more or less upon the degree to which it reflected the opinion of
      those to whom the review should be presented. I presumed, of course, that
      Thompson and Davis had each read the book,&mdash;they were among the
      subscribers,&mdash;and I was desirous of getting their point of view.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What do you think," I inquired, "of the passage on Social Systems?" I
      have forgotten to say that the poem was in blank verse, and divided into
      parts, each with an appropriate title.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," replied Davis, it seemed to me a little cautiously, "it is not
      exactly Spencerian, although it squints at the Spencerian view, with a
      slight deflection toward Hegelianism. I should consider it an harmonious
      fusion of the best views of all the modern philosophers, with a strong
      Baxterian flavor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said Thompson, "the charm of the chapter lies in this very quality.
      The style is an emanation from Baxter's own intellect,&mdash;he has
      written himself into the poem. By knowing Baxter we are able to appreciate
      the book, and after having read the book we feel that we are so much the
      more intimately acquainted with Baxter,&mdash;the real Baxter."
    </p>
    <p>
      Baxter had come in during this colloquy, and was standing by the fireplace
      smoking a pipe. I was not exactly sure whether the faint smile which
      marked his face was a token of pleasure or cynicism; it was Baxterian,
      however, and I had already learned that Baxter's opinions upon any subject
      were not to be gathered always from his facial expression. For instance,
      when the club porter's crippled child died Baxter remarked, it seemed to
      me unfeelingly, that the poor little devil was doubtless better off, and
      that the porter himself had certainly been relieved of a burden; and only
      a week later the porter told me in confidence that Baxter had paid for an
      expensive operation, undertaken in the hope of prolonging the child's
      life. I therefore drew no conclusions from Baxter's somewhat enigmatical
      smile. He left the room at this point in the conversation, somewhat to my
      relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the way, Jones," said Davis, addressing me, "are you impressed by
      Baxter's views on Degeneration?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Having often heard Baxter express himself upon the general downward
      tendency of modern civilization, I felt safe in discussing his views in a
      broad and general manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think," I replied, "that they are in harmony with those of
      Schopenhauer, without his bitterness; with those of Nordau, without his
      flippancy. His materialism is Haeckel's, presented with something of the
      charm of Omar Khayyam."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," chimed in Davis, "it answers the strenuous demand of our day,&mdash;dissatisfaction
      with an unjustified optimism,&mdash;and voices for us the courage of human
      philosophy facing the unknown."
    </p>
    <p>
      I had a vague recollection of having read something like this somewhere,
      but so much has been written, that one can scarcely discuss any subject of
      importance without unconsciously borrowing, now and then, the thoughts or
      the language of others. Quotation, like imitation, is a superior grade of
      flattery.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Procrustes," said Thompson, to whom the metrical review had been
      apportioned, "is couched in sonorous lines, of haunting melody and charm;
      and yet so closely inter-related as to be scarcely quotable with justice
      to the author. To be appreciated the poem should be read as a whole,&mdash;I
      shall say as much in my review. What shall you say of the letter-press?"
      he concluded, addressing me. I was supposed to discuss the technical
      excellence of the volume from the connoisseur's viewpoint.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The setting," I replied judicially, "is worthy of the gem. The dark green
      cover, elaborately tooled, the old English lettering, the heavy linen
      paper, mark this as one of our very choicest publications. The
      letter-press is of course De Vinne's best,&mdash;there is nothing better
      on this side of the Atlantic. The text is a beautiful, slender stream,
      meandering gracefully through a wide meadow of margin."
    </p>
    <p>
      For some reason I left the room for a minute. As I stepped into the hall,
      I almost ran into Baxter, who was standing near the door, facing a hunting
      print of a somewhat humorous character, hung upon the wall, and smiling
      with an immensely pleased expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What a ridiculous scene!" he remarked. "Look at that fat old squire on
      that tall hunter! I'll wager dollars to doughnuts that he won't get over
      the first fence!"
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a very good bluff, but did not deceive me. Under his mask of
      unconcern, Baxter was anxious to learn what we thought of his poem, and
      had stationed himself in the hall that he might overhear our discussion
      without embarrassing us by his presence. He had covered up his delight at
      our appreciation by this simulated interest in the hunting print.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the night came for the review of the Procrustes there was a large
      attendance of members, and several visitors, among them a young English
      cousin of one of the members, on his first visit to the United States;
      some of us had met him at other clubs, and in society, and had found him a
      very jolly boy, with a youthful exuberance of spirits and a naive
      ignorance of things American that made his views refreshing and, at times,
      amusing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The critical essays were well considered, if a trifle vague. Baxter
      received credit for poetic skill of a high order.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Our brother Baxter," said Thompson, "should no longer bury his talent in
      a napkin. This gem, of course, belongs to the club, but the same brain
      from which issued this exquisite emanation can produce others to inspire
      and charm an appreciative world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The author's view of life," said Davis, "as expressed in these beautiful
      lines, will help us to fit our shoulders for the heavy burden of life, by
      bringing to our realization those profound truths of philosophy which find
      hope in despair and pleasure in pain. When he shall see fit to give to the
      wider world, in fuller form, the thoughts of which we have been vouchsafed
      this foretaste, let us hope that some little ray of his fame may rest upon
      the Bodleian, from which can never be taken away the proud privilege of
      saying that he was one of its members."
    </p>
    <p>
      I then pointed out the beauties of the volume as a piece of bookmaking. I
      knew, from conversation with the publication committee, the style of type
      and rubrication, and could see the cover through the wrapper of my sealed
      copy. The dark green morocco, I said, in summing up, typified the author's
      serious view of life, as a thing to be endured as patiently as might be.
      The cap-and-bells border was significant of the shams by which the
      optimist sought to delude himself into the view that life was a desirable
      thing. The intricate blind-tooling of the doublure shadowed forth the
      blind fate which left us in ignorance of our future and our past, or of
      even what the day itself might bring forth. The black-letter type, with
      rubricated initials, signified a philosophic pessimism enlightened by the
      conviction that in duty one might find, after all, an excuse for life and
      a hope for humanity. Applying this test to the club, this work, which
      might be said to represent all that the Bodleian stood for, was in itself
      sufficient to justify the club's existence. If the Bodleian had done
      nothing else, if it should do nothing more, it had produced a masterpiece.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a sealed copy of the Procrustes, belonging, I believe, to one of
      the committee, lying on the table by which I stood, and I had picked it up
      and held it in my hand for a moment, to emphasize one of my periods, but
      had laid it down immediately. I noted, as I sat down, that young Hunkin,
      our English visitor, who sat on the other side of the table, had picked up
      the volume and was examining it with interest. When the last review was
      read, and the generous applause had subsided, there were cries for Baxter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Baxter! Baxter! Author! Author!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Baxter had been sitting over in a corner during the reading of the
      reviews, and had succeeded remarkably well, it seemed to me, in
      concealing, under his mask of cynical indifference, the exultation which I
      was sure he must feel. But this outburst of enthusiasm was too much even
      for Baxter, and it was clear that he was struggling with strong emotion
      when he rose to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gentlemen, and fellow members of the Bodleian, it gives me unaffected
      pleasure&mdash;sincere pleasure&mdash;some day you may know how much
      pleasure&mdash;I cannot trust myself to say it now&mdash;to see the
      evident care with which your committee have read my poor verses, and the
      responsive sympathy with which my friends have entered into my views of
      life and conduct. I thank you again, and again, and when I say that I am
      too full for utterance,&mdash;I'm sure you will excuse me from saying any
      more."
    </p>
    <p>
      Baxter took his seat, and the applause had begun again when it was broken
      by a sudden exclamation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By Jove!" exclaimed our English visitor, who still sat behind the table,
      "what an extraordinary book!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one gathered around him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You see," he exclaimed; holding up the volume, "you fellows said so much
      about the bally book that I wanted to see what it was like; so I untied
      the ribbon, and cut the leaves with the paper knife lying here, and found&mdash;and
      found that there wasn't a single line in it, don't you know!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Blank consternation followed this announcement, which proved only too
      true. Every one knew instinctively, without further investigation, that
      the club had been badly sold. In the resulting confusion Baxter escaped,
      but later was waited upon by a committee, to whom he made the rather lame
      excuse that he had always regarded uncut and sealed books as tommy-rot,
      and that he had merely been curious to see how far the thing could go; and
      that the result had justified his belief that a book with nothing in it
      was just as useful to a book-collector as one embodying a work of genius.
      He offered to pay all the bills for the sham Procrustes, or to replace the
      blank copies with the real thing, as we might choose. Of course, after
      such an insult, the club did not care for the poem. He was permitted to
      pay the expense, however, and it was more than hinted to him that his
      resignation from the club would be favorably acted upon. He never sent it
      in, and, as he went to Europe shortly afterwards, the affair had time to
      blow over.
    </p>
    <p>
      In our first disgust at Baxter's duplicity, most of us cut our copies of
      the Procrustes, some of us mailed them to Baxter with cutting notes, and
      others threw them into the fire. A few wiser spirits held on to theirs,
      and this fact leaking out, it began to dawn upon the minds of the real
      collectors among us that the volume was something unique in the way of a
      publication.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Baxter," said our president one evening to a select few of us who sat
      around the fireplace, "was wiser than we knew, or than he perhaps
      appreciated. His Procrustes, from the collector's point of view, is
      entirely logical, and might be considered as the acme of bookmaking. To
      the true collector, a book is a work of art, of which the contents are no
      more important than the words of an opera. Fine binding is a desideratum,
      and, for its cost, that of the Procrustes could not be improved upon. The
      paper is above criticism. The true collector loves wide margins, and the
      Procrustes, being all margin, merely touches the vanishing point of the
      perspective. The smaller the edition, the greater the collector's
      eagerness to acquire a copy. There are but six uncut copies left, I am
      told, of the Procrustes, and three sealed copies, of one of which I am the
      fortunate possessor."
    </p>
    <p>
      After this deliverance, it is not surprising that, at our next auction, a
      sealed copy of Baxter's Procrustes was knocked down, after spirited
      bidding, for two hundred and fifty dollars, the highest price ever brought
      by a single volume published by the club.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </div>
    <h2>
      THE HEART OF THE RACE PROBLEM by Quincy Ewing
    </h2>
    <p>
      "And, instead of going to the Congress of the United States and saying
      there is no distinction made in Mississippi, because of color or previous
      condition of servitude, tell the truth, and say this: 'We tried for many
      years to live in Mississippi, and share sovereignty and dominion with the
      Negro, and we saw our institutions crumbling.... We rose in the majesty
      and highest type of Anglo-Saxon manhood, and took the reins of government
      out of the hands of the carpet-bagger and the Negro, and, so help us God,
      from now on we will never share any sovereignty or dominion with him
      again.'"&mdash;Governor JAMES K. VARDAMAN, Mississippi, 1904.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the past decade, newspaper and magazine articles galore, and not a
      few books, have been written on what is called the "Race Problem," the
      problem caused by the presence in this country of some ten millions of
      black and variously-shaded colored people known as Negroes. But, strange
      as it may sound, the writer has no hesitation in saying that at this date
      there appears to be no clear conception anywhere, on the part of most
      people, as to just what the essential problem is which confronts the white
      inhabitants of the country because they have for fellow-citizens
      (nominally) ten million Negroes. Ask the average man, ask even the average
      editor or professor anywhere, what the race problem is, the heart of it;
      why, in this land with its millions of foreigners of all nationalities,
      THE race problem of problems should be caused by ten million Negroes, not
      foreigners but native to the soil through several generations; and in all
      probability you will get some such answer as this:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Negroes, as a rule, are very ignorant, are very lazy, are very
      brutal, are very criminal. But a little way removed from savagery, they
      are incapable of adopting the white man's moral code, of assimilating the
      white man's moral sentiments, of striving toward the white man's moral
      ideals. They are creatures of brutal, untamed instincts, and uncontrolled
      feral passions, which give frequent expression of themselves in crimes of
      horrible ferocity. They are, in brief, an uncivilized, semi-savage people,
      living in a civilization to which they are unequal, partaking to a limited
      degree of its benefits, performing in no degree its duties. Because they
      are spatially in a civilization to which they are morally and
      intellectually repugnant, they cannot but be as a foreign irritant to the
      body social. The problem is, How shall the body social adjust itself,
      daily, hourly, to this irritant; how feel at ease and safe in spite of it?
      How shall the white inhabitants of the land, with their centuries of
      inherited superiority, conserve their civilization and carry it forward to
      a yet higher plane, hampered by ten million black inhabitants of the same
      land with their centuries of inherited inferiority?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To the foregoing answer, this might now and again be added, or advanced
      independently in reply to our question: "Personal aversion on the part of
      the white person for the Negro; personal aversion accounted for by nothing
      the individual Negro is, or is not, intellectually and morally; accounted
      for by the fact, simply, that he is a Negro, that he has a black or
      colored skin, that he is different, of another kind."
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, certainly, there are very few average men or philosophers, to whom
      the answer given to our question would not seem to state, or at any rate
      fairly indicate, the race problem in its essence. But, however few they
      be, I do not hesitate to align myself with them as one who does not
      believe that the essential race problem as it exists in the South
      (whatever it be in the North) is stated, or even fairly indicated, in the
      foregoing answer. In Northern and Western communities, where he is
      outnumbered by many thousands of white people, the Negro may be accounted
      a problem, because he is lazy, or ignorant, or brutal, or criminal, or all
      these things together; or because he is black and different. But in
      Southern communities, where the Negro is not outnumbered by many thousands
      of white people, the race problem, essentially, and in its most acute
      form, is something distinct from his laziness or ignorance, or brutality,
      or criminality, or all-round intellectual and moral inferiority to the
      white man. That problem as the South knows and deals with it would exist,
      as certainly as it does to-day, if there were no shadow of excuse for the
      conviction that the Negro is more lazy, or more ignorant, or more
      criminal, or more brutal, or more anything else he ought not to be, or
      less anything else he ought to be, than other men. In other words, let it
      be supposed that the average Negro is as a matter of fact the equal,
      morally and intellectually, of the average white man of the same class,
      and the race problem declines to vanish, declines to budge. We shall see
      why, presently. The statements just made demand immediate justification.
      For they are doubtless surprising to a degree, and to some readers may
      prove startling.
    </p>
    <p>
      I proceed to justify them as briefly as possible, asking the reader to
      bear in mind that very much more might be said along this line than I
      allow myself space to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      I
    </p>
    <p>
      That the Negro is not a problem because he is lazy, because he declines to
      work, is evidenced by the patent fact that in virtually every Southern
      community he is sought as a laborer in fields, mills, mines, and that in
      very many Southern communities the vexing problem for employers is not too
      many, but too few Negroes. In certain agricultural sections, notably in
      the Louisiana sugar district, quite a number of Italians ("Dagoes") are
      employed. The reason is not dissatisfaction with Negro labor, but simply
      that there is not enough of it to meet the requirements of the large
      plantations. There is, perhaps, not one of these plantations on which any
      able-bodied Negro could not get employment for the asking; and as a rule,
      the Negroes are given, not the work which demands the lowest, but that
      which demands the highest, efficiency: they are the ploughmen, the
      teamsters, the foremen. If any one doubts that Negroes are wanted as
      laborers in Southern communities, very much wanted, let him go to any such
      community and attempt to inveigle a few dozen of the laziest away. He will
      be likely to take his life in his hands, after the usual warning is
      disregarded!
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      The small politician's trump-card, played early and late, and in all
      seasons, that the Negro is a black shadow over the Southland because of
      his excessive criminality, serves well the politician's purpose,&mdash;it
      wins his game; but only because the game is played and won on a board
      where fictions, not facts, are dominant. Nothing is easier than to offer
      so-called proofs of the contention that the Negro's tendency to crime is
      something peculiar to his race; there are the jail and penitentiary and
      gallows statistics, for instance. But surely it should not be difficult
      for these so-called proofs to present themselves in their true light to
      any one who takes the trouble to consider two weighty and conspicuous
      facts: this, first, that the Negroes occupy everywhere in this country the
      lowest social and industrial plane, the plane which everywhere else
      supplies the jail, the penitentiary, the gallows, with the greatest number
      of their victims; and secondly this, that in the section of the country
      where these penal statistics are gathered, all the machinery of justice is
      in the hands of white men.
    </p>
    <p>
      No Negro is a sheriff, or judge, or justice of the peace, or grand or
      petit juryman, or member of a pardoning board. Charged with crime, again
      and again, the black man must go to jail; he is unable to give bond; he is
      defended, not by the ablest, but by the poorest lawyers, often by an
      unwilling appointee of the court; he lacks the benefit of that personal
      appeal to judge and jury, so often enjoyed by other defendants, which
      would make them WANT to believe him innocent until proven guilty; he
      faces, on the contrary, a judge and jury who hold him in some measure of
      contempt as a man, regardless of his guilt or innocence. He is without
      means, except occasionally, to fight his case through appeals to higher
      courts, and errors sleep in many a record that on review would upset the
      verdict. In the light of such considerations, it would seem impossible
      that criminal statistics should not bear hard upon the Negro race, even
      supposing it to be a fact that that race of all races in the world is the
      LEAST criminal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let it be admitted without question that in most Southern communities the
      crimes and misdemeanors of the Negroes exceed those committed by an equal
      number of white people, and we have admitted nothing that at all explains
      or accounts for the race problem. For is it not equally true that in every
      other community the doers of society's rough work, the recipients of its
      meagrest rewards, are chargeable, relatively, with the greatest number of
      crimes and misdemeanors? Is it not true, as well in Massachusetts and
      Connecticut as in Louisiana and Mississippi, that the vast majority of
      those occupying prison cells are members of the social lowest class? that
      the vast majority condemned, after trial, to hard labor with their hands
      were accustomed to such labor before their judicial condemnation? Nothing
      is more preposterous than the idea that the race problem means more
      Negroes hanged, more Negroes imprisoned, more Negroes in mines and
      chain-gangs, than white people! If the Negro did not furnish the great
      bulk of the grist for the grinding of our penal machinery in the Southern
      states, he would constitute the racial miracle of this and all ages!
    </p>
    <p>
      My own conviction is, and I speak with the experience of forty years'
      residence in Southern states, that the Negro is not more given to crimes
      and misdemeanors than the laboring population of any other section of the
      country. But be this as it may, it is abundantly certain that no race of
      people anywhere are more easily controlled than the Negroes by the
      guardians of law and order; and there are none anywhere so easily punished
      for disobedience to the statutes and mandates of their economic superiors.
      Courts and juries may be sometimes subject to just criticism for undue
      leniency toward white defendants; but that courts and juries are ever
      subject to just criticism for undue leniency in dealing with black
      defendants is the sheerest nonsense.
    </p>
    <p>
      The frequent charge that the Negro's worst crimes partake of a brutality
      that is peculiarly racial, is not supported by facts. I need not enlarge
      upon this statement further than to say that the Negro's worst crimes,
      with all their shocking accompaniments, are, not seldom, but often,
      duplicated by white men. Let any one who doubts the statement observe for
      one week the criminal statistics of any cosmopolitan newspaper, and he
      will have his doubt removed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Assuredly we do not hit upon the essence of the race problem in the
      Negro's propensity to crime!
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Do we hit upon it in his ignorance, in the fact that an immense number of
      the black people are illiterate, not knowing the first from the last
      letter of the alphabet? Hardly. For, almost to a man, the people who most
      parade and most rail at the race problem in private conversation, on the
      political platform, and in the pages of newspapers, books, and
      periodicals, are disposed rather to lament, than to assist, the passing of
      the Negro's ignorance. Ex-Governor Vardaman, of Mississippi, used the
      following language in a message to the legislature of that state, January,
      1906:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "The startling facts revealed by the census show that those [Negroes] who
      can read and write are more criminal than the illiterate, which is true of
      no other element of our population.. .. The state for many years, at great
      expense to the tax-payers, has maintained a system of Negro education
      which has produced disappointing results, and I am opposed to the
      perpetuation of this system. My own idea is, that the character of
      education for the Negro ought to be changed. If, after forty years of
      earnest effort, and the expenditure of fabulous sums to educate his head,
      we have only succeeded in making a criminal of him and impairing his
      usefulness and efficiency as a laborer, wisdom would suggest that we make
      another experiment and see if we cannot improve him by educating his hand
      and his heart.... Slavery is the only process by which he has ever been
      partially civilized. God Almighty created the Negro for a menial, he is
      essentially a servant."
    </p>
    <p>
      This is the reply of an ex-governor of one of our blackest states to those
      who contend that the negro is a problem, a "burden carried by the white
      people of the South," because of his ignorance and consequent
      inefficiency; and that the lightening of the burden depends upon more
      money spent, more earnest efforts made, for the schooling of the black
      people. According to this ex-governor, and there are thousands who agree
      with him in and out of Mississippi, the race problem is heightened, rather
      than mitigated, by all attempts to increase the negro's intellectual
      efficiency. The more ignorant he is, the less burdensome he is to the
      white man, provided his heart be good, and his hands skillful enough to do
      the service of a menial. Nothing but slavery ever partially civilized him,
      nothing but slavery continued in some form can civilize him further!
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      If we listen vainly for the heart-throb of the race problem in the Negro's
      laziness, and criminality, and brutality, and ignorance, and inefficiency,
      do we detect it with clearness and certainty in the personal aversion felt
      by the white people for the black people, aversion which the white people
      can no more help feeling than the black people can help exciting? Is this
      the real trouble, the real burden, the real tragedy and sorrow of our
      white population in those sections of the country where the Negroes are
      many,&mdash;that they are compelled to dwell face to face, day by day,
      with an inferior, degraded population, repulsive to their finer
      sensibilities, obnoxious to them in countless ways inexplicable? Facts are
      far from furnishing an affirmative answer. However pronounced may be the
      feeling of personal aversion toward the Negroes in Northern communities,
      where they are few, or known at long range, or casually, there is no such
      thing in Southern communities as personal aversion for the Negro
      pronounced enough to be responsible for anything resembling a problem. How
      could there be in the South, where from infancy we have all been as
      familiar with black faces as with white; where many of us fell asleep in
      the laps of black mammies, and had for playmates Ephrom, Izik, Zeke, black
      mammy's grandchildren; where most of us have had our meals prepared by
      black cooks, and been waited on by black house-servants and dining-room
      servants, and ridden in carriages and buggies with black hostlers? We are
      so used to the black people in the South, their mere personal presence is
      so far from being responsible for our race problem, that the South would
      not seem Southern without them, as it would not without its crape myrtles,
      and live-oaks, and magnolias, its cotton and its sugar-cane!
    </p>
    <p>
      It is very easy to go astray in regard to the matter of personal aversion
      toward the members of alien races, to magnify greatly the reality and
      importance of it. What seems race-aversion is frequently something else,
      namely, revulsion aroused by the presence of the strange, the unusual, the
      uncanny, the not-understood. Such revulsion is aroused, not only by the
      members of alien races, alien and unfamiliar, but as certainly by strange
      animals of not more terrifying appearance than the well-loved cow and
      horse; and it would be aroused as really and as painfully, doubtless, by
      the sudden proximity of one of Milton's archangels. It was not necessarily
      race-aversion which made Emerson, and may have made many another Concord
      philosopher, uncomfortable in the presence of a Negro, any more than it is
      race-aversion which makes the Fifth Avenue boy run from the gentle
      farmyard cow; any more than it is race-aversion which would make me
      uncomfortable in the presence of Li Hung Chang. The Negro, simply, it may
      be, was a mystery to Emerson, as the farmyard cow is a mystery to the
      Fifth Avenue boy, as the Chinaman is a mystery to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Negro is NOT a mystery to people whom he has nursed and waited on,
      whose language he has spoken, whose ways, good and bad, he has copied for
      generations; and his personal presence does not render them uncomfortable,
      not, at any rate, uncomfortable enough to beget the sense of a burden or a
      problem.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be very difficult for Northern readers, to whom the Negro is in
      reality a stranger, a foreigner, to appreciate fully the force of what has
      just been said; but appreciated by them it must be, or they can never hope
      to realize the innermost meaning of the race problem in the South.
    </p>
    <p>
      So much for what the race problem is not. Let me without further delay
      state what it is. The foundation of it, true or false, is the white man's
      conviction that the Negro as a race, and as an individual, is his
      inferior: not human in the sense that he is human, not entitled to the
      exercise of human rights in the sense that he is entitled to the exercise
      of them. The problem itself, the essence of it, the heart of it, is the
      white man's determination to make good this conviction, coupled with
      constant anxiety lest, by some means, he should fail to make it good. The
      race problem, in other words, is NOT that the Negro is what he is in
      relation to the white man, the white man's inferior; but this, rather: How
      to keep him what he is in relation to the white man; how to prevent his
      ever achieving or becoming that which would justify the belief on his
      part, or on the part of other people, that he and the white man stand on
      common human ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      That such is the heart of the problem should be made evident by this
      general consideration alone: namely, that everywhere in the South friction
      between the races is entirely absent so long as the Negro justifies the
      white man's opinion of him as an inferior; is grateful for privileges and
      lays no claim to RIGHTS. Let him seem content to be as the South insists
      he shall be, and not only is he not harshly treated, not abused, and never
      boycotted, but he is shown much kindness and generosity, and employment
      awaits him for the asking. Trouble brews when he begins to manifest those
      qualities, to reveal those tastes, to give vent to those ambitions, which
      are supposed to be characteristic exclusively of the higher human type,
      and which, unless restrained, would result in confounding the lower with
      the higher. The expression "Good Nigger" means everywhere in the South a
      real Negro, from the Southern standpoint, one who in no respect gets out
      of focus with that standpoint; the expression "Bad Nigger" means
      universally one who in some respect, not necessarily criminal, does get
      out of focus with it. So, stated differently, the race problem is the
      problem how to keep the Negro in focus with the traditional standpoint.
    </p>
    <p>
      But we are very far from needing to rely upon any general consideration in
      support of the proposition advanced above. It is supported by evidences on
      every hand, waiting only the eye of recognition. Scarcely a day passes but
      something is said or done with this end in view, to emphasize, lest they
      forget, the conviction for both white man and Negro that the latter is and
      must remain an inferior. Let me instance a few such evidences.
    </p>
    <p>
      Consider, first, the "Jim Crow" legislation in the manner of its
      enforcement. Such legislation is supposed to have for its object the
      separation of the races in trains, street-cars, etc., to save the white
      people from occasional contact with drunken, rowdy, ill-smelling Negroes,
      and to prevent personal encounters between the whites and blacks. How is
      this object attained in the street cars of Southern cities? Members of the
      different races occupy the same cars, separated only by absurdly
      inadequate little open-mesh wire screens, so tiny and light that a
      conductor can move them from one seat to another with the strength of his
      little finger. Needless to add, these screens would serve to obscure
      neither sound, sight, nor smell of drunken rowdies who sat behind them! In
      summer cars black and white passengers may be separated not even by a
      make-believe screen; they are simply required, respectively, to occupy
      certain seats in the front or the back end of the cars.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Birmingham, Alabama, the front seats are assigned to Negroes in all
      closed cars, and the back seats in all open ones. Why the front seats in
      the one case, and the back seats in the other, it is not easy to
      understand in the light of the letter and alleged spirit of the Jim Crow
      law! The underlying purpose of the law is clearly not the separation of
      the races in space; for public sentiment does not insist upon its
      fulfillment to that end. The underlying purpose of it would seem to be the
      separation of the races in status. The doctrine of inequality would be
      attacked if white and black passengers rode in public conveyances on equal
      terms; therefore the Negro who rides in a public conveyance must do so,
      not as of undoubted right, but as with the white man's permission, subject
      to the white man's regulation. "This place you may occupy, that other you
      may not, because I am I and you are you, lest to you or me it should be
      obscured that I am I and you are you." Such is the real spirit of the Jim
      Crow laws.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why is it that in every Southern city no Negro is allowed to witness a
      dramatic performance, or a baseball game, from a first-class seat? In
      every large city, there are hundreds of Negroes who would gladly pay for
      first-class seats at the theatre and the baseball game, were they
      permitted to. It can hardly be that permission is withheld because
      theatres and baseball games are so well attended by half the population
      that first-class seats could not be furnished for the other half. As a
      matter of fact, theatre-auditoriums and baseball grand-stands are seldom
      crowded; the rule is, not all first-class seats occupied, but many vacant.
      Surely as simple as moving from seat to seat a make-shift screen in a
      street-car, would it be to set apart a certain number of seats in the
      dress-circle of every theatre, and in the grand-stand of every baseball
      park, for Negro patrons. The reason why this is not done is perfectly
      obvious: it would be intolerable to the average Southern man or woman to
      sit through the hours of a theatrical performance or a baseball game on
      terms of equal accommodation with Negroes, even with a screen between.
      Negroes would look out of place, out of status, in the dress circle or the
      grand-stand; their place, signifying their status, is the peanut-gallery,
      or the bleachers. There, neither they nor others will be tempted to forget
      that as things are they must continue.
    </p>
    <p>
      How shall we account for the "intense feeling" (to quote the language of
      the mayor or New Orleans) occasioned in that city one day, last July, when
      it was flashed over the wires that the first prize in the National
      Spelling Contest had been won by a Negro girl, in competition with white
      children from New Orleans and other Southern cities? The indignation of at
      least one of the leading New Orleans papers verged upon hysterics; the
      editor's rhetoric visited upon some foulest crime could hardly have been
      more inflamed than in denunciation of the fact that, on the far-away shore
      of Lake Erie, New Orleans white children had competed at a spelling bee
      with a Negro girl. The superintendent of the New Orleans schools was
      roundly denounced in many quarters for permitting his wards to compete
      with a Negro; and there were broad hints in "Letters from the People" to
      the papers that his resignation was in order.
    </p>
    <p>
      Certainly in the days following the National Spelling Contest the race
      problem was in evidence, if it ever was, in New Orleans and the South! Did
      it show itself, then, as the problem of Negro crime, or brutality, or
      laziness? Assuredly not! Of the Negro's personal repulsiveness? By no
      means! There was no evidence of Negro criminality, or brutality, or
      laziness in the Negro child's victory; and every day in the South, in
      their games and otherwise, hundreds of white children of the best families
      are in closer personal contact with little Negroes than were the white
      children who took part in the Cleveland spelling bee. The "intense
      feeling" can be explained on one ground only: the Negro girl's victory was
      an affront to the tradition of the Negro's inferiority; it suggested&mdash;perhaps
      indicated&mdash;that, given equal opportunities, all Negroes are not
      necessarily the intellectual inferiors of all white people. What other
      explanation is rationally conceivable? If the race problem means in the
      South to its white inhabitants the burden and tragedy of having to dwell
      face to face with an intellectually and morally backward people, why
      should not the Negro girl's triumph have occasioned intense feeling of
      pleasure, rather than displeasure, by its suggestion that her race is not
      intellectually hopeless?
    </p>
    <p>
      Consider further that while no Negro, no matter what his occupation, or
      personal refinement, or intellectual culture, or moral character, is
      allowed to travel in a Pullman car between state lines, or to enter as a
      guest a hotel patronized by white people, the blackest of Negro nurses and
      valets are given food and shelter in all first-class hotels, and occasion
      neither disgust, nor surprise in the Pullman cars. Here again the heart of
      the race problem is laid bare. The black nurse with a white baby in her
      arms, the black valet looking after the comfort of a white invalid, have
      the label of their inferiority conspicuously upon them; they understand
      themselves, and everybody understands them, to be servants, enjoying
      certain privileges for the sake of the person served. Almost anything, the
      Negro may do in the South, and anywhere he may go, provided the manner of
      his doing and his doing is that of an inferior. Such is the premium put
      upon his inferiority; such his inducement to maintain it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The point here insisted on may be made clearer, if already it is not clear
      enough, by this consideration, that the man who would lose social caste
      for dining with an Irish street-sweeper might be congratulated for dining
      with an Irish educator; but President Roosevelt would scarcely have given
      greater offense by entertaining a Negro laborer at the White House than he
      gave by inviting to lunch there the Principal of Tuskegee Institute. The
      race problem being what it is, the status of any Negro is logically the
      status of every other. There are recognizable degrees of inferiority among
      Negroes themselves; some are vastly superior to others. But there is only
      one degree of inferiority separating the Negro from the white person,
      attached to all Negroes alike. The logic of the situation requires that to
      be any sort of black man is to be inferior to any sort of white man; and
      from this logic there is no departure in the South.
    </p>
    <p>
      Inconsistent, perhaps, with what has been said may seem the defeat in the
      Louisiana Legislature (1908) of the anti-miscegenation bill, a measure
      designed to prohibit sexual cohabitation between white persons and
      Negroes; to be specific, between white men and Negro women. But there was
      no inconsistency whatever in the defeat of that bill. In all times and
      places, the status of that portion of the female population, Lecky's
      martyred "priestesses of humanity," whose existence men have demanded for
      the gratification of unlawful passion, has been that of social outcasts.
      They have no rights that they can insist upon; they are simply privileged
      to exist by society's permission, and may be any moment legislated out of
      their vocation. Hence the defeat of an anti-miscegenation measure by
      Southern legislators cannot be construed as a failure on their part to
      live up to their conviction of race-superiority. It must be construed,
      rather, as legislative unwillingness to restrict the white man's liberty;
      to dictate by statute the kind of social outcast which he may use as a
      mere means to the gratification of his passion. To concede to Negro women
      the status of a degraded and proscribed class, is not in any sense to
      overlook or obscure their racial inferiority, but on the contrary, it may
      be, to emphasize it. Precisely the same principle, in a word, compasses
      the defeat of an anti-miscegenation bill which would compass the defeat of
      a measure to prohibit Negro servants from occupying seats in Pullman cars.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the risk of reiteration, I must in concluding this article take sharp
      issue with the view of a recent very able writer, who asks the question,
      "What, essentially, is the Race Problem?" and answers it thus: "The race
      problem is the problem of living with human beings who are not like us,
      whether they are in our estimation our 'superiors' or inferiors, whether
      they have kinky hair or pigtails, whether they are slant-eyed, hook-nosed,
      or thick-lipped. In its essence, it is the same problem, magnified, which
      besets every neighborhood, even every family."
    </p>
    <p>
      I have contended so far, and I here repeat, that the race problem is
      essentially NOT what this writer declares it to be. It is emphatically
      not, in the South, "the problem of living with human beings who are not
      like us, whether they are in our estimation our superiors or inferiors."
      It may be, it probably is, that in the North, where the Negro is largely a
      stranger, a foreigner, very much to the same degree that the Chinese are
      strangers and foreigners in the South; and where, consequently, the
      Negro's personal repulsiveness is a much more significant force than it is
      in the South. Assuredly there would be no race problem, anywhere, were
      there no contact with others unlike ourselves! The unlikeness of the
      unlike is everywhere its indispensable foundation. But we get nowhither
      unless we carefully distinguish between the foundation of the problem and
      the problem itself. There is nothing in the unlikeness of the unlike that
      is necessarily problematical; it may be simply accepted and dealt with as
      a fact, like any other fact. The problem arises only when the people of
      one race are minded to adopt and act upon some policy more or less
      oppressive or repressive in dealing with the people of another race. In
      the absence of some such policy, there has never been a race problem since
      the world began. It is the existence of such a policy become traditional,
      and supported by immovable conviction, which constitutes the race problem
      of the Southern states.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an immensely tragic race problem distressing the South fifty
      years ago; but who will suggest that it was the problem of "living with
      human beings who are not like us?" The problem then was, clearly, how to
      make good a certain conviction concerning the unlike, how to maintain a
      certain policy in dealing with them. What else is it today? The problem,
      How to maintain the institution of chattel slavery, ceased to be at
      Appomattox; the problem, How to maintain the social, industrial, and civic
      inferiority of the descendants of chattel slaves, succeeded it, and is the
      race problem of the South at the present time. There is no other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether the policy adopted by the white South, and supported, as I have
      said, by immovable conviction, is expedient or inexpedient, wise or
      unwise, righteous or unrighteous, these are questions which I have not
      sought to answer one way or another in this article. Perhaps they cannot
      be answered at all in our time. Certain is it, that their only real and
      satisfactory answer will be many years ahead of the present generation.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the mean time, nothing could be more unwarranted, than to suppose that
      the race problem of one section of this country is peculiar to that
      section, because its white inhabitants are themselves in some sense
      peculiar; because they are peculiarly prejudiced, because they are
      peculiarly behind the hour which the high clock of civilization has
      struck. Remove the white inhabitants of the South, give their place to the
      white people of any other section of the United States, and, beyond a
      peradventure, the Southern race problem, as I have defined it, would
      continue to be&mdash;revealed, perhaps, in ways more perplexing, more
      intense and tragic.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028">
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      NEGRO SUFFRAGE IN A DEMOCRACY by Ray Stannard Baker
    </h2>
    <p>
      In this paper I endeavor to lay down the fundamental principles which
      should govern the Negro franchise in a democracy, and to outline a
      practical programme for the immediate treatment of the problem.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I see it, the question of Negro suffrage in the United States presents
      two distinct aspects:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      FIRST: the legal aspect.
    </p>
    <p>
      SECOND: the practical aspect.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will be admitted, I think, without argument, that all governments do
      and of a necessity must exercise the right to limit the number of people
      who are permitted to take part in the weighty responsibilities of the
      suffrage. Some governments allow only a few men to vote; in an absolute
      monarchy there is only one voter; other governments, as they become more
      democratic, permit a larger proportion of the people to vote.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our own government is one of the freest in the world in the matter of
      suffrage; and yet we bar out, in most states, all women; we bar out
      Mongolians, no matter how intelligent; we bar out Indians, and all
      foreigners who have not passed through a certain probationary stage and
      have not acquired a certain small amount of education. We also declare&mdash;for
      an arbitrary limit must be placed somewhere&mdash;that no person under
      twenty-one years of age may exercise the right to vote, although some boys
      of eighteen are to-day better equipped to pass intelligently upon public
      questions than many grown men. We even place adult white men on probation
      until they have resided for a certain length of time, often as much as two
      years, in the state or the town where they wish to cast their ballots. Our
      registration and ballot laws eliminate hundreds of thousands of voters;
      and finally, we bar out everywhere the defective and criminal classes of
      our population. We do not realize, sometimes, I think, how limited the
      franchise really is, even in America. We forget that out of nearly ninety
      million people in the United States, fewer than fifteen million cast their
      votes for President in 1908&mdash;or about one in every six.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus the practice of a restricted suffrage is very deeply implanted in our
      system of government. It is everywhere recognized that even in a democracy
      lines must be drawn, and that the ballot, the precious instrument of
      government, must be hedged about with stringent regulations. The question
      is, where shall these lines be drawn in order that the best interests, not
      of any particular class, but of the whole nation, shall be served.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this question, we, as free citizens, have the absolute right to agree
      or disagree with the present laws regulating suffrage; and if we want more
      people brought in as partakers in government, or some people who are
      already in, barred out, we have a right to organize, to agitate, to do our
      best to change the laws. Powerful organizations of women are now agitating
      for the right to vote; there is an organization which demands the suffrage
      for Chinese and Japanese who wish to become citizens. It is even
      conceivable that a society might be founded to lower the suffrage
      age-limit from twenty-one to nineteen years, thereby endowing a large
      number of young men with the privileges, and therefore the educational
      responsibilities, of political power. On the other hand, a large number of
      people, chiefly in our Southern States, earnestly believe that the right
      of the Negro to vote should be curtailed, or even abolished.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus we disagree, and government is the resultant of all these diverse
      views and forces. No one can say dogmatically how far democracy should go
      in distributing the enormously important powers of active government.
      Democracy is not a dogma; it is not even a dogma of free suffrage.
      Democracy is a life, a spirit, a growth. The primal necessity of any sort
      of government, democracy or otherwise, whether it be more unjust or less
      unjust toward special groups of its citizens, is to exist, to be a going
      concern, to maintain upon the whole a stable and peaceful administration
      of affairs. If a democracy cannot provide such stability, then the people
      go back to some form of oligarchy. Having secured a fair measure of
      stability, a democracy proceeds with caution toward the extension of the
      suffrage to more and more people&mdash;trying foreigners, trying women,
      trying Negroes.
    </p>
    <p>
      And no one can prophesy how far a democracy will ultimately go in the
      matter of suffrage. We know only the tendency. We know that in the
      beginning, even in America, the right to vote was a very limited matter.
      In the early years, in New England, only church-members voted; then the
      franchise was extended to include property-owners; then it was enlarged to
      include all white adults; then to include Negroes; then, in several
      Western States, to include women.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus the line has been constantly advancing, but with many fluctuations,
      eddies, and back-currents&mdash;like any other stream of progress. At the
      present time the fundamental principles which underlie popular government,
      and especially the whole matter of popular suffrage, are much in the
      public mind. The tendency of government throughout the entire civilized
      world is strongly in the direction of placing more and more power in the
      hands of the people. In our own country we are enacting a remarkable group
      of laws providing for direct primaries in the nomination of public
      officials, for direct election of United States Senators, and for direct
      legislation by means of the initiative and referendum; and we are even
      going to the point, in many cities, of permitting the people to recall an
      elected official who is unsatisfactory. The principle of local option,
      which is nothing but that of direct government by the people, is being
      everywhere accepted. All these changes affect, fundamentally, the historic
      structure of our government, making it less republican and more
      democratic.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still more important and far-reaching in its significance is the tendency
      of our government, especially our Federal Government, to regulate or to
      appropriate great groups of business enterprises formerly left wholly in
      private hands. More and more, private business is becoming public
      business.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, then, as the weight of responsibility upon the popular vote is
      increased, it becomes more and more important that the ballot should be
      jealously guarded and honestly exercised. In the last few years,
      therefore, a series of extraordinary new precautions have been adopted:
      the Australian ballot, more stringent registration systems, the stricter
      enforcement of naturalization laws to prevent the voting of crowds of
      unprepared foreigners, and the imposition by several states, rightly or
      wrongly, of educational and property tests. It becomes a more and more
      serious matter every year to be an American citizen, more of an honor,
      more of a duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the close of the Civil War, in a time of intense idealistic emotion,
      some three-quarters of a million of Negroes, the mass of them densely
      ignorant and just out of slavery, with the iron of slavery still in their
      souls, were suddenly given the political rights of free citizens. A great
      many people, and not in the South alone, thought then, and still think,
      that it was a mistake to bestow the high powers and privileges of a wholly
      unrestricted ballot&mdash;a ballot which is the symbol of intelligent
      self-government&mdash;upon the Negro. Other people, of whom I am one,
      believe that it was a necessary concomitant of the revolution; it was
      itself a revolution, not a growth, and like every other revolution it has
      had its fearful reaction. Revolutions, indeed, change names, but they do
      not at once change human relationships. Mankind is reconstructed not by
      proclamations, or legislation, or military occupation, but by time,
      growth, education, religion, thought. At that time, then, the nation drove
      down the stakes of its idealism in government far beyond the point it was
      able to reach in the humdrum activities of everyday existence. A reaction
      was inevitable; it was inevitable and perfectly natural that there should
      be a widespread questioning as to whether all Negroes, or indeed any
      Negroes, should properly be admitted to full political fellowship. That
      questioning continues to this day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the essential principle established by the Fifteenth Amendment to the
      Constitution was not that all Negroes should necessarily be given an
      unrestricted access to the ballot; but that the right to vote should not
      be denied or abridged 'on account of race, color, or previous condition of
      servitude.' This amendment wiped out the color-line in politics so far as
      any written law could possibly do it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let me here express my profound conviction that the principle of political
      equality then laid down is a sound, valid, and absolutely essential
      principle in any free government; that restrictions upon the ballot, when
      necessary, should be made to apply equally to white and colored citizens;
      and that the Fifteenth Amendment ought not to be, and cannot be repealed.
      Moreover, I am convinced that the principle of political equality is more
      firmly established to-day in this country than it was forty years ago,
      when it had only Northern bayonets behind it. For now, however short the
      practice falls of reaching the legal standard, the principle is woven into
      the warp and woof of Southern life and Southern legislation. Many Southern
      white leaders of thought are to-day CONVINCED, not FORCED believers in the
      principle; and that is a great omen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Limitations have come about, it is true, and were to be expected as the
      back-currents of the revolution. Laws providing for educational and
      property qualifications as a prerequisite to the exercise of the suffrage
      have been passed in all the Southern States, and have operated to exclude
      from the ballot large numbers of both white and colored citizens, who on
      account of ignorance or poverty are unable to meet the tests. These
      provisions, whatever the opinion entertained as to the wisdom of such
      laws, are well within the principle laid down by the Fifteenth Amendment.
      But several Southern States have gone a step further, and by means of the
      so-called 'grandfather laws,' have exempted certain ignorant white men
      from the necessity of meeting the educational and property tests. These
      unfair 'grandfather laws,' however, in some of the states adopting them,
      have now expired by limitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let me then lay down this general proposition:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Nowhere in the South to-day is the Negro cut off LEGALLY, as a Negro, from
      the ballot. Legally, to-day, any Negro who can meet the comparatively
      slight requirements as to education, or property, or both, can cast his
      ballot on a basis of equality with the white man. I have emphasized the
      word legally, for I know the PRACTICAL difficulties which confront the
      Negro votes in many parts of the South. The point I wish to make is that
      legally the Negro is essentially the political equal of the white man; but
      that practically, in the enforcement of the law, the legislative ideal is
      still pegged out far beyond the actual performance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, then, if we are interested in the problem of democracy, we have two
      courses open to us. We may think the laws are unjust to the Negro, and
      incidentally to the 'poor white' man as well. If we do, we have a perfect
      right to agitate for changes; and we can do much to disclose, without
      heat, the actual facts regarding the complicated and vexatious legislative
      situation in the South, as regards the suffrage. Every change in the
      legislation upon this subject should, indeed, be jealously watched, that
      the principle of political equality between the races be not legally
      curtailed. The doctrine laid down in the Fifteenth Amendment must, at any
      hazard, be maintained.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, personally,&mdash;and I am here voicing a profound conviction,&mdash;I
      think our emphasis at present should be laid upon the practical rather
      than upon the legal aspect of the problem; I think we should take
      advantage of the widely prevalent feeling in the South that the question
      of suffrage has been settled, legally, for some time to come: of the
      desire on the part of many Southern people, both white and colored, to
      turn aside from the discussion of the political status of the Negro.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, let us for the time being accept the laws as they are, and build
      upward from that point. Let us turn our attention to the practical task of
      finding out why it is that the laws we already have are not enforced, and
      how best to secure an honest vote for every Negro and equally for every
      'poor white' man, who is able to meet the requirements, but who for one
      reason or another does not or cannot now exercise his rights. I include
      the disfranchised white man as well as the Negro, because I take it that
      we are interested, first of all, in democracy, and unless we can arouse
      the spirit of democracy, South and North, we can hope for justice neither
      for Negroes, nor for the poorer class of white men, nor for the women of
      the factories and shops, nor for the children of the cottonmills.
    </p>
    <p>
      Taking up this side of the problem we shall discover two entirely distinct
      difficulties:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      First, we shall find many Negroes, and indeed hundreds of thousands of
      white men as well, who might vote, but who, through ignorance, or
      inability or unwillingness to pay the poll-taxes, or from mere lack of
      interest, disfranchise themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second difficulty is peculiar to the Negro. It consists in open or
      concealed intimidation on the part of the white men who control the
      election machinery. In many places in the South to-day no Negro, how well
      qualified, would dare to present himself for registration; when he does,
      he is rejected for some trivial or illegal reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus we have to meet a vast amount of apathy and ignorance and poverty on
      the one hand, and the threat of intimidation on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      First of all, for it is the chief injustice as between white and colored
      men with which we have to deal,&mdash;an injustice which the law already
      makes illegal and punishable,&mdash;how shall we meet the matter of
      intimidation? As I have already said, the door of the suffrage is
      everywhere legally open to the Negro, but a certain sort of Southerner
      bars the passage-way. He stands there and, law or no law, keeps out many
      Negroes who might vote; and he represents in most parts of the South the
      prevailing public opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shall we meet this situation by force? What force is available? Shall the
      North go down and fight the South? You and I know that the North to-day
      has no feeling but friendship for the South. More than that&mdash;and I
      say it with all seriousness, because it represents what I have heard
      wherever I have gone in the North to make inquiries regarding the Negro
      problem&mdash;the North, wrongly or rightly, is to-day more than half
      convinced that the South is right in imposing some measure of limitation
      upon the franchise. There is now, in short, no disposition anywhere in the
      North to interfere in internal affairs in the South&mdash;not even with
      the force of public opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      What other force, then, is to be invoked? Shall the Negro revolt? Shall he
      migrate? Shall he prosecute his case in the courts? The very asking of
      these questions suggests the inevitable reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      We might as well, here and now, dismiss the idea of force, express or
      implied. There are times of last resort which call for force; but this is
      not such a time.
    </p>
    <p>
      What other alternatives are there?
    </p>
    <p>
      Accepting the laws as they are, then, there are two methods of procedure,
      neither sensational nor exciting. I have no quick cure to suggest, but
      only old and tried methods of commonplace growth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The underlying causes of the trouble in the country being plainly
      ignorance and prejudice, we must meet ignorance and prejudice with their
      antidotes, education and association.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every effort should be made to extend free education among both Negroes
      and white people. A great extension of education is now going forward in
      the South. The Negro is not by any means getting his full share; but, as
      certainly as sunshine makes things grow, education in the South will
      produce tolerance. That there is already such a growing tolerance no one
      who has talked with the leading white men in the South can doubt. The old
      fire-eating, Negro-baiting leaders of the Tillman-Vardaman type are
      swiftly passing away: a far better and broader group is coming into power.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his last book, Mr. Edgar Gardner Murphy, of Alabama, expresses this new
      point of view when he says,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is no question here as to the unrestricted admission [to the
      ballot] of the great masses of our ignorant and semi-ignorant blacks. I
      know no advocate of such admission. But the question is as to whether the
      individuals of the race, upon conditions or restrictions legally imposed
      and fairly administered, shall be admitted to adequate and increasing
      representation in the electorate. And as that question is more seriously
      and more generally considered, many of the leading publicists of the
      South, I am glad to say, are quietly resolved that the answer shall be in
      the affirmative.'
    </p>
    <p>
      From an able Southern white man, a resident of New Orleans, I received
      recently a letter containing these words:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe we have reached the bottom, and a sort of quiescent period. I
      think it most likely that from now on there will be a gradual increase of
      the Negro vote. And I honestly believe that the less said about it, the
      surer the increase will be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Education&mdash;and by education I mean education of all sorts,
      industrial, professional, classical, in accordance with each man's talents&mdash;will
      not only produce breadth and tolerance, but will help to cure the apathy
      which now keeps so many thousands of both white men and Negroes from the
      polls: for it will show them that it is necessary for every man to
      exercise all the political rights within his reach. If he fails
      voluntarily to take advantage of the rights he already has, how shall he
      acquire more rights?
    </p>
    <p>
      And as ignorance must be met by education, so prejudice must be met with
      its antidote, which is association. Democracy does not consist in mere
      voting, but in association, the spirit of common effort, of which the
      ballot is a mere visible expression. When we come to know one another we
      soon find that the points of likeness are much more numerous than the
      points of difference. And this human association for the common good,
      which is democracy, is difficult to bring about anywhere, whether among
      different classes of white people, or between white people and Negroes. As
      one of the leaders of the Negro race, Dr. Du Bois, has said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Herein lies the tragedy of the age. Not that men are poor: all men know
      something of poverty. Not that men are wicked: who is good? Not that men
      are ignorant: what is truth? Nay, but that men know so little of each
      other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After the Atlanta riot I attended a number of conferences between leading
      white men and leading colored men. It is true those meetings bore evidence
      of awkwardness and embarrassment, for they were among the first of the
      sort to take place in the South, but they were none the less valuable. A
      white man told me after one of the meetings,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did not know that there were any such sensible Negroes in the South.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And a Negro told me that it was the first time in his life that he had
      ever heard a Southern white man reason in a friendly way with a Negro
      concerning their common difficulties.
    </p>
    <p>
      More and more these associations of white and colored men, at certain
      points of contact, must and will come about. Already, in connection with
      various educational and business projects in the South, white and colored
      men meet on common grounds, and the way has been opened to a wider mutual
      understanding. And it is common enough now, where it was unheard of a few
      years ago, for both white men and Negroes to speak from the same platform
      in the South. I have attended a number of such meetings. Thus slowly&mdash;awkwardly,
      at first, for two centuries of prejudice are not immediately overcome&mdash;the
      white man and Negro will come to know one another, not merely as master
      and servant, but as co-workers. These things cannot be forced.
    </p>
    <p>
      One reason why the white man and the Negro have not got together more
      rapidly in the South than they have, is because they have tried always to
      meet at the sorest points. When sensible people, who must live together
      whether or no, find that there are points at which they cannot agree, it
      is the part of wisdom to avoid these points, and to meet upon other and
      common interests. Upon no other terms, indeed, can a democracy exist, for
      in no imaginable future state will individuals cease to disagree with one
      another upon something less than half of all the problems of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here we all live together in a great country,' say the apostles of this
      view; 'let us all get together and develop it. Let the Negro do his best
      to educate himself, to own his own land, and to buy and sell with the
      white people in the fairest possible way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is wonderful, indeed, how close together men who are stooping to a
      common task soon come.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, buying and selling, land ownership and common material pursuits, may
      not be the highest points of contact between man and man, but they are
      real points, and help to give men an idea of the worth of their fellows,
      white or black. How many times, in the South, I heard white men speak in
      high admiration of some Negro farmer who had been successful, or of some
      Negro blacksmith who was a worthy citizen, or of some Negro doctor who was
      a leader of his race.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is curious, once a man (any man, white or black) learns to do his job
      well, how he finds himself in a democratic relationship with other men. I
      remember asking a prominent white citizen of a town in Central Georgia if
      he knew anything about Tuskegee. He said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes: I had rather a curious experience last fall. I was building a hotel
      and couldn't get any one to do the plastering as I wanted it done. One day
      I saw two Negro plasterers at work in a new house that a friend of mine
      was building. I watched them for an hour. They seemed to know their trade.
      I invited them to come over and see me. They came, took the contract for
      my work, hired a white man to carry mortar at a dollar a day, and when
      they got through it was the best job of plastering in town. I found that
      they had learned their trade at Tuskegee. They averaged four dollars a day
      each in wages. We tried to get them to locate in our town, but they went
      back to school.'
    </p>
    <p>
      When I was in Mississippi a prominent banker showed me his business
      letter-heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good job, isn't it?' he said. 'A Negro printer did it. He wrote to me
      asking if he might bid on my work. I replied that although I had known him
      a long time I couldn't give him the job merely because he was a Negro. He
      told me to forget his color, and said that if he couldn't do as good a job
      and do it as reasonably as any white man could, he didn't want it. I let
      him try, and now he does most of our printing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Out of such points of contact, then, encouraged by such wise leaders as
      Booker T. Washington, will grow an ever finer and finer spirit of
      association and of common and friendly knowledge. And that will inevitably
      lead to an extension upon the soundest possible basis of the Negro
      franchise. I know cases where white men have urged intelligent Negroes to
      come and cast their ballots, and have stood sponsor for them, out of
      genuine respect. As a result, to-day, the Negroes who vote in the South
      are, as a class, men of substance and intelligence, fully equal to the
      tasks of citizenship.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, I have boundless confidence not only in the sense of the white men
      of the South, but in the innate capability of the Negro, and that once
      these two come really to know each other, not at sore points of contact,
      but as common workers for a common country, the question of suffrage will
      gradually solve itself along the lines of true democracy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another influence also will tend to change the status of the Negro as a
      voter. That is the pending break-up of the political solidarity of the
      South. All the signs point to a political realignment upon new issues in
      this country, both South and North. Old party names may even pass away.
      And that break-up, with the attendant struggle for votes, is certain to
      bring into politics thousands of Negroes and white men now disfranchised.
      The result of a real division on live issues has been shown in many local
      contests in the South, as in the fight against the saloons, when every
      qualified Negro voter, and every Negro who could qualify, was eagerly
      pushed forward by one side or the other. With such a division on new
      issues the Negro will tend to exercise more and more political power,
      dividing, not on the color line, but on the principles at stake.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus in spite of the difficulties which now confront the Negro, I cannot
      but look upon the situation in a spirit of optimism. I think sometimes we
      are tempted to set a higher value upon the ritual of a belief than upon
      the spirit which underlies it. The ballot is not democracy: it is merely
      the symbol or ritual of democracy, and it may be full of passionate
      social, yes, even religious significance, or it may be a mere empty and
      dangerous formalism. What we should look to, then, primarily, is not the
      shadow, but the substance of democracy in this country. Nor must we look
      for results too swiftly; our progress toward democracy is slow of growth
      and needs to be cultivated with patience and watered with faith.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_BIBL" id="link2H_BIBL">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SOURCES &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-
    </h2>
    <p>
      SOJOURNER TRUTH, THE LIBYAN SIBYL by Harriet Beecher Stowe Atlantic
      Monthly 11 (April 1863): 473-481.
    </p>
    <p>
      RECONSTRUCTION by Frederick Douglass Atlantic Monthly 18 (1866): 761-765.
    </p>
    <p>
      AN APPEAL TO CONGRESS FOR IMPARTIAL SUFFRAGE by Frederick Douglas Atlantic
      Monthly 19 (Jan. 1867): 112-117.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE NEGRO EXODUS by James B. Runnion Atlantic Monthly 44 (1879): 222-230.
    </p>
    <p>
      MY ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY by Frederick Douglass The Century Illustrated
      Magazine 23, n.s. 1 (Nov. 1881): 125-131.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE GOOPHERED GRAPEVINE by Charles W. Chesnutt Atlantic Monthly 60 (Aug.
      1887): 254-260.
    </p>
    <p>
      PO' SANDY by Charles W. Chesnutt Atlantic Monthly 61 (1888): 605-611.
    </p>
    <p>
      DAVE'S NECKLISS by Charles W. Chesnutt Atlantic Monthly 64 (1889): 500-08.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE AWAKENING OF THE NEGRO by Booker T. Washington Atlantic Monthly 78
      (1896): 322-328.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE STORY OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN by Charles Dudley Warner Atlantic Monthly
      78 (1896): 311-321.
    </p>
    <p>
      STRIVINGS OF THE NEGRO PEOPLE by W. E. Burghardt Du Bois Atlantic Monthly
      80 (1897): 194-198.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH by Charles W. Chesnutt Atlantic Monthly 82 (1898):
      55-61.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE BOUQUET by Charles W. Chesnutt Atlantic Monthly 84 (1899): 648-654.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE CASE OF THE NEGRO by Booker T. Washington Atlantic Monthly 84 (1899):
      577-587.
    </p>
    <p>
      HOT-FOOT HANNIBAL by Charles W. Chesnutt Atlantic Monthly 83 (1899):
      49-56.
    </p>
    <p>
      A NEGRO SCHOOLMASTER IN THE NEW SOUTH by W. E. Burghardt Du Bois Atlantic
      Monthly 83 (1899): 99-104.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE CAPTURE OF A SLAVER by J. Taylor Wood Atlantic Monthly 86 (1900):
      451-463.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. CHARLES W. CHESNUTT'S STORIES by W. D. Howells Atlantic Monthly 85
      (1900): 699-701.
    </p>
    <p>
      PATHS OF HOPE FOR THE NEGRO PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS OF A SOUTHERNER by
      Jerome Dowd Century Magazine 61.2 (Dec. 1900): 278-281.
    </p>
    <p>
      SIGNS OF PROGRESS AMONG THE NEGROES by Booker T. Washington Century
      Magazine 59 (1900): 472-478.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE MARCH OF PROGRESS by Charles W. Chesnutt Century Magazine 61.3 (Jan.
      1901): 422-428.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE FREEDMEN'S BUREAU by W. E. Burghardt Du Bois Atlantic Monthly 87
      (1901): 354-365.
    </p>
    <p>
      OF THE TRAINING OF BLACK MEN by W. E. Burghardt Du Bois Atlantic Monthly
      90 (1902): 289-297.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE FRUITS OF INDUSTRIAL TRAINING by Booker T. Washington Atlantic Monthly
      92 (1903): 453-462.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE NEGRO IN THE REGULAR ARMY by Oswald Garrison Villard Atlantic Monthly
      91 (1903): 721-729.
    </p>
    <p>
      BAXTER'S PROCRUSTES by Charles W. Chesnutt Atlantic Monthly 93 (1904):
      823-830.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HEART OF THE RACE PROBLEM by Quincy Ewing Atlantic Monthly 103 (1909):
      389-397.
    </p>
    <p>
      NEGRO SUFFRAGE IN A DEMOCRACY by Ray Stannard Baker Atlantic Monthly 106
      (1910): 612-619.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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