The Shadow of Years

I was born by a golden river and in the shadow of two great hills, five years after the Emancipation Proclamation. The house was quaint, with clapboards running up and down, neatly trimmed, and there were five rooms, a tiny porch, a rosy front yard, and unbelievably delicious strawberries in the rear. A South Carolinian, lately come to the Berkshire Hills, owned all this—tall, thin, and black, with golden earrings, and given to religious trances. We were his transient tenants for the time.

I was born by a golden river, in the shadow of two great hills, five years after the Emancipation Proclamation. The house was charming, with vertical clapboards and neat trim. It had five rooms, a tiny porch, a front yard full of roses, and unbelievably delicious strawberries in the back. A South Carolinian who had recently come to the Berkshire Hills owned it all. He was tall, thin, and black, wore golden earrings, and was prone to religious trances. We were his temporary tenants.

My own people were part of a great clan. Fully two hundred years before, Tom Burghardt had come through the western pass from the Hudson with his Dutch captor, "Coenraet Burghardt," sullen in his slavery and achieving his freedom by volunteering for the Revolution at a time of sudden alarm. His wife was a little, black, Bantu woman, who never became reconciled to this strange land; she clasped her knees and rocked and crooned:

My people were part of a large clan. More than two hundred years earlier, Tom Burghardt had come from the Hudson through the western pass. He came with his Dutch captor, "Coenraet Burghardt." Bitter in his slavery, Tom won his freedom by volunteering for the Revolution during a sudden alarm. His wife was a small, black, Bantu woman who never came to accept this strange land. She clasped her knees, rocked, and crooned:

Tom died about 1787, but of him came many sons, and one, Jack, who helped in the War of 1812. Of Jack and his wife, Violet, was born a mighty family, splendidly named: Harlow and Ira, Cloë, Lucinda, Maria, and Othello! I dimly remember my grandfather, Othello,—or "Uncle Tallow,"—a brown man, strong-voiced and redolent with tobacco, who sat stiffly in a great high chair because his hip was broken. He was probably a bit lazy and given to wassail. At any rate, grandmother had a shrewish tongue and often berated him. This grandmother was Sarah—"Aunt Sally"—a stern, tall, Dutch-African woman, beak-nosed, but beautiful-eyed and golden-skinned. Ten or more children were theirs, of whom the youngest was Mary, my mother.

Tom died around 1787, but he had many sons. One of them, Jack, helped in the War of 1812. Jack and his wife, Violet, had a large family with splendid names: Harlow and Ira, Cloë, Lucinda, Maria, and Othello! I dimly remember my grandfather, Othello, or "Uncle Tallow." He was a brown man with a strong voice and a strong smell of tobacco. He sat stiffly in a large high chair because his hip was broken. He was probably a little lazy and fond of drinking and revelry. At any rate, my grandmother had a sharp tongue and often scolded him. My grandmother was Sarah, "Aunt Sally," a stern, tall, Dutch-African woman with a hooked nose, beautiful eyes, and golden skin. They had ten or more children. The youngest was Mary, my mother.

Mother was dark shining bronze, with a tiny ripple in her black hair, black-eyed, with a heavy, kind face. She gave one the impression of infinite patience, but a curious determination was concealed in her softness. The family were small farmers on Egremont Plain, between Great Barrington and Sheffield, Massachusetts. The bits of land were too small to support the great families born on them and we were always poor. I never remember being cold or hungry, but I do remember that shoes and coal, and sometimes flour, caused mother moments of anxious thought in winter, and a new suit was an event!

Mother’s skin was a shining dark bronze. She had black eyes, a slight wave in her black hair, and a heavy, kind face. She seemed infinitely patient, but beneath her gentleness was a curious determination. The family were small farmers on Egremont Plain, between Great Barrington and Sheffield, Massachusetts. Their plots were too small to support the large families born on them, and we were always poor. I never remember being cold or hungry. But I do remember that shoes, coal, and sometimes flour worried Mother during the winter. And a new suit was an event!

At about the time of my birth economic pressure was transmuting the family generally from farmers to "hired" help. Some revolted and migrated westward, others went cityward as cooks and barbers. Mother worked for some years at house service in Great Barrington, and after a disappointed love episode with a cousin, who went to California, she met and married Alfred Du Bois and went to town to live by the golden river where I was born.

Around the time I was born, economic pressure was turning the family from farmers into "hired" help. Some resisted and moved west. Others went to cities to work as cooks and barbers. Mother worked for several years as a household servant in Great Barrington. She had a disappointing love affair with a cousin who went to California. Afterward, she met and married Alfred Du Bois. She went to live in town by the golden river, where I was born.

Alfred, my father, must have seemed a splendid vision in that little valley under the shelter of those mighty hills. He was small and beautiful of face and feature, just tinted with the sun, his curly hair chiefly revealing his kinship to Africa. In nature he was a dreamer,—romantic, indolent, kind, unreliable. He had in him the making of a poet, an adventurer, or a Beloved Vagabond, according to the life that closed round him; and that life gave him all too little. His father, Alexander Du Bois, cloaked under a stern, austere demeanor a passionate revolt against the world. He, too, was small, but squarish. I remember him as I saw him first, in his home in New Bedford,—white hair close-cropped; a seamed, hard face, but high in tone, with a gray eye that could twinkle or glare.

My father, Alfred, must have seemed a splendid sight in that little valley sheltered by mighty hills. He was small, with a beautiful face and features, and his skin was lightly touched by the sun. His curly hair was the main sign of his African ancestry. He was a dreamer by nature, romantic, lazy, kind, and unreliable. He had the makings of a poet, an adventurer, or a Beloved Vagabond, depending on the life he found himself in. And life gave him far too little. His father, Alexander Du Bois, hid a passionate revolt against the world behind a stern, severe manner. He, too, was small, but squarely built. I remember first seeing him at his home in New Bedford. His white hair was closely cropped. His face was lined and hard, but noble in bearing, and his gray eye could twinkle or glare.

Long years before him Louis XIV drove two Huguenots, Jacques and Louis Du Bois, into wild Ulster County, New York. One of them in the third or fourth generation had a descendant, Dr. James Du Bois, a gay, rich bachelor, who made his money in the Bahamas, where he and the Gilberts had plantations. There he took a beautiful little mulatto slave as his mistress, and two sons were born: Alexander in 1803 and John, later. They were fine, straight, clear-eyed boys, white enough to "pass." He brought them to America and put Alexander in the celebrated Cheshire School, in Connecticut. Here he often visited him, but one last time, fell dead. He left no will, and his relations made short shrift of these sons. They gathered in the property, apprenticed grandfather to a shoemaker; then dropped him.

Many years before him, Louis XIV drove two Huguenots, Jacques and Louis Du Bois, into the wilderness of Ulster County, New York. Three or four generations later, one of them had a descendant named Dr. James Du Bois. He was a cheerful, rich bachelor who made his money in the Bahamas. He and the Gilberts had plantations there. He took a beautiful young mulatto slave as his mistress, and they had two sons: Alexander in 1803 and John later. They were fine, upright, clear-eyed boys, white enough to "pass." He brought them to America and sent Alexander to the celebrated Cheshire School in Connecticut. He often visited Alexander there, but on one final visit, he fell dead. He left no will, and his relatives dealt swiftly with his sons. They took the property, apprenticed grandfather to a shoemaker, and then abandoned him.

Grandfather took his bitter dose like a thoroughbred. Wild as was his inner revolt against this treatment, he uttered no word against the thieves and made no plea. He tried his fortunes here and in Haiti, where, during his short, restless sojourn, my own father was born. Eventually, grandfather became chief steward on the passenger boat between New York and New Haven; later he was a small merchant in Springfield; and finally he retired and ended his days at New Bedford. Always he held his head high, took no insults, made few friends. He was not a "Negro"; he was a man! Yet the current was too strong even for him. Then even more than now a colored man had colored friends or none at all, lived in a colored world or lived alone. A few fine, strong, black men gained the heart of this silent, bitter man in New York and New Haven. If he had scant sympathy with their social clannishness, he was with them in fighting discrimination. So, when the white Episcopalians of Trinity Parish, New Haven, showed plainly that they no longer wanted black Folks as fellow Christians, he led the revolt which resulted in St. Luke's Parish, and was for years its senior warden. He lies dead in the Grove Street Cemetery, beside Jehudi Ashmun.

Grandfather took his bitter dose like a thoroughbred. Though he rebelled fiercely inside against this treatment, he said nothing against the thieves and made no plea. He tried his fortunes here and in Haiti. During his short, restless stay in Haiti, my own father was born. Eventually, grandfather became chief steward on the passenger boat between New York and New Haven. Later, he was a small merchant in Springfield. Finally, he retired and ended his days in New Bedford. He always held his head high, accepted no insults, and made few friends. He was not a "Negro"; he was a man! Yet the current was too strong even for him. Then, even more than now, a colored man had colored friends or none at all. He lived in a colored world or lived alone. A few fine, strong, black men won the heart of this silent, bitter man in New York and New Haven. He had little sympathy for the way they kept to themselves, but he joined them in fighting discrimination. The white Episcopalians of Trinity Parish, New Haven, made it plain that they no longer wanted black Folks as fellow Christians. So he led the revolt that resulted in St. Luke's Parish, and he was its senior warden for years. He lies buried in the Grove Street Cemetery, beside Jehudi Ashmun.

Beneath his sternness was a very human man. Slyly he wrote poetry,—stilted, pleading things from a soul astray. He loved women in his masterful way, marrying three beautiful wives in succession and clinging to each with a certain desperate, even if unsympathetic, affection. As a father he was, naturally, a failure,—hard, domineering, unyielding. His four children reacted characteristically: one was until past middle life a thin spinster, the mental image of her father; one died; one passed over into the white world and her children's children are now white, with no knowledge of their Negro blood; the fourth, my father, bent before grandfather, but did not break—better if he had. He yielded and flared back, asked forgiveness and forgot why, became the harshly-held favorite, who ran away and rioted and roamed and loved and married my brown mother.

Beneath his sternness was a very human man. He secretly wrote poetry, stiff, pleading poems from a lost soul. He loved women in his controlling way. He married three beautiful wives in succession and clung to each with a desperate, though unsympathetic, affection. As a father he was, naturally, a failure: hard, domineering, and unyielding. His four children each reacted in their own way. One remained a thin spinster until after middle age, the mental image of her father. One died. One passed into the white world. Her grandchildren are now white, with no knowledge of their Negro blood. The fourth, my father, bent before grandfather but did not break. It would have been better if he had. He gave in, then flared up again. He asked forgiveness and forgot why. He became the favorite, though he was harshly controlled. He ran away, rioted, roamed, loved, and married my brown mother.

So with some circumstance having finally gotten myself born, with a flood of Negro blood, a strain of French, a bit of Dutch, but, thank God! no "Anglo-Saxon," I come to the days of my childhood.

So, after finally being born with some fuss, I had plenty of Negro blood, some French, and a bit of Dutch. But, thank God! No "Anglo-Saxon." And so I come to my childhood.

They were very happy. Early we moved back to Grandfather Burghardt's home,—I barely remember its stone fireplace, big kitchen, and delightful woodshed. Then this house passed to other branches of the clan and we moved to rented quarters in town,—to one delectable place "upstairs," with a wide yard full of shrubbery, and a brook; to another house abutting a railroad, with infinite interests and astonishing playmates; and finally back to the quiet street on which I was born,—down a long lane and in a homely, cozy cottage, with a living-room, a tiny sitting-room, a pantry, and two attic bedrooms. Here mother and I lived until she died, in 1884, for father early began his restless wanderings. I last remember urgent letters for us to come to New Milford, where he had started a barber shop. Later he became a preacher. But mother no longer trusted his dreams, and he soon faded out of our lives into silence.

They were very happy. Early on, we moved back to Grandfather Burghardt's home. I barely remember its stone fireplace, big kitchen, and wonderful woodshed. Then the house passed to other branches of the family, and we moved to rented homes in town. One delightful place was "upstairs," with a wide yard full of shrubs and a brook. Another house stood next to a railroad, with endless things to explore and astonishing playmates. Finally, we moved back to the quiet street where I was born. We lived down a long lane in a simple, cozy cottage. It had a living room, a tiny sitting room, a pantry, and two attic bedrooms. Mother and I lived there until she died in 1884, because father had begun his restless wanderings early on. My last memory of him is of urgent letters asking us to come to New Milford, where he had started a barber shop. Later, he became a preacher. But mother no longer trusted his dreams, and he soon faded out of our lives into silence.

From the age of five until I was sixteen I went to a school on the same grounds,—down a lane, into a widened yard, with a big choke-cherry tree and two buildings, wood and brick. Here I got acquainted with my world, and soon had my criterions of judgment.

From age five until I was sixteen, I attended a school on the same grounds. A lane led to a wide yard with a big chokecherry tree and two buildings, one wood and one brick. There I got to know my world and soon developed my own standards for judging it.

Wealth had no particular lure. On the other hand, the shadow of wealth was about us. That river of my birth was golden because of the woolen and paper waste that soiled it. The gold was theirs, not ours; but the gleam and glint was for all. To me it was all in order and I took it philosophically. I cordially despised the poor Irish and South Germans, who slaved in the mills, and annexed the rich and well-to-do as my natural companions. Of such is the kingdom of snobs!

Wealth held no particular appeal for me. But we lived in its shadow. The river where I was born was golden because woolen and paper waste polluted it. The gold was theirs, not ours, but everyone could see it shine and sparkle. To me, everything was as it should be, and I accepted it calmly. I thoroughly despised the poor Irish and South Germans who slaved in the mills. I claimed the rich and well-to-do as my natural companions. Such is the kingdom of snobs!

Most of our townfolk were, naturally, the well-to-do, shading downward, but seldom reaching poverty. As playmate of the children I saw the homes of nearly every one, except a few immigrant New Yorkers, of whom none of us approved. The homes I saw impressed me, but did not overwhelm me. Many were bigger than mine, with newer and shinier things, but they did not seem to differ in kind. I think I probably surprised my hosts more than they me, for I was easily at home and perfectly happy and they looked to me just like ordinary people, while my brown face and frizzled hair must have seemed strange to them.

Most people in our town were naturally well-off. Some had less money, but few were poor. As a playmate of their children, I saw nearly everyone’s home. The exceptions were a few immigrant New Yorkers, whom none of us approved of. The homes I saw impressed me, but they did not overwhelm me. Many were bigger than mine and had newer, shinier things. But they did not seem fundamentally different. I think I probably surprised my hosts more than they surprised me. I felt completely at home and perfectly happy, and they looked like ordinary people to me. But my brown face and frizzled hair must have seemed strange to them.

Yet I was very much one of them. I was a center and sometimes the leader of the town gang of boys. We were noisy, but never very bad,—and, indeed, my mother's quiet influence came in here, as I realize now. She did not try to make me perfect. To her I was already perfect. She simply warned me of a few things, especially saloons. In my town the saloon was the open door to hell. The best families had their drunkards and the worst had little else.

Yet I was very much one of them. I was at the center of the town’s gang of boys and sometimes led them. We were noisy, but never very bad. Looking back, I realize that my mother’s quiet influence helped keep us from getting into trouble. She did not try to make me perfect. To her, I was already perfect. She simply warned me about a few things, especially saloons. In my town, the saloon was the open door to hell. The best families had their drunkards, and the worst had little else.

Very gradually,—I cannot now distinguish the steps, though here and there I remember a jump or a jolt—but very gradually I found myself assuming quite placidly that I was different from other children. At first I think I connected the difference with a manifest ability to get my lessons rather better than most and to recite with a certain happy, almost taunting, glibness, which brought frowns here and there. Then, slowly, I realized that some folks, a few, even several, actually considered my brown skin a misfortune; once or twice I became painfully aware that some human beings even thought it a crime. I was not for a moment daunted,—although, of course, there were some days of secret tears—rather I was spurred to tireless effort. If they beat me at anything, I was grimly determined to make them sweat for it! Once I remember challenging a great, hard farmer-boy to battle, when I knew he could whip me; and he did. But ever after, he was polite.

Very gradually, I came to accept calmly that I was different from other children. I can no longer trace the steps, though I remember a jump or a jolt here and there. At first, I think I linked the difference to my clear ability to learn my lessons better than most. I could also recite them with a cheerful, almost teasing ease that made some people frown. Then, slowly, I realized that some people, a few, even several, actually considered my brown skin a misfortune. Once or twice, I became painfully aware that some human beings even thought it a crime. I was not discouraged for a moment, though of course there were days when I cried in secret. Instead, I was driven to work tirelessly. If they beat me at anything, I was grimly determined to make them sweat for it! I remember once challenging a big, tough farmer boy to a fight, even though I knew he could beat me. And he did. But from then on, he was polite.

As time flew I felt not so much disowned and rejected as rather drawn up into higher spaces and made part of a mightier mission. At times I almost pitied my pale companions, who were not of the Lord's anointed and who saw in their dreams no splendid quests of golden fleeces.

As time passed, I felt less disowned and rejected than lifted into higher spaces and made part of a greater mission. At times I almost pitied my pale companions. They were not among the Lord's anointed, and they never dreamed of splendid quests for golden fleeces.

Even in the matter of girls my peculiar phantasy asserted itself. Naturally, it was in our town voted bad form for boys of twelve and fourteen to show any evident weakness for girls. We tolerated them loftily, and now and then they played in our games, when I joined in quite as naturally as the rest. It was when strangers came, or summer boarders, or when the oldest girls grew up that my sharp senses noted little hesitancies in public and searchings for possible public opinion. Then I flamed! I lifted my chin and strode off to the mountains, where I viewed the world at my feet and strained my eyes across the shadow of the hills.

Even when it came to girls, my peculiar imagination made itself felt. In our town, boys of twelve and fourteen were naturally expected not to show any obvious fondness for girls. We tolerated girls with an air of superiority. Now and then they played in our games, and I joined in as naturally as the other boys. But sometimes strangers or summer boarders came to town, or the oldest girls grew up. Then my sharp senses noticed little signs of hesitation in public and concern about what people might think. At that, I burned with feeling! I lifted my chin and strode off to the mountains. There I looked down at the world at my feet and strained my eyes across the shadow of the hills.

I was graduated from high school at sixteen, and I talked of "Wendell Phillips." This was my first sweet taste of the world's applause. There were flowers and upturned faces, music and marching, and there was my mother's smile. She was lame, then, and a bit drawn, but very happy. It was her great day and that very year she lay down with a sigh of content and has not yet awakened. I felt a certain gladness to see her, at last, at peace, for she had worried all her life. Of my own loss I had then little realization. That came only with the after-years. Now it was the choking gladness and solemn feel of wings! At last, I was going beyond the hills and into the world that beckoned steadily.

I graduated from high school at sixteen, and I gave a speech about "Wendell Phillips." It was my first sweet taste of the world's applause. There were flowers and faces turned toward me, music and marching, and my mother's smile. She was lame by then and looked a little worn, but she was very happy. It was her great day. That same year, she lay down with a sigh of contentment and has not yet awakened. I felt a certain gladness to see her at peace at last, for she had worried all her life. I hardly understood my own loss then. That understanding came only in the years afterward. For now, I felt a choking gladness and the solemn feeling of wings! At last, I was going beyond the hills and into the world that kept calling to me.

There came a little pause,—a singular pause. I was given to understand that I was almost too young for the world. Harvard was the goal of my dreams, but my white friends hesitated and my colored friends were silent. Harvard was a mighty conjure-word in that hill town, and even the mill owners' sons had aimed lower. Finally it was tactfully explained that the place for me was in the South among my people. A scholarship had been already arranged at Fisk, and my summer earnings would pay the fare. My relatives grumbled, but after a twinge I felt a strange delight! I forgot, or did not thoroughly realize, the curious irony by which I was not looked upon as a real citizen of my birth-town, with a future and a career, and instead was being sent to a far land among strangers who were regarded as (and in truth were) "mine own people."

There was a brief pause, a strange pause. I was given to understand that I was almost too young for the world. Harvard was my dream, but my white friends hesitated and my colored friends said nothing. In that hill town, Harvard was a powerful, almost magical word. Even the mill owners' sons had set their sights lower. Finally, someone tactfully explained that my place was in the South among my people. A scholarship at Fisk had already been arranged, and my summer earnings would pay for the trip. My relatives grumbled, but after an initial twinge, I felt a strange delight! I forgot, or did not fully grasp, the curious irony. I was not seen as a real citizen of my hometown, with a future and a career. Instead, I was being sent to a distant land among strangers. They were regarded as, and truly were, "mine own people."

Ah! the wonder of that journey, with its faint spice of adventure, as I entered the land of slaves; the never-to-be-forgotten marvel of that first supper at Fisk with the world "colored" and opposite two of the most beautiful beings God ever revealed to the eyes of seventeen. I promptly lost my appetite, but I was deliriously happy!

Ah, the wonder of that journey! There was a hint of adventure as I entered the land of slaves. I would never forget the marvel of that first supper at Fisk, with the world "colored" and two of the most beautiful beings God ever showed a seventeen-year-old sitting across from me. I immediately lost my appetite, but I was deliriously happy!

As I peer back through the shadow of my years, seeing not too clearly, but through the thickening veil of wish and after-thought, I seem to view my life divided into four distinct parts: the Age of Miracles, the Days of Disillusion, the Discipline of Work and Play, and the Second Miracle Age.

As I look back through the shadows of my years, I cannot see very clearly. My view is clouded by a thickening veil of wishes and hindsight. My life seems divided into four distinct parts: the Age of Miracles, the Days of Disillusion, the Discipline of Work and Play, and the Second Miracle Age.

The Age of Miracles began with Fisk and ended with Germany. I was bursting with the joy of living. I seemed to ride in conquering might. I was captain of my soul and master of fate! I willed to do! It was done. I wished! The wish came true.

The Age of Miracles began with Fisk and ended with Germany. I was bursting with the joy of being alive. I felt as if I were riding forward in triumph. I was captain of my soul and master of fate! I willed something to happen! It happened. I wished! The wish came true.

Now and then out of the void flashed the great sword of hate to remind me of the battle. I remember once, in Nashville, brushing by accident against a white woman on the street. Politely and eagerly I raised my hat to apologize. That was thirty-five years ago. From that day to this I have never knowingly raised my hat to a Southern white woman.

Now and then, the great sword of hate flashed out of the void, reminding me of the battle. Once in Nashville, I accidentally brushed against a white woman on the street. I politely and eagerly raised my hat to apologize. That was thirty-five years ago. Since that day, I have never knowingly raised my hat to a Southern white woman.

I suspect that beneath all of my seeming triumphs there were many failures and disappointments, but the realities loomed so large that they swept away even the memory of other dreams and wishes. Consider, for a moment, how miraculous it all was to a boy of seventeen, just escaped from a narrow valley: I willed and lo! my people came dancing about me,—riotous in color, gay in laughter, full of sympathy, need, and pleading; darkly delicious girls—"colored" girls—sat beside me and actually talked to me while I gazed in tongue-tied silence or babbled in boastful dreams. Boys with my own experiences and out of my own world, who knew and understood, wrought out with me great remedies. I studied eagerly under teachers who bent in subtle sympathy, feeling themselves some shadow of the Veil and lifting it gently that we darker souls might peer through to other worlds.

I suspect that beneath all my apparent triumphs were many failures and disappointments. But what actually happened seemed so important that it swept away even the memory of my other dreams and wishes. Consider how miraculous it all seemed to a seventeen-year-old boy who had just escaped a narrow valley. I wished, and there they were, my people dancing around me. They were bursting with color and cheerful laughter, full of sympathy, need, and pleading. Darkly delicious girls, “colored” girls, sat beside me and actually talked to me. I gazed at them in tongue-tied silence or babbled about my boastful dreams. Boys from my own world, who had shared my experiences and understood them, worked out great remedies with me. I studied eagerly under teachers who showed a subtle sympathy. They felt something of the shadow of the Veil themselves. They gently lifted it so that we darker souls could peer through to other worlds.

I willed and lo! I was walking beneath the elms of Harvard,—the name of allurement, the college of my youngest, wildest visions! I needed money; scholarships and prizes fell into my lap,—not all I wanted or strove for, but all I needed to keep in school. Commencement came and standing before governor, president, and grave, gowned men, I told them certain astonishing truths, waving my arms and breathing fast! They applauded with what now seems to me uncalled-for fervor, but then! I walked home on pink clouds of glory! I asked for a fellowship and got it. I announced my plan of studying in Germany, but Harvard had no more fellowships for me. A friend, however, told me of the Slater Fund and how the Board was looking for colored men worth educating. No thought of modest hesitation occurred to me. I rushed at the chance.

I set my mind to it, and suddenly I was walking beneath the elms of Harvard. The name had lured me, the college of my earliest, wildest dreams! I needed money, and scholarships and prizes fell into my lap. They were not all I wanted or worked for, but they were enough to keep me in school. Commencement came, and I stood before the governor, the president, and serious men in academic gowns. I told them some astonishing truths, waving my arms and breathing fast! They applauded with a passion that now seems to me uncalled for. But then, I walked home on pink clouds of glory! I asked for a fellowship and got it. I announced my plan to study in Germany, but Harvard had no more fellowships for me. A friend, however, told me about the Slater Fund. Its Board was looking for colored men worth educating. I never thought to hesitate out of modesty. I rushed at the chance.

The trustees of the Slater Fund excused themselves politely. They acknowledged that they had in the past looked for colored boys of ability to educate, but, being unsuccessful, they had stopped searching. I went at them hammer and tongs! I plied them with testimonials and mid-year and final marks. I intimated plainly, impudently, that they were "stalling"! In vain did the chairman, Ex-President Hayes, explain and excuse. I took no excuses and brushed explanations aside. I wonder now that he did not brush me aside, too, as a conceited meddler, but instead he smiled and surrendered.

The trustees of the Slater Fund politely excused themselves. They admitted that they had once looked for talented colored boys to educate. But they had stopped searching because they had found none. I went after them with all I had! I presented them with testimonials and midyear and final grades. I made it plain, even rudely, that they were "stalling"! The chairman, Ex-President Hayes, tried in vain to explain and make excuses. I accepted no excuses and brushed his explanations aside. I wonder now why he did not brush me aside, too, as a conceited meddler. Instead, he smiled and gave in.

I crossed the ocean in a trance. Always I seemed to be saying, "It is not real; I must be dreaming!" I can live it again—the little, Dutch ship—the blue waters—the smell of new-mown hay—Holland and the Rhine. I saw the Wartburg and Berlin; I made the Harzreise and climbed the Brocken; I saw the Hansa towns and the cities and dorfs of South Germany; I saw the Alps at Berne, the Cathedral at Milan, Florence, Rome, Venice, Vienna, and Pesth; I looked on the boundaries of Russia; and I sat in Paris and London.

I crossed the ocean in a trance. I always seemed to be saying, "It is not real; I must be dreaming!" I can live it all again: the little Dutch ship, the blue waters, the smell of freshly cut hay, Holland and the Rhine. I saw the Wartburg and Berlin. I took the Harzreise and climbed the Brocken. I saw the Hansa towns and the cities and villages of South Germany. I saw the Alps at Berne, the Cathedral at Milan, Florence, Rome, Venice, Vienna, and Pesth. I looked upon the borders of Russia, and I sat in Paris and London.

On mountain and valley, in home and school, I met men and women as I had never met them before. Slowly they became, not white folks, but folks. The unity beneath all life clutched me. I was not less fanatically a Negro, but "Negro" meant a greater, broader sense of humanity and world-fellowship. I felt myself standing, not against the world, but simply against American narrowness and color prejudice, with the greater, finer world at my back urging me on.

In the mountains and valleys, in homes and schools, I met men and women as I never had before. Slowly, they became not white folks, but folks. The unity beneath all life took hold of me. I was no less fiercely a Negro, but "Negro" came to mean a greater, broader sense of humanity and fellowship across the world. I felt that I stood not against the world, but against American narrow-mindedness and color prejudice. The greater, finer world stood behind me, urging me on.

I builded great castles in Spain and lived therein. I dreamed and loved and wandered and sang; then, after two long years, I dropped suddenly back into "nigger"-hating America!

I built great castles in Spain and lived in them. I dreamed and loved and wandered and sang. Then, after two long years, I suddenly dropped back into "nigger"-hating America!

My Days of Disillusion were not disappointing enough to discourage me. I was still upheld by that fund of infinite faith, although dimly about me I saw the shadow of disaster. I began to realize how much of what I had called Will and Ability was sheer Luck! Suppose my good mother had preferred a steady income from my child labor rather than bank on the precarious dividend of my higher training? Suppose that pompous old village judge, whose dignity we often ruffled and whose apples we stole, had had his way and sent me while a child to a "reform" school to learn a "trade"? Suppose Principal Hosmer had been born with no faith in "darkies," and instead of giving me Greek and Latin had taught me carpentry and the making of tin pans? Suppose I had missed a Harvard scholarship? Suppose the Slater Board had then, as now, distinct ideas as to where the education of Negroes should stop? Suppose and suppose! As I sat down calmly on flat earth and looked at my life a certain great fear seized me. Was I the masterful captain or the pawn of laughing sprites? Who was I to fight a world of color prejudice? I raise my hat to myself when I remember that, even with these thoughts, I did not hesitate or waver; but just went doggedly to work, and therein lay whatever salvation I have achieved.

My Days of Disillusion did not disappoint me enough to discourage me. I was still sustained by a reserve of infinite faith, though I could dimly see the shadow of disaster around me. I began to realize how much of what I had called Will and Ability was pure Luck! Suppose my good mother had preferred the steady income from my child labor to the uncertain returns of my higher education? Suppose that pompous old village judge had gotten his way? We often offended his dignity and stole his apples. What if he had sent me as a child to a "reform" school to learn a "trade"? Suppose Principal Hosmer had been born with no faith in "darkies"? What if, instead of giving me Greek and Latin, he had taught me carpentry and how to make tin pans? Suppose I had missed a Harvard scholarship? Suppose the Slater Board had then, as it does now, clear ideas about where the education of Negroes should stop? Suppose and suppose! As I sat calmly on the flat earth and looked at my life, a great fear seized me. Was I the commanding captain of my life, or a pawn of laughing sprites? Who was I to fight a world of color prejudice? I take my hat off to myself when I remember that, even with these thoughts, I did not hesitate or waver. I just went stubbornly to work, and in that lay whatever salvation I have achieved.

First came the task of earning a living. I was not nice or hard to please. I just got down on my knees and begged for work, anything and anywhere. I wrote to Hampton, Tuskegee, and a dozen other places. They politely declined, with many regrets. The trustees of a backwoods Tennessee town considered me, but were eventually afraid. Then, suddenly, Wilberforce offered to let me teach Latin and Greek at $750 a year. I was overjoyed!

First, I had to earn a living. I was not picky or hard to please. I got down on my knees and begged for work, anything and anywhere. I wrote to Hampton, Tuskegee, and a dozen other places. They politely turned me down, expressing many regrets. The trustees of a remote Tennessee town considered me, but in the end they were afraid. Then, suddenly, Wilberforce offered me a job teaching Latin and Greek for $750 a year. I was overjoyed!

I did not know anything about Latin and Greek, but I did know of Wilberforce. The breath of that great name had swept the water and dropped into southern Ohio, where Southerners had taken their cure at Tawawa Springs and where white Methodists had planted a school; then came the little bishop, Daniel Payne, who made it a school of the African Methodists. This was the school that called me, and when re-considered offers from Tuskegee and Jefferson City followed, I refused; I was so thankful for that first offer.

I knew nothing about Latin and Greek, but I did know of Wilberforce. The breath of that great name had swept across the water and reached southern Ohio. There, Southerners had come to Tawawa Springs for cures, and white Methodists had founded a school. Then came the little bishop, Daniel Payne, who made it a school of the African Methodists. This was the school that called me. Later, Tuskegee and Jefferson City reconsidered and offered me positions, but I refused. I was so thankful for that first offer.

I went to Wilberforce with high ideals. I wanted to help to build a great university. I was willing to work night as well as day. I taught Latin, Greek, English, and German. I helped in the discipline, took part in the social life, begged to be allowed to lecture on sociology, and began to write books. But I found myself against a stone wall. Nothing stirred before my impatient pounding! Or if it stirred, it soon slept again.

I went to Wilberforce with high ideals. I wanted to help build a great university. I was willing to work night and day. I taught Latin, Greek, English, and German. I helped maintain discipline and took part in social life. I begged to be allowed to lecture on sociology and began to write books. But I found myself up against a stone wall. Nothing moved, no matter how impatiently I pounded on it! Or if it did move, it soon went back to sleep.

Of course, I was too impatient! The snarl of years was not to be undone in days. I set at solving the problem before I knew it. Wilberforce was a colored church-school. In it were mingled the problems of poorly-prepared pupils, an inadequately-equipped plant, the natural politics of bishoprics, and the provincial reactions of a country town loaded with traditions. It was my first introduction to a Negro world, and I was at once marvelously inspired and deeply depressed. I was inspired with the children,—had I not rubbed against the children of the world and did I not find here the same eagerness, the same joy of life, the same brains as in New England, France, and Germany? But, on the other hand, the ropes and myths and knots and hindrances; the thundering waves of the white world beyond beating us back; the scalding breakers of this inner world,—its currents and back eddies—its meanness and smallness—its sorrow and tragedy—its screaming farce!

Of course, I was too impatient! The tangle of years could not be undone in days. I set out to solve the problem before I understood it. Wilberforce was a colored church school. Its problems were tangled together: poorly prepared students, inadequate facilities, the usual politics of bishops, and the narrow outlook of a country town burdened by traditions. This was my first introduction to a Negro world. I was at once wonderfully inspired and deeply depressed. The children inspired me. Had I not spent time among children around the world? And did I not find here the same eagerness, the same joy in life, and the same intelligence as in New England, France, and Germany? But on the other hand, there were the ropes and myths and knots and obstacles. The thundering waves of the white world beyond beat us back. And there were the scalding breakers of this inner world, its currents and swirling eddies, its meanness and smallness, its sorrow and tragedy, its screaming farce!

In all this I was as one bound hand and foot. Struggle, work, fight as I would, I seemed to get nowhere and accomplish nothing. I had all the wild intolerance of youth, and no experience in human tangles. For the first time in my life I realized that there were limits to my will to do. The Day of Miracles was past, and a long, gray road of dogged work lay ahead.

Through all of this, I felt as if my hands and feet were tied. No matter how hard I struggled, worked, or fought, I seemed to get nowhere and accomplish nothing. I had all the wild intolerance of youth, and no experience with the complexities of human affairs. For the first time in my life, I realized that my determination could only take me so far. The Day of Miracles was over, and a long, gray road of persistent work lay ahead.

I had, naturally, my triumphs here and there. I defied the bishops in the matter of public extemporaneous prayer and they yielded. I bearded the poor, hunted president in his den, and yet was re-elected to my position. I was slowly winning a way, but quickly losing faith in the value of the way won. Was this the place to begin my life work? Was this the work which I was best fitted to do? What business had I, anyhow, to teach Greek when I had studied men? I grew sure that I had made a mistake. So I determined to leave Wilberforce and try elsewhere. Thus, the third period of my life began.

Naturally, I had some triumphs along the way. I defied the bishops over public prayers spoken without preparation, and they gave in. I confronted the poor, beleaguered president in his office, yet I was re-elected to my position. I was slowly making progress, but quickly losing faith in its value. Was this the place to begin my life’s work? Was this the work I was best suited to do? What business did I have teaching Greek when I had studied people? I became sure I had made a mistake. So I decided to leave Wilberforce and try somewhere else. Thus, the third period of my life began.

First, in 1896, I married—a slip of a girl, beautifully dark-eyed and thorough and good as a German housewife. Then I accepted a job to make a study of Negroes in Philadelphia for the University of Pennsylvania,—one year at six hundred dollars. How did I dare these two things? I do not know. Yet they spelled salvation. To remain at Wilberforce without doing my ideals meant spiritual death. Both my wife and I were homeless. I dared a home and a temporary job. But it was a different daring from the days of my first youth. I was ready to admit that the best of men might fail. I meant still to be captain of my soul, but I realized that even captains are not omnipotent in uncharted and angry seas.

First, in 1896, I married a young girl. She had beautiful dark eyes and was thorough and good, like a German housewife. Then I accepted a job studying Negroes in Philadelphia for the University of Pennsylvania. It paid six hundred dollars for one year. How did I dare to do these two things? I do not know. Yet they saved me. To stay at Wilberforce without putting my ideals into practice would have meant spiritual death. Both my wife and I were homeless. I dared to start a home and take a temporary job. But this was different from the daring of my early youth. I was ready to admit that even the best of men might fail. I still meant to be captain of my soul. But I realized that even captains are not all-powerful on uncharted, angry seas.

I essayed a thorough piece of work in Philadelphia. I labored morning, noon, and night. Nobody ever reads that fat volume on "The Philadelphia Negro," but they treat it with respect, and that consoles me. The colored people of Philadelphia received me with no open arms. They had a natural dislike to being studied like a strange species. I met again and in different guise those curious cross-currents and inner social whirlings of my own people. They set me to groping. I concluded that I did not know so much as I might about my own people, and when President Bumstead invited me to Atlanta University the next year to teach sociology and study the American Negro, I accepted gladly, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars.

I set out to do a thorough piece of work in Philadelphia. I worked morning, noon, and night. Nobody ever reads that fat volume on "The Philadelphia Negro," but people treat it with respect, and that consoles me. The colored people of Philadelphia did not welcome me with open arms. Naturally, they disliked being studied like a strange species. Once again, I encountered the curious cross-currents and inner social whirlings of my own people, though in a different form. They left me searching for answers. I concluded that I did not know as much as I might about my own people. The next year, President Bumstead invited me to Atlanta University to teach sociology and study the American Negro. I gladly accepted, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars.

My real life work was done at Atlanta for thirteen years, from my twenty-ninth to my forty-second birthday. They were years of great spiritual upturning, of the making and unmaking of ideals, of hard work and hard play. Here I found myself. I lost most of my mannerisms. I grew more broadly human, made my closest and most holy friendships, and studied human beings. I became widely-acquainted with the real condition of my people. I realized the terrific odds which faced them. At Wilberforce I was their captious critic. In Philadelphia I was their cold and scientific investigator, with microscope and probe. It took but a few years of Atlanta to bring me to hot and indignant defense. I saw the race-hatred of the whites as I had never dreamed of it before,—naked and unashamed! The faint discrimination of my hopes and intangible dislikes paled into nothing before this great, red monster of cruel oppression. I held back with more difficulty each day my mounting indignation against injustice and misrepresentation.

I did my real life’s work in Atlanta over thirteen years, from my twenty-ninth to my forty-second birthday. Those years brought great spiritual upheaval, the making and unmaking of ideals, hard work, and hard play. Here I found myself. I lost most of my mannerisms. I became more broadly human, formed my closest and most sacred friendships, and studied human beings. I came to know the real condition of my people well. I realized the terrible odds they faced. At Wilberforce, I was their faultfinding critic. In Philadelphia, I was their cold, scientific investigator, with microscope and probe. After just a few years in Atlanta, I came to defend them passionately and indignantly. I saw the race hatred of the whites as I had never imagined it before, naked and unashamed! The faint discrimination and vague dislikes I had hoped to find paled before this great red monster of cruel oppression. Each day, I found it harder to hold back my growing anger at injustice and misrepresentation.

With all this came the strengthening and hardening of my own character. The billows of birth, love, and death swept over me. I saw life through all its paradox and contradiction of streaming eyes and mad merriment. I emerged into full manhood, with the ruins of some ideals about me, but with others planted above the stars; scarred and a bit grim, but hugging to my soul the divine gift of laughter and withal determined, even unto stubbornness, to fight the good fight.

Along with all this, my character grew stronger and harder. Waves of birth, love, and death swept over me. I saw all of life’s paradoxes and contradictions, its streaming tears and wild merriment. I reached full manhood with some ideals in ruins around me, but others planted above the stars. I was scarred and a little grim, but I held the divine gift of laughter close to my soul. And I was determined, even stubbornly so, to fight the good fight.

At last, forbear and waver as I would, I faced the great Decision. My life's last and greatest door stood ajar. What with all my dreaming, studying, and teaching was I going to do in this fierce fight? Despite all my youthful conceit and bumptiousness, I found developed beneath it all a reticence and new fear of forwardness, which sprang from searching criticisms of motive and high ideals of efficiency; but contrary to my dream of racial solidarity and notwithstanding my deep desire to serve and follow and think, rather than to lead and inspire and decide, I found myself suddenly the leader of a great wing of people fighting against another and greater wing.

At last, however much I hesitated and held back, I faced the great Decision. The last and greatest door of my life stood partly open. With all my dreaming, studying, and teaching, what was I going to do in this fierce fight? Despite all my youthful conceit and self-importance, I found that I had become reserved and newly afraid of pushing myself forward. This came from closely questioning my motives and holding myself to high standards of effectiveness. I had dreamed of racial solidarity. I also deeply wanted to serve, follow, and think, rather than lead, inspire, and decide. Yet I suddenly found myself leading a large wing of people fighting against another, even larger wing.

Nor could any effort of mine keep this fight from sinking to the personal plane. Heaven knows I tried. That first meeting of a knot of enthusiasts, at Niagara Falls, had all the earnestness of self-devotion. At the second meeting, at Harper's Ferry, it arose to the solemnity of a holy crusade and yet without and to the cold, hard stare of the world it seemed merely the envy of fools against a great man, Booker Washington.

Nor could any effort of mine keep this fight from becoming personal. Heaven knows I tried. The first meeting of a small group of enthusiasts at Niagara Falls was full of earnest dedication. At the second meeting, at Harper's Ferry, the fight took on the solemnity of a holy crusade. Yet to the cold, hard gaze of the outside world, it seemed merely like fools envying a great man, Booker Washington.

Of the movement I was willy-nilly leader. I hated the role. For the first time I faced criticism and cared. Every ideal and habit of my life was cruelly misjudged. I who had always overstriven to give credit for good work, who had never consciously stooped to envy was accused by honest colored people of every sort of small and petty jealousy, while white people said I was ashamed of my race and wanted to be white! And this of me, whose one life fanaticism had been belief in my Negro blood!

Whether I wanted to or not, I was the leader of the movement. I hated the role. For the first time, I faced criticism and cared. Every ideal and habit of my life was cruelly misjudged. I had always tried my hardest to give credit for good work. I had never knowingly given in to envy. Yet honest colored people accused me of every kind of petty jealousy. Meanwhile, white people said I was ashamed of my race and wanted to be white! They said this about me, whose one lifelong obsession had been my belief in my Negro blood!

Away back in the little years of my boyhood I had sold the Springfield Republican and written for Mr. Fortune's Globe. I dreamed of being an editor myself some day. I am an editor. In the great, slashing days of college life I dreamed of a strong organization to fight the battles of the Negro race. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People is such a body, and it grows daily. In the dark days at Wilberforce I planned a time when I could speak freely to my people and of them, interpreting between two worlds. I am speaking now. In the study at Atlanta I grew to fear lest my radical beliefs should so hurt the college that either my silence or the institution's ruin would result. Powers and principalities have not yet curbed my tongue and Atlanta still lives.

When I was a young boy, I sold the Springfield Republican and wrote for Mr. Fortune's Globe. I dreamed of being an editor myself someday. I am an editor. In the bold, fighting days of college, I dreamed of a strong organization to fight the battles of the Negro race. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People is such an organization, and it grows daily. In the dark days at Wilberforce, I planned for a time when I could speak freely to my people and about them, interpreting between two worlds. I am speaking now. While working in my study at Atlanta, I grew afraid that my radical beliefs would hurt the college. I feared I would either have to remain silent or see the institution ruined. The powers that be have not yet silenced me, and Atlanta still lives.

It all came—this new Age of Miracles—because a few persons in 1909 determined to celebrate Lincoln's Birthday properly by calling for the final emancipation of the American Negro. I came at their call. My salary even for a year was not assured, but it was the "Voice without reply." The result has been the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and The Crisis and this book, which I am finishing on my Fiftieth Birthday.

This new Age of Miracles came about because a few people decided to celebrate Lincoln's Birthday properly in 1909. They did so by calling for the final emancipation of the American Negro. I came in response to their call. My salary was not guaranteed even for a year, but it was the "Voice without reply." The result has been the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, The Crisis, and this book. I am finishing the book on my Fiftieth Birthday.

Last year I looked death in the face and found its lineaments not unkind. But it was not my time. Yet in nature some time soon and in the fullness of days I shall die, quietly, I trust, with my face turned South and eastward; and, dreaming or dreamless, I shall, I am sure, enjoy death as I have enjoyed life.

Last year I looked death in the face and found its features not unkind. But it was not my time. Still, as life takes its natural course, I will die before long, when my days are full. I hope to die quietly, with my face turned south and east. Whether I dream or not, I am sure I will enjoy death as I have enjoyed life.