The Immortal Child

If a man die shall he live again? We do not know. But this we do know, that our children's children live forever and grow and develop toward perfection as they are trained. All human problems, then, center in the Immortal Child and his education is the problem of problems. And first for illustration of what I would say may I not take for example, out of many millions, the life of one dark child.

If a man dies, will he live again? We do not know. But we do know that our children’s children live forever. They grow and develop toward perfection as they are trained. All human problems, then, center on the Immortal Child. His education is the greatest problem of all. To illustrate what I mean, let me take one example from many millions: the life of one dark child.

It is now nineteen years since I first saw Coleridge-Taylor. We were in London in some somber hall where there were many meeting, men and women called chiefly to the beautiful World's Fair at Paris; and then a few slipping over to London to meet Pan-Africa. We were there from Cape Colony and Liberia, from Haiti and the States, and from the Islands of the Sea. I remember the stiff, young officer who came with credentials from Menelik of Abyssinia; I remember the bitter, black American who whispered how an army of the Soudan might some day cross the Alps; I remember Englishmen, like the Colensos, who sat and counseled with us; but above all, I remember Coleridge-Taylor.

It has now been nineteen years since I first saw Coleridge-Taylor. We were in a gloomy hall in London, where many people had gathered. Most of the men and women had come for the beautiful World's Fair in Paris. A few then slipped over to London to meet Pan-Africa. We came from Cape Colony and Liberia, from Haiti and the States, and from the Islands of the Sea. I remember the stiff young officer who came with credentials from Menelik of Abyssinia. I remember the bitter, black American who whispered that an army of the Soudan might someday cross the Alps. I remember Englishmen like the Colensos, who sat and counseled with us. But above all, I remember Coleridge-Taylor.

He was a little man and nervous, with dark-golden face and hair that bushed and strayed. His fingers were always nervously seeking hidden keys and he was quick with enthusiasm,—instinct with life. His bride of a year or more,—dark, too, in her whiter way,—was of the calm and quiet type. Her soft contralto voice thrilled us often as she sang, while her silences were full of understanding.

He was a small, nervous man with a dark golden face and thick, unruly hair. His fingers were always nervously searching for hidden keys. He was quick to get excited and full of life. His wife of a year or more was dark too, though lighter than he was. She was calm and quiet. Her soft contralto voice often thrilled us when she sang, and her silences were full of understanding.

Several times we met in public gatherings and then they bade me to their home,—a nest of a cottage, with gate and garden, hidden in London's endless rings of suburbs. I dimly recall through these years a room in cozy disorder, strewn with music—music on the floor and music on the chairs, music in the air as the master rushed to the piano now and again to make some memory melodious—some allusion real.

We met several times at public gatherings, and then they invited me to their home. It was a nest of a cottage, with a gate and garden, hidden in London’s endless rings of suburbs. After all these years, I dimly remember a room in cozy disorder, strewn with music. Music lay on the floor and on the chairs. It filled the air as the master rushed to the piano now and then, turning a memory into melody or bringing an allusion to life.

And then at last, for it was the last, I saw Coleridge-Taylor in a mighty throng of people crowding the Crystal Palace. We came in facing the stage and scarcely dared look around. On the stage were a full orchestra, a chorus of eight hundred voices, and some of the world's famous soloists. He left his wife sitting beside me, and she was very silent as he went forward to lift the conductor's baton. It was one of the earliest renditions of "Hiawatha's Wedding Feast." We sat at rapt attention and when the last, weird music died, the great chorus and orchestra rose as a man to acclaim the master; he turned toward the audience and then we turning for the first time saw that sea of faces behind,—the misty thousands whose voices rose to one strong shout of joy! It was a moment such as one does not often live. It seemed, and was, prophetic.

And then, for the last time, I saw Coleridge-Taylor amid a huge crowd filling the Crystal Palace. We entered facing the stage and hardly dared look around. On stage were a full orchestra, a chorus of eight hundred voices, and some of the world's famous soloists. He left his wife sitting beside me and went forward to raise the conductor's baton. She was very silent. It was one of the earliest performances of "Hiawatha's Wedding Feast." We listened with rapt attention. When the last, strange music faded, the great chorus and orchestra rose as one to acclaim the master. He turned toward the audience. Then we turned and saw, for the first time, the sea of faces behind us. Through the mist, thousands of voices rose in one strong shout of joy! It was a moment one does not often live through. It seemed prophetic, and it was.

This young man who stepped forth as one of the most notable of modern English composers had a simple and uneventful career. His father was a black surgeon of Sierra Leone who came to London for study. While there he met an English girl and this son was born, in London, in 1875.

This young man became one of the most notable modern English composers. He had a simple and uneventful career. His father was a black surgeon from Sierra Leone who came to London to study. There he met an English girl, and their son was born in London in 1875.

Then came a series of chances. His father failed to succeed and disappeared back to Africa leaving the support of the child to the poor working mother. The child showed evidences of musical talent and a friendly workingman gave him a little violin. A musician glancing from his window saw a little dark boy playing marbles on the street with a tiny violin in one hand; he gave him lessons. He happened to gain entrance into a charity school with a master of understanding mind who recognized genius when he saw it; and finally his beautiful child's treble brought him to the notice of the choirmaster of St. George's, Croyden.

Then came a series of chance events. His father did not succeed and returned to Africa, leaving the poor working mother to support the child. The child showed signs of musical talent, and a friendly workingman gave him a little violin. A musician looked out his window and saw a little dark boy playing marbles in the street. The boy held a tiny violin in one hand, and the musician gave him lessons. By chance, he gained admission to a charity school. Its understanding master recognized genius when he saw it. Finally, his beautiful child's treble voice brought him to the attention of the choirmaster of St. George's, Croyden.

So by happy accident his way was clear. Within his soul was no hesitation. He was one of those fortunate beings who are not called to Wander-Jahre, but are born with sails set and seas charted. Already the baby of four little years was a musician, and as choir-boy and violinist he walked unhesitatingly and surely to his life work. He was graduated with honors from the Royal Academy of Music in 1894, and married soon after the daughter of one of his professors. Then his life began, and whatever it lacked of physical adventure in the conventional round of a modern world-city, it more than gained in the almost tempestuous outpouring of his spiritual nature. Life to him was neither meat nor drink,—it was creative flame; ideas, plans, melodies glowed within him. To create, to do, to accomplish; to know the white glory of mighty midnights and the pale Amen of dawns was his day of days. Songs, pianoforte and violin pieces, trios and quintets for strings, incidental music, symphony, orchestral, and choral works rushed from his fingers. Nor were they laboriously contrived or light, thin things made to meet sudden popularity. Rather they were the flaming bits that must be said and sung,—that could not wait the slower birth of years, so hurried to the world as though their young creator knew that God gave him but a day. His whole active life was scarcely more than a decade and a half, and yet in that time, without wealth, friends, or influence, in the face of perhaps the most critical and skeptical and least imaginative civilization of the modern world, he wrote his name so high as a creative artist that it cannot soon be forgotten.

So, by a happy accident, his path was clear. He had no doubts. He was one of those fortunate people who are not called to Wander-Jahre, but are born with sails set and seas charted. By the age of four, he was already a musician. As a choirboy and violinist, he moved steadily and confidently toward his life’s work. He graduated with honors from the Royal Academy of Music in 1894. Soon afterward, he married the daughter of one of his professors. Then his life began. His routine in a modern city may have lacked physical adventure, but his spirit poured out with almost stormy force. Life for him was neither food nor drink. It was a creative flame, and ideas, plans, and melodies glowed within him. His best days were spent creating, doing, and accomplishing, knowing the white glory of mighty midnights and the pale Amen of dawns. Songs, piano and violin pieces, string trios and quintets, incidental music, symphonies, orchestral works, and choral works rushed from his fingers. They were not painstakingly constructed or light, thin pieces made to win quick popularity. Rather, they were fiery things that had to be said and sung. They could not wait for the slower birth of years. So they hurried into the world, as though their young creator knew that God gave him only a day. His entire working life lasted scarcely more than fifteen years. Yet in that time, without wealth, friends, or influence, he made his name as a creative artist. He did so in the face of perhaps the most critical, skeptical, and least imaginative civilization of the modern world. He placed his name so high that it cannot soon be forgotten.

And this was but one side of the man. On the other was the sweet-tempered, sympathetic comrade, always willing to help, never knowing how to refuse, generous with every nerve and fiber of his being. Think of a young musician, father of a family, who at the time of his death held positions as Associate of the Royal College of Music, Professor in Trinity College and Crystal Palace, Conductor of the Handel Choral Society and the Rochester Choral Society, Principal of the Guildhall School of Music, where he had charge of the choral choir, the orchestra, and the opera. He was repeatedly the leader of music festivals all over Great Britain and a judge of contests. And with all this his house was open in cheering hospitality to friends and his hand ever ready with sympathy and help.

But this was only one side of the man. He was also a kind, sympathetic friend, always willing to help and never able to refuse. He was generous with every fiber of his being. Consider this young musician and father. At his death, he was an Associate of the Royal College of Music and a Professor at Trinity College and Crystal Palace. He conducted the Handel Choral Society and the Rochester Choral Society. He was also Principal of the Guildhall School of Music, where he directed the choir, orchestra, and opera. He often led music festivals throughout Great Britain and judged competitions. Despite all this, he opened his home to friends with warm hospitality and was always ready to offer sympathy and help.

When such a man dies, it must bring pause to a reasoning world. We may call his death-sickness pneumonia, but we all know that it was sheer overwork,—the using of a delicately-tuned instrument too commonly and continuously and carelessly to let it last its normal life. We may well talk of the waste of wood and water, of food and fire, but the real and unforgivable waste of modern civilization is the waste of ability and genius,—the killing of useful, indispensable men who have no right to die; who deserve, not for themselves, but for the world, leisure, freedom from distraction, expert medical advice, and intelligent sympathy.

When such a man dies, the thinking world must pause. We may call the illness that killed him pneumonia, but we all know the cause was sheer overwork. He was like a finely tuned instrument used too often, too constantly, and too carelessly to last its normal lifetime. We may rightly talk about the waste of wood and water, food and fuel. But the real and unforgivable waste of modern civilization is the waste of ability and genius. It is the killing of useful, indispensable men who have no right to die. These men deserve leisure, freedom from distraction, expert medical advice, and understanding sympathy. They deserve these things not for themselves, but for the world.

Coleridge-Taylor's life work was not finished,—it was but well begun. He lived only his first period of creative genius, when melody and harmony flashed and fluttered in subtle, compelling, and more than promising profusion. He did not live to do the organized, constructive work in the full, calm power of noonday,—the reflective finishing of evening. In the annals of the future his name must always stand high, but with the priceless gift of years, who can say where it might not have stood.

Coleridge-Taylor's life work was not finished. It had only begun well. He lived through only the first period of his creative genius. In that time, melody and harmony flashed and fluttered in subtle, compelling, and abundantly promising ways. He did not live to do the organized, constructive work of life's full, calm midday. Nor did he live to give his work the reflective finishing touches of evening. His name must always stand high in the records of the future. But if he had been given the priceless gift of more years, who can say how much higher it might have stood?

Why should he have worked so breathlessly, almost furiously? It was, we may be sure, because with unflinching determination and with no thought of surrender he faced the great alternative,—the choice which the cynical, thoughtless, busy, modern world spreads grimly before its greater souls—food or beauty, bread and butter, or ideals. And continually we see worthier men turning to the pettier, cheaper thing—the popular portrait, the sensational novel, the jingling song. The choice is not always between the least and the greatest, the high and the empty, but only too often it is between starvation and something. When, therefore, we see a man, working desperately to earn a living and still stooping to no paltry dickering and to no unworthy work, handing away a "Hiawatha" for less than a song, pausing for glimpses of the stars when a world full of charcoal glowed far more warmly and comfortably, we know that such a man is a hero in a sense never approached by the swashbuckling soldier or the lying patriot.

Why did he work so breathlessly, almost furiously? We can be sure he faced a great choice with unwavering determination and no thought of surrender. The cynical, thoughtless, busy modern world grimly offers this choice to its greater souls: food or beauty, bread and butter or ideals. Again and again, we see worthy men turn to the smaller, cheaper thing: the popular portrait, the sensational novel, the catchy song. The choice is not always between the worst and the best, between what is noble and what is empty. But all too often it is a choice between starvation and something to live on. So consider a man who works desperately to earn a living, yet refuses to bargain over trifles or do unworthy work. He gives away a "Hiawatha" for almost nothing. He pauses to glimpse the stars, though a world full of charcoal glows much more warmly and comfortably. When we see such a man, we know he is a hero in a sense the swaggering soldier or the lying patriot never comes close to.

Deep as was the primal tragedy in the life of Coleridge-Taylor, there lay another still deeper. He smiled at it lightly, as we all do,—we who live within the veil,—to hide the deeper hurt. He had, with us, that divine and African gift of laughter, that echo of a thousand centuries of suns. I mind me how once he told of the bishop, the well-groomed English bishop, who eyed the artist gravely, with his eye-glass—hair and color and figure,—and said quite audibly to his friends, "Quite interesting—looks intelligent,—yes—yes!"

As deep as the first tragedy in Coleridge-Taylor’s life was, another lay even deeper. He smiled at it lightly to hide the deeper hurt, as we all do, we who live within the veil. Like us, he had that divine and African gift of laughter, an echo of a thousand centuries of suns. I remember how he once told a story about a bishop, a well-groomed English bishop. The bishop studied the artist’s hair, color, and figure gravely through his eyeglass. Then he said to his friends, loud enough to be heard, "Quite interesting. Looks intelligent, yes, yes!"

Fortunate was Coleridge-Taylor to be born in Europe and to speak a universal tongue. In America he could hardly have had his career. His genius was, to be sure, recognized (with some palpitation and consternation) when it came full-grown across the seas with an English imprint; but born here, it might never have been permitted to grow. We know in America how to discourage, choke, and murder ability when it so far forgets itself as to choose a dark skin. England, thank God, is slightly more civilized than her colonies; but even there the path of this young man was no way of roses and just a shade thornier than that of whiter men. He did not complain at it,—he did not

Coleridge-Taylor was fortunate to be born in Europe and to speak a universal language. In America, he could hardly have had the same career. His genius was recognized in America, though with some alarm and dismay. But it arrived fully formed from across the sea, bearing an English stamp. Had he been born here, his genius might never have been allowed to grow. In America, we know how to discourage, choke, and murder ability when it has the nerve to choose a dark skin. England, thank God, is slightly more civilized than her colonies. But even there, this young man's path was no bed of roses. It was also a little thornier than the paths of whiter men. He did not complain about it. He did not

Rather the hint here and there of color discrimination in England aroused in him deeper and more poignant sympathy with his people throughout the world. He was one with that great company of mixed-blooded men: Pushkin and Dumas, Hamilton and Douglass, Browning and many others; but he more than most of these men knew the call of the blood when it came and listened and answered. He came to America with strange enthusiasm. He took with quite simple and unconscious grace the conventional congratulations of the musical world. He was used to that. But to his own people—to the sad sweetness of their voices, their inborn sense of music, their broken, half-articulate voices,—he leapt with new enthusiasm. From the fainter shadowings of his own life, he sensed instinctively the vaster tragedy of theirs. His soul yearned to give voice and being to this human thing. He early turned to the sorrow songs. He sat at the faltering feet of Paul Laurence Dunbar and he asked (as we sadly shook our heads) for some masterpiece of this world-tragedy that his soul could set to music. And then, so characteristically, he rushed back to England, composed a half-dozen exquisite harmonies haunted by slave-songs, led the Welsh in their singing, listened to the Scotch, ordered great music festivals in all England, wrote for Beerbohm Tree, took on another music professorship, promised a trip to Germany, and at last, staggering home one night, on his way to his wife and little boy and girl, fell in his tracks and in four days was dead, at the age of thirty-seven. They say that in his death-throe he arose and facing some great, ghostly choir raised his last baton, while all around the massive silence rang with the last mist-music of his dying ears.

Instead, the occasional signs of color discrimination in England awakened a deeper, more painful sympathy for his people throughout the world. He was one of that great company of mixed-blooded men: Pushkin and Dumas, Hamilton and Douglass, Browning and many others. But more than most of them, he recognized the call of the blood when it came. He listened and answered. He came to America with an unusual enthusiasm. He accepted the usual congratulations of the musical world with simple, unconscious grace. He was used to that. But he turned to his own people with fresh enthusiasm. He embraced the sad sweetness of their voices, their inborn sense of music, and their broken, half-articulate voices. From the lighter shadows in his own life, he instinctively sensed the much greater tragedy of theirs. His soul longed to give voice and life to this human experience. He soon turned to the sorrow songs. He sat at the faltering feet of Paul Laurence Dunbar. As we sadly shook our heads, he asked for a masterpiece of this world tragedy that his soul could set to music. Then, in his characteristic way, he rushed back to England. He composed half a dozen exquisite harmonies haunted by slave songs. He led the Welsh in song and listened to the Scotch. He organized great music festivals throughout England and wrote for Beerbohm Tree. He took another music professorship and promised to visit Germany. At last, one night, he staggered home toward his wife and little boy and girl. He fell where he stood and died four days later, at the age of thirty-seven. They say that in his final agony he rose and faced a great, ghostly choir. He raised his baton one last time, while the last misty music in his dying ears rang through the vast silence around him.

He was buried from St. Michael's on September 5, 1912, with the acclaim of kings and music masters and little children and to the majestic melody of his own music. The tributes that followed him to his grave were unusually hearty and sincere. The head of the Royal College calls the first production of "Hiawatha" one of the most remarkable events in modern English musical history and the trilogy one of the most universally-beloved works of modern English music. One critic calls Taylor's a name "which with that of Elgar represented the nation's most individual output" and calls his "Atonement" "perhaps the finest passion music of modern times." Another critic speaks of his originality: "Though surrounded by the influences that are at work in Europe today, he retained his individuality to the end, developing his style, however, and evincing new ideas in each succeeding work. His untimely death at the age of thirty-seven, a short life—like those of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Hugo Wolf—has robbed the world of one of its noblest singers, one of those few men of modern times who found expression in the language of musical song, a lyricist of power and worth."

He was buried from St. Michael's on September 5, 1912. Kings, music masters, and little children praised him, and the majestic melodies of his own music accompanied him. The tributes that followed him to his grave were unusually warm and sincere. The head of the Royal College calls the first performance of "Hiawatha" one of the most remarkable events in modern English musical history. He calls the trilogy one of the most universally loved works of modern English music. One critic says Taylor's name, "along with Elgar's, represented the nation's most distinctive musical output." The critic calls Taylor's "Atonement" "perhaps the finest passion music of modern times." Another critic speaks of his originality: "Though surrounded by the influences at work in Europe today, he remained true to himself until the end. Yet he developed his style and showed new ideas in each successive work. His untimely death at thirty-seven has robbed the world of one of its noblest singers. His life was short, like those of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Hugo Wolf. He was one of the few men of modern times who found expression through musical song, a lyricist of power and worth."

But the tributes did not rest with the artist; with peculiar unanimity they sought his "sterling character," "the good husband and father," the "staunch and loyal friend." And perhaps I cannot better end these hesitating words than with that tribute from one who called this master, friend, and whose lament cried in the night with more of depth and passion than Alfred Noyes is wont in his self-repression to voice:

But the tributes did not stop at the artist. With remarkable unanimity, they praised his "sterling character," "the good husband and father," and the "staunch and loyal friend." Perhaps I can best end these hesitant words with a tribute from someone who called this master a friend. His lament cried out in the night with more depth and passion than Alfred Noyes usually allows himself to express:

Yet, consider: to many millions of people this man was all wrong. First, he ought never to have been born, for he was the mulatto son of a white woman. Secondly, he should never have been educated as a musician,—he should have been trained, for his "place" in the world and to make him satisfied therewith. Thirdly, he should not have married the woman he loved and who loved him, for she was white and the niece of an Oxford professor. Fourthly, the children of such a union—but why proceed? You know it all by heart.

Yet consider this: to many millions of people, everything about this man was wrong. First, he should never have been born, because he was the mulatto son of a white woman. Secondly, he should never have been educated as a musician. He should have been trained for his "place" in the world and taught to be satisfied with it. Thirdly, he should not have married the woman he loved and who loved him. She was white and the niece of an Oxford professor. Fourthly, the children of such a union, but why go on? You know it all by heart.

If he had been black, like Paul Laurence Dunbar, would the argument have been different? No. He should never have been born, for he is a "problem." He should never be educated, for he cannot be educated. He should never marry, for that means children and there is no place for black children in this world.

If he had been black, like Paul Laurence Dunbar, would the argument have been different? No. He should never have been born, because he is a "problem." He should never be educated, because he cannot be educated. He should never marry, because that means children, and there is no place for black children in this world.

In the treatment of the child the world foreshadows its own future and faith. All words and all thinking lead to the child,—to that vast immortality and the wide sweep of infinite possibility which the child represents. Such thought as this it was that made the Master say of old as He saw baby faces:

The way the world treats the child reveals its own future and faith. All words and all thought lead to the child. The child represents a vast immortality and an endless range of possibilities. Such thoughts led the Master to speak long ago when he saw the faces of babies:

"And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and he were cast into the sea."

“And whoever harms one of these little ones would be better off with a millstone tied around his neck and being thrown into the sea.”

And yet the mothers and fathers and the men and women of my race must often pause and ask: Is it worth while? Ought children be born to us? Have we any right to make human souls face what we face today? The answer is clear: If the great battle of human right against poverty, against disease, against color prejudice is to be won, it must be won, not in our day, but in the day of our children's children. Ours is the blood and dust of battle; theirs the rewards of victory. If, then, they are not there because we have not brought them into the world, we have been the guiltiest factor in conquering ourselves. It is our duty, then, to accomplish the immortality of black blood, in order that the day may come in this dark world when poverty shall be abolished, privilege be based on individual desert, and the color of a man's skin be no bar to the outlook of his soul.

And yet the mothers and fathers, the men and women of my race, must often pause and ask: Is it worth it? Should we have children? Do we have any right to make human souls face what we face today? The answer is clear: If the great battle for human rights against poverty, disease, and color prejudice is to be won, it must be won not in our day, but in the day of our children's children. We face the blood and dust of battle. They will reap the rewards of victory. But if they are not there because we have not brought them into the world, we will bear the greatest guilt for our own defeat. It is our duty, then, to ensure that black blood lives on. We must do so for the sake of a day when poverty is abolished in this dark world, privilege is based on individual merit, and the color of a man's skin places no limit on the horizons of his soul.

If it is our duty as honest colored men and women, battling for a great principle, to bring not aimless rafts of children to the world, but as many as, with reasonable sacrifice, we can train to largest manhood, what in its inner essence shall that training be, particularly in its beginning?

As honest colored men and women fighting for a great principle, we have a duty. We should not bring countless children into the world without a plan. Instead, we should have only as many as we can raise to reach their fullest potential, with reasonable sacrifice. If that is our duty, what should this upbringing essentially involve, especially in its earliest stages?

The first temptation is to shield the child,—to hedge it about that it may not know and will not dream of the color line. Then when we can no longer wholly shield, to indulge and pamper and coddle, as though in this dumb way to compensate. From this attitude comes the multitude of our spoiled, wayward, disappointed children. And must we not blame ourselves? For while the motive was pure and the outer menace undoubted, is shielding and indulgence the way to meet it?

The first temptation is to protect the child, to surround the child so completely that they never know or imagine the color line. Then, when we can no longer fully protect them, we indulge and pamper them, as if this silent way could make up for it. This attitude produces many spoiled, wayward, disappointed children. And must we not blame ourselves? Our motives were pure, and the threat from outside was real. But are protection and indulgence the way to face it?

Some Negro parents, realizing this, leave their children to sink or swim in this sea of race prejudice. They neither shield nor explain, but thrust them forth grimly into school or street and let them learn as they may from brutal fact. Out of this may come strength, poise, self-dependence, and out of it, too, may come bewilderment, cringing deception, and self-distrust. It is, all said, a brutal, unfair method, and in its way it is as bad as shielding and indulgence. Why not, rather, face the facts and tell the truth? Your child is wiser than you think.

Some Negro parents, realizing this, leave their children to sink or swim in a sea of racial prejudice. They neither protect them nor explain. Instead, they send them out into school or the street and let them learn what they can from brutal reality. This may produce strength, poise, and self-reliance. But it may also produce confusion, fearful deception, and self-doubt. All in all, it is a brutal, unfair method. In its own way, it is as bad as protecting and indulging children. Why not face the facts and tell the truth instead? Your child is wiser than you think.

The truth lies ever between extremes. It is wrong to introduce the child to race consciousness prematurely; it is dangerous to let that consciousness grow spontaneously without intelligent guidance. With every step of dawning intelligence, explanation—frank, free, guiding explanation—must come. The day will dawn when mother must explain gently but clearly why the little girls next door do not want to play with "niggers"; what the real cause is of the teacher's unsympathetic attitude; and how people may ride in the backs of street cars and the smoker end of trains and still be people, honest high-minded souls.

The truth always lies between extremes. It is wrong to make a child aware of race too early. But it is dangerous to let that awareness grow on its own without wise guidance. As a child begins to understand more, explanations must follow. They must be honest, open, and guiding. The day will come when a mother must explain gently but clearly why the little girls next door do not want to play with "niggers". She must explain the real reason for a teacher's unsympathetic attitude. She must also explain how people can ride in the backs of streetcars and the smoking sections of trains and still be people, honest and noble in spirit.

Remember, too, that in such frank explanation you are speaking in nine cases out of ten to a good deal clearer understanding than you think and that the child-mind has what your tired soul may have lost faith in,—the Power and the Glory.

Remember, too, that when you explain things frankly, nine times out of ten, the child understands far more than you think. And a child’s mind has something your tired soul may have lost faith in: the Power and the Glory.

Out of little, unspoiled souls rise up wonderful resources and healing balm. Once the colored child understands the white world's attitude and the shameful wrong of it, you have furnished it with a great life motive,—a power and impulse toward good which is the mightiest thing man has. How many white folk would give their own souls if they might graft into their children's souls a great, moving, guiding ideal!

Wonderful resources and a healing balm arise from little, unspoiled souls. Once the colored child understands the white world's attitude and its shameful wrong, you have given the child a great purpose in life. You have given the child a power and impulse toward good, the mightiest thing a person can have. How many white folk would give their own souls if they could plant a great ideal in their children's souls, one that would move and guide them!

With this Power there comes, in the transfiguring soul of childhood, the Glory: the vision of accomplishment, the lofty ideal. Once let the strength of the motive work, and it becomes the life task of the parent to guide and to shape the ideal; to raise it from resentment and revenge to dignity and self-respect, to breadth and accomplishment, to human service; to beat back every thought of cringing and surrender.

With this Power comes Glory in the transforming soul of a child: a vision of achievement and a lofty ideal. Once this motive takes hold, the parent’s life task is to guide and shape the ideal. The parent must raise it from resentment and revenge to dignity and self-respect, to breadth and achievement, to human service. The parent must also beat back every thought of submission and surrender.

Here, at last, we can speak with no hesitation, with no lack of faith. For we know that as the world grows better there will be realized in our children's lives that for which we fight unfalteringly, but vainly now.

Here, at last, we can speak without hesitation or doubt. For we know that as the world improves, our children will see what we now fight for steadily but in vain.

So much for the problem of the home and our own dark children. Now let us look beyond the pale upon the children of the wide world. What is the real lesson of the life of Coleridge-Taylor? It is this: humanly speaking it was sheer accident that this boy developed his genius. We have a right to assume that hundreds and thousands of boys and girls today are missing the chance of developing unusual talents because the chances have been against them; and that indeed the majority of the children of the world are not being systematically fitted for their life work and for life itself. Why?

So much for the problem of home and our own dark children. Now let us look beyond those boundaries to the children of the wider world. What is the real lesson of Coleridge-Taylor’s life? It is this: as far as we can tell, it was pure chance that this boy developed his genius. We have reason to believe that hundreds and thousands of boys and girls today are missing the chance to develop unusual talents because circumstances are against them. And most children in the world are not being systematically prepared for their life’s work or for life itself. Why?

Many seek the reason in the content of the school program. They feverishly argue the relative values of Greek, mathematics, and manual training, but fail with singular unanimity in pointing out the fundamental cause of our failure in human education: That failure is due to the fact that we aim not at the full development of the child, but that the world regards and always has regarded education first as a means of buttressing the established order of things rather than improving it. And this is the real reason why strife, war, and revolution have marked the onward march of humanity instead of reason and sound reform. Instead of seeking to push the coming generation ahead of our pitiful accomplishment, we insist that it march behind. We say, morally, that high character is conformity to present public opinion; we say industrially that the present order is best and that children must be trained to perpetuate it.

Many people look for the reason in what schools teach. They argue feverishly over the relative value of Greek, mathematics, and manual training. But they are remarkably united in overlooking the fundamental cause of our failure to educate people. We do not aim to develop the child fully. Instead, the world regards education, as it always has, first as a means of supporting the existing order rather than improving it. This is the real reason why conflict, war, and revolution have marked humanity’s progress instead of reason and sound reform. Instead of trying to push the next generation beyond our pitiful achievements, we insist that it march behind us. In matters of morality, we say that good character means conforming to current public opinion. In matters of industry, we say that the present order is best and that children must be trained to preserve it.

But, it is objected, what else can we do? Can we teach Revolution to the inexperienced in hope that they may discern progress? No, but we may teach frankly that this world is not perfection, but development: that the object of education is manhood and womanhood, clear reason, individual talent and genius and the spirit of service and sacrifice, and not simply a frantic effort to avoid change in present institutions; that industry is for man and not man for industry and that while we must have workers to work, the prime object of our training is not the work but the worker—not the maintenance of present industrial caste but the development of human intelligence by which drudgery may be lessened and beauty widened.

But some object: What else can we do? Can we teach revolution to the inexperienced, hoping they may recognize progress? No. But we can teach frankly that this world is not perfect. It is still developing. We can teach that education aims to develop men and women, clear thinking, individual talent and genius, and a spirit of service and sacrifice. Its aim is not simply a frantic effort to prevent change in existing institutions. We can teach that industry exists for people, not people for industry. We must have workers to do the work, but the main goal of training is not the work. It is the worker. The goal is not to preserve the present industrial caste system, but to develop human intelligence. Human intelligence can make work less tedious and bring more beauty into the world.

Back of our present educational system is the philosophy that sneers at the foolish Fathers who believed it self-evident, "that all men were created free and equal." Surely the overwhelming evidence is today that men are slaves and unequal. But is it not education that is the creator of this freedom and equality? Most men today cannot conceive of a freedom that does not involve somebody's slavery. They do not want equality because the thrill of their happiness comes from having things that others have not. But may not human education fix the fine ideal of an equal maximum of freedom for every human soul combined with that minimum of slavery for each soul which the inexorable physical facts of the world impose—rather than complete freedom for some and complete slavery for others; and, again, is not the equality toward which the world moves an equality of honor in the assigned human task itself rather than equal facility in doing different tasks? Human equality is not lack of difference, nor do the infinite human differences argue relative superiority and inferiority. And, again, how new an aspect human differences may assume when all men are educated. Today we think of apes, semi-apes, and human beings; tomorrow we may think of Keir Hardies, Roosevelts, and Beethovens—not equals but men. Today we are forcing men into educational slavery in order that others may enjoy life, and excuse ourselves by saying that the world's work must be done. We are degrading some sorts of work by honoring others, and then expressing surprise that most people object to having their children trained solely to take up their father's tasks.

Behind our present education system is a philosophy that mocks the foolish Fathers. They believed it was self-evident "that all men were created free and equal." Surely, the overwhelming evidence today is that men are slaves and unequal. But isn't education what creates this freedom and equality? Most men today cannot imagine freedom that does not depend on someone else's slavery. They do not want equality because their happiness comes from the thrill of having things others do not. But might human education establish a better ideal? Every human soul would have an equal maximum of freedom, with only the minimum of slavery imposed by the world's unavoidable physical facts. That would be better than complete freedom for some and complete slavery for others. And isn't the equality the world is moving toward a matter of equal honor in each assigned human task? It is not a matter of equal ability to perform different tasks. Human equality does not mean a lack of differences. Nor do the countless differences among humans prove that some are superior and others inferior. And how different human differences may look when all men are educated. Today we think of apes, semi-apes, and human beings. Tomorrow we may think of Keir Hardies, Roosevelts, and Beethovens, not equals but men. Today we are forcing men into educational slavery so that others may enjoy life. We excuse ourselves by saying that the world's work must be done. We degrade some kinds of work by honoring others. Then we express surprise that most people object to having their children trained only to take up their father's tasks.

Given as the ideal the utmost possible freedom for every human soul, with slavery for none, and equal honor for all necessary human tasks, then our problem of education is greatly simplified: we aim to develop human souls; to make all intelligent; to discover special talents and genius. With this course of training beginning in early childhood and never ceasing must go the technical training for the present world's work according to carefully studied individual gifts and wishes.

If our ideal is the greatest possible freedom for every human soul, with slavery for none and equal honor for all necessary human work, our approach to education becomes much simpler. We aim to develop human souls, make everyone intelligent, and discover special talents and genius. This education must begin in early childhood and never stop. Alongside it, people must receive technical training for work in today's world, based on a careful study of their individual gifts and wishes.

On the other hand, if we arrange our system of education to develop workmen who will not strike and Negroes satisfied with their present place in the world, we have set ourselves a baffling task. We find ourselves compelled to keep the masses ignorant and to curb our own thought and expression so as not to inflame the ignorant. We force moderate reformers and men with new and valuable ideas to become red radicals and revolutionists, since that happens to be the only way to make the world listen to reason. Consider our race problem in the South: the South has invested in Negro ignorance; some Northerners proposed limited education, not, they explained, to better the Negro, but merely to make the investment more profitable to the present beneficiaries. They thus gained wide Southern support for schools like Hampton and Tuskegee. But could this program be expected long to satisfy colored folk? And was this shifty dodging of the real issue the wisest statesmanship? No! The real question in the South is the question of the permanency of present color caste. The problem, then, of the formal training of our colored children has been strangely complicated by the strong feeling of certain persons as to their future in America and the world. And the reaction toward this caste education has strengthened the idea of caste education throughout the world.

On the other hand, suppose we design our education system to produce workers who will not strike. Suppose, too, that we aim to produce Negroes satisfied with their present place in the world. We would have set ourselves a baffling task. We would be forced to keep the masses ignorant and restrain our own thought and expression to avoid inflaming them. We would force moderate reformers and people with new and valuable ideas to become red radicals and revolutionaries. That would happen because revolution would be the only way to make the world listen to reason. Consider our race problem in the South. The South has invested in Negro ignorance. Some Northerners proposed limited education, not to improve the Negro, they explained, but merely to make that investment more profitable for those who now benefit from it. In this way, they gained wide Southern support for schools like Hampton and Tuskegee. But could this program be expected to satisfy colored folk for long? And was this evasive way of dodging the real issue the wisest statesmanship? No! The real question in the South is whether the present color caste will last. The formal education of our colored children has been strangely complicated by certain people’s strong feelings about the children’s future in America and the world. And the reaction to this caste education has strengthened the idea of caste education throughout the world.

Let us then return to fundamental ideals. Children must be trained in a knowledge of what the world is and what it knows and how it does its daily work. These things cannot be separated: we cannot teach pure knowledge apart from actual facts, or separate truth from the human mind. Above all we must not forget that the object of all education is the child itself and not what it does or makes.

Let us return to basic ideals. Children must learn what the world is, what it knows, and how it does its daily work. These things cannot be separated. We cannot teach pure knowledge apart from actual facts, or separate truth from the human mind. Above all, we must remember that the goal of all education is the child, not what the child does or makes.

It is here that a great movement in America has grievously sinned against the light. There has arisen among us a movement to make the Public School primarily the hand-maiden of production. America is conceived of as existing for the sake of its mines, fields and factories, and not those factories, fields and mines as existing for America. Consequently, the public schools are for training the mass of men as servants and laborers and mechanics to increase the land's industrial efficiency.

Here, a great movement in America has seriously betrayed what it knows to be right. A movement has arisen among us to make public schools serve production above all else. America is seen as existing for its mines, fields, and factories. Its factories, fields, and mines are not seen as existing for America. As a result, public schools are meant to train most men as servants, laborers, and mechanics to increase the country's industrial efficiency.

Those who oppose this program, especially if they are black, are accused of despising common toil and humble service. In fact, we Negroes are but facing in our own children a world problem: how can we, while maintaining a proper output of goods and furnishing needed services, increase the knowledge of experience of common men and conserve genius for the common weal? Without wider, deeper intelligence among the masses Democracy cannot accomplish its greater ends. Without a more careful conservation of human ability and talent the world cannot secure the services which its greater needs call for. Yet today who goes to college, the Talented or the Rich? Who goes to high school, the Bright or the Well-to-Do? Who does the physical work of the world, those whose muscles need the exercise or those whose souls and minds are stupefied with manual toil? How is the drudgery of the world distributed, by thoughtful justice or the lash of Slavery?

Those who oppose this program, especially if they are black, are accused of looking down on ordinary work and humble service. In fact, we Negroes see a worldwide problem in the lives of our own children. How can we keep producing enough goods and providing needed services while expanding ordinary people's knowledge and experience? How can we also preserve genius for the common good? Without broader, deeper understanding among the masses, Democracy cannot achieve its greater goals. Without more careful preservation of human ability and talent, the world cannot obtain the services its greater needs demand. Yet today, who goes to college, the Talented or the Rich? Who goes to high school, the Bright or the Well-to-Do? Who does the world's physical work? Is it those whose muscles need exercise, or those whose minds and souls are dulled by manual labor? How is the world's drudgery divided, by thoughtful justice or by the lash of Slavery?

We cannot base the education of future citizens on the present inexcusable inequality of wealth nor on physical differences of race. We must seek not to make men carpenters but to make carpenters men.

We cannot base the education of future citizens on today’s inexcusable inequality of wealth or on physical differences between races. Our goal must not be to make men into carpenters, but to make carpenters into fully developed men.

Colored Americans must then with deep determination educate their children in the broadest, highest way. They must fill the colleges with the talented and fill the fields and shops with the intelligent. Wisdom is the principal thing. Therefore, get wisdom.

Colored Americans must therefore be deeply determined to give their children the broadest and best education possible. They must fill colleges with talented people and fill fields and workshops with intelligent people. Wisdom matters most. So, get wisdom.

But why am I talking simply of "colored" children? Is not the problem of their education simply an intensification of the problem of educating all children? Look at our plight in the United States, nearly 150 years after the establishment of a government based on human intelligence.

But why am I talking only about "colored" children? Isn't the problem of educating them simply a more intense version of the problem of educating all children? Look at our situation in the United States, nearly 150 years after we established a government based on human intelligence.

If we take the figures of the Thirteenth Census, we find that there were five and one-half million illiterate Americans of whom 3,184,633 were white. Remembering that illiteracy is a crude and extreme test of ignorance, we may assume that there are in the United States ten million people over ten years of age who are too ignorant either to perform their civic duties or to teach industrial efficiency. Moreover, it does not seem that this illiteracy is disappearing rapidly.

The Thirteenth Census counted five and a half million illiterate Americans. Of these, 3,184,633 were white. Illiteracy is a crude and extreme measure of ignorance. With that in mind, we may assume that ten million people in the United States over age ten are too ignorant to perform their civic duties or teach industrial efficiency. Moreover, illiteracy does not seem to be disappearing rapidly.

For instance, nine percent of American children between ten and nineteen years of age cannot read and write. Moreover, there are millions of children who, judging by the figures for the school year 1909-10, are not going to learn to read and write, for of the Americans six to fourteen years of age there were 3,125,392 who were not in school a single day during that year. If we take the eleven million youths fifteen to twenty years of age for whom vocational training is particularly adapted, we find that nearly five per cent of these, or 448,414, are absolutely illiterate; it is not too much to assume that a million of them have not acquired enough of the ordinary tools of intelligence to make the most of efficient vocational training.

For example, nine percent of American children between ten and nineteen cannot read or write. The figures for the 1909-10 school year also suggest that millions of children will not learn to read and write. That year, 3,125,392 Americans between six and fourteen did not attend school for a single day. Vocational training is especially suited to the eleven million young people between fifteen and twenty. Nearly five percent of them, or 448,414, cannot read or write at all. It is reasonable to assume that a million lack enough basic skills to make the most of effective vocational training.

Confining ourselves to the white people, over fifteen per cent of the white children six to fourteen years of age, or 2,253,198, did not attend school during the school year 1909-10. Of the native white children of native parents ten to fourteen years of age nearly a tenth were not in school during that year; 121,878 native white children of native parents, fifteen to nineteen years of age, were illiterate.

Looking only at white people, more than 15 percent of white children ages six to fourteen did not attend school during the 1909-10 school year. That was 2,253,198 children. Nearly a tenth of native white children of native parents ages ten to fourteen did not attend school that year. Among native white children of native parents ages fifteen to nineteen, 121,878 were illiterate.

If we continue our attention to the colored children, the case is, of course, much worse.

If we continue to focus on colored children, the situation is, of course, much worse.

We cannot hope to make intelligent workmen and intelligent citizens of a group of people, over forty per cent of whose children six to fourteen years of age were not in school a single day during 1909-10; for the other sixty per cent the school term in the majority of cases was probably less than five months. Of the Negro children ten to fourteen years of age 18.9 per cent were illiterate; of those fifteen to nineteen years of age 20.3 per cent were illiterate; of those ten to fourteen years of age 31.4 per cent did not go to school a single day in 1909-10.

We cannot hope to make people intelligent workers and citizens when over 40 percent of their children aged 6 to 14 did not attend school for a single day in 1909-10. For the other 60 percent, the school year was probably less than five months in most cases. Of Negro children aged 10 to 14, 18.9 percent could not read or write. Among those aged 15 to 19, 20.3 percent could not read or write. And 31.4 percent of those aged 10 to 14 did not attend school for a single day in 1909-10.

What is the trouble? It is simple. We are spending one dollar for education where we should spend ten dollars. If tomorrow we multiplied our effort to educate the next generation ten-fold, we should but begin our bounden duty. The heaven that lies about our infancy is but the ideals come true which every generation of children is capable of bringing; but we, selfish in our own ignorance and incapacity, are making of education a series of miserable compromises: How ignorant can we let a child grow to be in order to make him the best cotton mill operative? What is the least sum that will keep the average youth out of jail? How many months saved on a high school course will make the largest export of wheat?

What is the problem? It is simple. We spend one dollar on education when we should spend ten. If we multiplied our efforts to educate the next generation tenfold tomorrow, we would only begin to fulfill our duty. The heaven that surrounds our infancy is made up of ideals brought to life. Every generation of children is capable of bringing those ideals to life. But we are selfish in our own ignorance and inability, and we turn education into a series of miserable compromises: How ignorant can we allow a child to grow up to be and still make him the best cotton mill worker? What is the least we can spend to keep the average young person out of jail? How many months can we cut from high school to export the most wheat?

If we realized that children are the future, that immortality is the present child, that no education which educates can possibly be too costly, then we know that the menace of Kaiserism which called for the expenditure of more than 332 thousand millions of dollars was not a whit more pressing than the menace of ignorance, and that no nation tomorrow will call itself civilized which does not give every single human being college and vocational training free and under the best teaching force procurable for love or money.

If we realized that children are the future, we would know that today’s children are our immortality. We would know that no education that truly educates can cost too much. We would also know that the threat of Kaiserism, which required spending more than 332 billion dollars, was no more urgent than the threat of ignorance. And we would know that in the future, no nation will call itself civilized unless it gives every person free college and vocational training, taught by the best teachers obtainable for love or money.

This world has never taken the education of children seriously. Misled by selfish dreamings of personal life forever, we have neglected the true and practical immortality through the endless life of children's children. Seeking counsels of our own souls' perfection, we have despised and rejected the possible increasing perfection of unending generations. Or if we are thrown back in pessimistic despair from making living folk decent, we leap to idle speculations of a thousand years hereafter instead of working steadily and persistently for the next generation.

This world has never taken children’s education seriously. We have been misled by selfish dreams of our own eternal lives. So we have neglected the real, practical immortality that comes through the endless lives of our children’s children. We have sought guidance on perfecting our own souls. At the same time, we have despised and rejected the possible growing perfection of generations without end. Or, if we give up in despair on making people decent, we turn to idle speculation about life a thousand years from now. We do this instead of working steadily and persistently for the next generation.

All our problems center in the child. All our hopes, our dreams are for our children. Has our own life failed? Let its lesson save the children's lives from similar failure. Is democracy a failure? Train up citizens that will make it succeed. Is wealth too crude, too foolish in form, and too easily stolen? Train up workers with honor and consciences and brains. Have we degraded service with menials? Abolish the mean spirit and implant sacrifice. Do we despise women? Train them as workers and thinkers and not as playthings, lest future generations ape our worst mistake. Do we despise darker races? Teach the children its fatal cost in spiritual degradation and murder, teach them that to hate "niggers" or "chinks" is to crucify souls like their own. Is there anything we would accomplish with human beings? Do it with the immortal child, with a stretch of endless time for doing it and with infinite possibilities to work on.

All our problems center on the child. All our hopes and dreams are for our children. Have our own lives failed? Let their lessons save our children from similar failure. Is democracy a failure? Train citizens who will make it succeed. Is wealth too crude and foolish in form, and too easily stolen? Train workers with honor, consciences, and intelligence. Have we degraded service by treating servants as inferiors? Abolish that mean spirit and instill a spirit of sacrifice. Do we despise women? Train them as workers and thinkers, not as playthings. Otherwise, future generations will imitate our worst mistake. Do we despise darker races? Teach children the terrible price of that hatred: spiritual degradation and murder. Teach them that to hate "niggers" or "chinks" is to crucify souls like their own. Is there anything we want to accomplish with human beings? Do it with the immortal child, with endless time to do it and infinite possibilities to work with.

Is this our attitude toward education? It is not—neither in England nor America—in France nor Germany—with black nor white nor yellow folk. Education to the modern world is a burden which we are driven to carry. We shirk and complain. We do just as little as possible and only threat or catastrophe induces us to do more than a minimum. If the ignorant mass, panting to know, revolts, we dole them gingerly enough knowledge to pacify them temporarily. If, as in the Great War, we discover soldiers too ignorant to use our machines of murder and destruction, we train them—to use machines of murder and destruction. If mounting wealth calls for intelligent workmen, we rush tumultuously to train workers—in order to increase our wealth. But of great, broad plans to train all men for all things—to make a universe intelligent, busy, good, creative and beautiful—where in this wide world is such an educational program? To announce it is to invite gasps or Brobdingnagian laughter. It cannot be done. It will cost too much.

Is this our attitude toward education? It is not. It is not in England or America, in France or Germany, or among black, white, or yellow folk. To the modern world, education is a burden we are forced to carry. We avoid it and complain about it. We do as little as possible. Only a threat or a catastrophe makes us do more than the minimum. If the ignorant masses, eager to learn, revolt, we cautiously give them just enough knowledge to calm them temporarily. If, as in the Great War, we find soldiers too ignorant to use our machines of murder and destruction, we train them to use those machines. If growing wealth demands intelligent workers, we rush frantically to train workers in order to increase our wealth. But where in this wide world is there a great, broad plan to educate all men for all things? Where is the educational program to make a universe intelligent, busy, good, creative, and beautiful? To announce such a program is to invite gasps or Brobdingnagian laughter. It cannot be done. It will cost too much.

What has been done with man can be done with men, if the world tries long enough and hard enough. And as to the cost—all the wealth of the world, save that necessary for sheer decent existence and for the maintenance of past civilization, is, and of right ought to be, the property of the children for their education.

What has been done with one person can be done with many, if the world tries long enough and hard enough. As for the cost, all the world’s wealth belongs to children for their education, and rightfully so. The only exceptions are what is needed for a decent existence and to preserve the civilization built in the past.

I mean it. In one year, 1917, we spent $96,700,000,000 for war. We blew it away to murder, maim, and destroy! Why? Because the blind, brutal crime of powerful and selfish interests made this path through hell the only visible way to heaven. We did it. We had to do it, and we are glad the putrid horror is over. But, now, are we prepared to spend less to make a world in which the resurgence of such devilish power will be impossible?

I mean it. In 1917 alone, we spent $96,700,000,000 on war. We blew it away to murder, maim, and destroy! Why? Because powerful and selfish interests committed blind, brutal crimes. They made this path through hell the only visible way to heaven. We did it. We had to do it, and we are glad the rotten horror is over. But now, are we prepared to spend less to create a world where such devilish power cannot rise again?

Do we really want war to cease?

Do we really want war to end?

Then educate the children of this generation at a cost no whit less and if necessary a hundred times as great as the cost of the Great War.

Then educate the children of this generation at a cost no less than that of the Great War. If necessary, spend a hundred times as much.

Last year, 1917, education cost us $915,000,000.

Last year, in 1917, education cost us $915,000,000.

Next year it ought to cost us at least two thousand million dollars. We should spend enough money to hire the best teaching force possible—the best organizing and directing ability in the land, even if we have to strip the railroads and meat trust. We should dot city and country with the most efficient, sanitary, and beautiful school-houses the world knows and we should give every American child common school, high school, and college training and then vocational guidance in earning a living.

Next year it should cost us at least two billion dollars. We should spend enough to hire the best possible teachers and the best organizers and leaders in the country. We should do this even if we have to take them away from the railroads and the meat trust. We should build the most efficient, sanitary, and beautiful schools in the world throughout our cities and countryside. We should give every American child an elementary, high school, and college education. Then we should give them career guidance to help them earn a living.

Is this a dream?

Is this a dream?

Can we afford less?

Can we afford less?

Consider our so-called educational "problems"; "How may we keep pupils in the high school?" Feed and clothe them. "Shall we teach Latin, Greek, and mathematics to the 'masses'?" If they are worth teaching to anybody, the masses need them most. "Who shall go to college?" Everybody. "When shall culture training give place to technical education for work?" Never.

Consider our so-called educational "problems": "How can we keep students in high school?" Feed and clothe them. "Should we teach Latin, Greek, and math to the 'masses'?" If these subjects are worth teaching to anyone, the masses need them most. "Who should go to college?" Everybody. "When should education in culture give way to job training?" Never.

These questions are not "problems." They are simply "excuses" for spending less time and money on the next generation. Given ten millions of dollars a year, what can we best do with the education of a million children? The real answer is—kill nine hundred and ninety thousand of them quickly and not gradually, and make thoroughly-trained men and women of the other ten thousand. But who set the limit of ten million dollars? Who says it shall not be ten thousand millions, as it ought to be? You and I say it, and in saying it we sin against the Holy Ghost.

These questions are not "problems." They are simply "excuses" for spending less time and money on the next generation. If we have ten million dollars a year, how can we best educate a million children? The real answer is: kill nine hundred and ninety thousand of them quickly instead of gradually. Then make thoroughly trained men and women of the other ten thousand. But who set the limit at ten million dollars? Who says it should not be ten thousand million dollars, as it ought to be? You and I say it, and in saying it we sin against the Holy Ghost.

We sin because in our befuddled brains we have linked money and education inextricably. We assume that only the wealthy have a real right to education when, in fact, being born is being given a right to college training. Our wealth today is, we all know, distributed mainly by chance inheritance and personal favor and yet we attempt to base the right to education on this foundation. The result is grotesque! We bury genius; we send it to jail; we ridicule and mock it, while we send mediocrity and idiocy to college, gilded and crowned. For three hundred years we have denied black Americans an education and now we exploit them before a gaping world: See how ignorant and degraded they are! All they are fit for is education for cotton-picking and dish-washing. When Dunbar and Taylor happen along, we are torn between something like shamefaced anger or impatient amazement.

We sin because, in our confused minds, we have tied money and education inseparably together. We assume that only the wealthy have a real right to education. In fact, everyone has a right to a college education simply by being born. We all know that wealth today is distributed mainly through chance inheritance and personal favor. Yet we try to base the right to education on that foundation. The result is grotesque! We bury genius, send it to jail, and ridicule and mock it. Meanwhile, we send mediocrity and idiocy to college, decked in gold and crowned. For three hundred years, we have denied black Americans an education. Now we exploit them before a staring world: See how ignorant and degraded they are! All they are fit for is training in cotton picking and dishwashing. When Dunbar and Taylor come along, we are torn between something like shamefaced anger and impatient amazement.

A world guilty of this last and mightiest war has no right to enjoy or create until it has made the future safe from another Arkansas or Rheims. To this there is but one patent way, proved and inescapable, Education, and that not for me or for you but for the Immortal Child. And that child is of all races and all colors. All children are the children of all and not of individuals and families and races. The whole generation must be trained and guided and out of it as out of a huge reservoir must be lifted all genius, talent, and intelligence to serve all the world.

A world guilty of this last and greatest war has no right to enjoy or create anything until it has made the future safe from another Arkansas or Rheims. There is only one clear way to do this. It has been proven and cannot be avoided: education. That education must be not for me or for you, but for the Immortal Child. And that child is of all races and all colors. All children are the children of everyone, not of individuals, families, or races. The whole generation must be taught and guided. And from it, as from a vast reservoir, all genius, talent, and intelligence must be drawn out to serve the whole world.