5

The next morning I got out of the car at Jacksonville with a stiff and aching body. I determined to ask no more porters, not even my benefactor, about stopping-places; so I found myself on the street not knowing where to go. I walked along listlessly until I met a colored man who had the appearance of a preacher. I asked him if he could direct me to a respectable boarding-house for colored people. He said that if I walked along with him in the direction he was going, he would show me such a place: I turned and walked at his side. He proved to be a minister, and asked me a great many direct questions about myself. I answered as many as I saw fit to answer; the others I evaded or ignored. At length we stopped in front of a frame house, and my guide informed me that it was the place. A woman was standing in the doorway, and he called to her saying that he had brought her a new boarder. I thanked him for his trouble, and after he had urged upon, me to attend his church while I was in the city, he went on his way.

The next morning I got off the train at Jacksonville, stiff and aching. I had decided not to ask any more porters about places to stay, not even the man who had helped me. So I found myself on the street with no idea where to go. I wandered along until I met a colored man who looked like a preacher. I asked him if he could direct me to a respectable boarding house for colored people. He said he could show me one if I walked with him in the direction he was going. I turned and walked beside him. He turned out to be a minister and asked me many direct questions about myself. I answered as many as I wanted to and avoided or ignored the others. Finally, we stopped in front of a wooden house, and my guide told me this was the place. A woman stood in the doorway, and he called out that he had brought her a new boarder. I thanked him for his trouble. He urged me to attend his church while I was in the city, then went on his way.

I went in and found the house neat and not uncomfortable. The parlor was furnished with cane-bottomed chairs, each of which was adorned with a white crocheted tidy. The mantel over the fireplace had a white crocheted cover; a marble-topped center table held a lamp, a photograph album and several trinkets, each of which was set upon a white crocheted mat. There was a cottage organ in a corner of the room, and I noted that the lamp-racks upon it were covered with white crocheted mats. There was a matting on the floor, but a white crocheted carpet would not have been out of keeping. I made arrangements with the landlady for my board and lodging; the amount was, I think, three dollars and a half a week. She was a rather fine-looking, stout, brown-skin woman of about forty years of age. Her husband was a light-colored Cuban, a man about one half her size, and one whose age could not be guessed from his appearance. He was small in size, but a handsome black mustache and typical Spanish eyes redeemed him from insignificance.

I went in and found the house neat and reasonably comfortable. The parlor had cane-bottomed chairs, each decorated with a white crocheted cloth. The mantel over the fireplace had a white crocheted cover. A marble-topped table in the center of the room held a lamp, a photograph album, and several trinkets. Each sat on a white crocheted mat. A cottage organ stood in one corner, and I noticed that its lamp racks were covered with white crocheted mats. There was matting on the floor, but a white crocheted carpet would not have seemed out of place. I arranged with the landlady for room and board. I think the cost was three dollars and fifty cents a week. She was a rather fine-looking, stout, brown-skin woman of about forty. Her husband was a light-colored Cuban, about half her size. His appearance gave no clue to his age. He was small, but his handsome black mustache and typical Spanish eyes kept him from seeming insignificant.

I was in time for breakfast, and at the table I had the opportunity to see my fellow boarders. There were eight or ten of them. Two, as I afterwards learned, were colored Americans. All of them were cigar makers and worked in one of the large factories—cigar making is one trade in which the color line is not drawn. The conversation was carried on entirely in Spanish, and my ignorance of the language subjected me more to alarm than embarrassment. I had never heard such uproarious conversation; everybody talked at once, loud exclamations, rolling "carambas," menacing gesticulations with knives, forks, and spoons. I looked every moment for the clash of blows. One man was emphasizing his remarks by flourishing a cup in his hand, seemingly forgetful of the fact that it was nearly full of hot coffee. He ended by emptying it over what was, relatively, the only quiet man at the table excepting myself, bringing from him a volley of language which made the others appear dumb by comparison. I soon learned that in all of this clatter of voices and table utensils they were discussing purely ordinary affairs and arguing about mere trifles, and that not the least ill feeling was aroused. It was not long before I enjoyed the spirited chatter and badinage at the table as much as I did my meals—and the meals were not bad.

I arrived in time for breakfast, and at the table I got a look at my fellow boarders. There were eight or ten of them. Two, I later learned, were colored Americans. All of them made cigars and worked in one of the large factories. Cigar making is one trade where the color line is not drawn. The conversation was entirely in Spanish, and not knowing the language made me more alarmed than embarrassed. I had never heard such a noisy conversation. Everyone talked at once, shouting, rolling out carambas, and waving knives, forks, and spoons in a threatening way. I expected them to come to blows at any moment. One man waved a cup in his hand to emphasize his remarks. He seemed to have forgotten that it was nearly full of hot coffee. He ended up spilling it over the only man at the table who was relatively quiet, besides me. The man let loose a torrent of words that made the others seem silent by comparison. I soon learned that, amid all this clatter of voices and table utensils, they were discussing ordinary matters and arguing over trifles. None of it stirred up the least ill feeling. Before long, I enjoyed the lively chatter and banter at the table as much as I enjoyed my meals, and the meals were not bad.

I spent the afternoon in looking around the town. The streets were sandy, but were well-shaded by fine oak trees and far preferable to the clay roads of Atlanta. One or two public squares with green grass and trees gave the city a touch of freshness. That night after supper I spoke to my landlady and her husband about my intentions. They told me that the big winter hotels would not open within two months. It can easily be imagined what effect this news had on me. I spoke to them frankly about my financial condition and related the main fact of my misfortune in Atlanta. I modestly mentioned my ability to teach music and asked if there was any likelihood of my being able to get some scholars. My landlady suggested that I speak to the preacher who had shown me her house; she felt sure that through his influence I should be able to get up a class in piano. She added, however, that the colored people were poor, and that the general price for music lessons was only twenty-five cents. I noticed that the thought of my teaching white pupils did not even remotely enter her mind. None of this information made my prospects look much brighter.

I spent the afternoon looking around town. The streets were sandy, but fine oak trees shaded them well. They were much better than the clay roads of Atlanta. One or two public squares with green grass and trees gave the city a fresh look. That night after supper, I told my landlady and her husband about my plans. They told me the big winter hotels would not open for another two months. You can easily imagine how this news affected me. I spoke frankly about my financial situation and told them the main facts of my misfortune in Atlanta. I modestly mentioned that I could teach music and asked if I might be able to find some students. My landlady suggested that I speak to the preacher who had shown me her house. She felt sure that his influence would help me gather a piano class. She added, however, that colored people were poor and that music lessons generally cost only twenty-five cents. I noticed that the idea of my teaching white students never even crossed her mind. None of this information made my prospects look much brighter.

The husband, who up to this time had allowed the woman to do most of the talking, gave me the first bit of tangible hope; he said that he could get me a job as a "stripper" in the factory where he worked, and that if I succeeded in getting some music pupils, I could teach a couple of them every night, and so make a living until something better turned up. He went on to say that it would not be a bad thing for me to stay at the factory and learn my trade as a cigar maker, and impressed on me that, for a young man knocking about the country, a trade was a handy thing to have. I determined to accept his offer and thanked him heartily. In fact, I became enthusiastic, not only because I saw a way out of my financial troubles, but also because I was eager and curious over the new experience I was about to enter. I wanted to know all about the cigar making business. This narrowed the conversation down to the husband and myself, so the wife went in and left us talking.

Until then, the husband had let the woman do most of the talking. He gave me my first real hope. He said he could get me a job as a "stripper" at the factory where he worked. If I found some music students, I could teach a couple of them each night. That way, I could make a living until something better came along. He added that staying at the factory and learning the cigar maker’s trade would be a good idea. He stressed that a trade was useful for a young man traveling around the country. I decided to accept his offer and thanked him warmly. In fact, I grew enthusiastic, not only because I saw a way out of my financial troubles. I was also eager and curious about the new experience ahead of me. I wanted to know everything about the cigar-making business. The conversation now became focused on the husband and me, so his wife went inside and left us talking.

He was what is called a regalia workman, and earned from thirty-five to forty dollars a week. He generally worked a sixty-dollar job; that is, he made cigars for which he was paid at the rate of sixty dollars per thousand. It was impossible for him to make a thousand in a week because he had to work very carefully and slowly. Each cigar was made entirely by hand. Each piece of filler and each wrapper had to be selected with care. He was able to make a bundle of one hundred cigars in a day, not one of which could be told from the others by any difference in size or shape, or even by any appreciable difference in weight. This was the acme of artistic skill in cigar making. Workmen of this class were rare, never more than three or four in one factory, and it was never necessary for them to remain out of work. There were men who made two, three, and four hundred cigars of the cheaper grades in a day; they had to be very fast in order to make a decent week's wages. Cigar making was a rather independent trade; the men went to work when they pleased and knocked off when they felt like doing so. As a class the workmen were careless and improvident; some very rapid makers would not work more than three or four days out of the week, and there were others who never showed up at the factory on Mondays. "Strippers" were the boys who pulled the long stems from the tobacco leaves. After they had served at that work for a certain time they were given tables as apprentices.

He was what was called a regalia worker, and he earned thirty-five to forty dollars a week. He usually worked a sixty-dollar job. That meant he made cigars for which he was paid sixty dollars per thousand. He could not make a thousand in a week because he had to work very carefully and slowly. Each cigar was made entirely by hand. Each piece of filler and each wrapper had to be chosen carefully. He could make a bundle of one hundred cigars in a day. No one could tell them apart by size or shape, or even by any noticeable difference in weight. This was the highest level of artistic skill in cigar making. Workers of this class were rare. There were never more than three or four in one factory, and they never had to go without work. Other men made two, three, or four hundred cheaper cigars in a day. They had to be very fast to earn a decent week's wages. Cigar making was a fairly independent trade. The men came to work when they pleased and stopped when they felt like it. As a class, the workers were careless and did not plan for the future. Some very fast makers worked only three or four days a week. Others never showed up at the factory on Mondays. "Strippers" were the boys who pulled the long stems from the tobacco leaves. After working as strippers for a certain time, they were given tables and became apprentices.

All of this was interesting to me; and we drifted along in conversation until my companion struck the subject nearest his heart, the independence of Cuba. He was an exile from the island, and a prominent member of the Jacksonville Junta. Every week sums of money were collected from juntas all over the country. This money went to buy arms and ammunition for the insurgents. As the man sat there nervously smoking his long, "green" cigar, and telling me of the Gómezes, both the white one and the black one, of Macéo and Bandera, he grew positively eloquent. He also showed that he was a man of considerable education and reading. He spoke English excellently, and frequently surprised me by using words one would hardly expect from a foreigner. The first one of this class of words he employed almost shocked me, and I never forgot it; 'twas "ramify." We sat on the piazza until after ten o'clock. When we arose to go in to bed, it was with the understanding that I should start in the factory on the next day.

All of this interested me, and our conversation drifted along until my companion reached the subject closest to his heart: Cuban independence. He was an exile from the island and a prominent member of the Jacksonville Junta. Every week, juntas across the country collected money to buy arms and ammunition for the insurgents. The man sat there, nervously smoking his long, "green" cigar. He told me about the Gómezes, both the white one and the black one, and about Macéo and Bandera. He became truly eloquent. He also showed that he was well educated and well read. He spoke excellent English and often surprised me with words one would hardly expect a foreigner to use. The first such word he used almost shocked me, and I never forgot it. It was "ramify." We sat on the porch until after ten o'clock. When we got up to go to bed, we had agreed that I would start working at the factory the next day.

I began work the next morning seated at a barrel with another boy, who showed me how to strip the stems from the leaves, to smooth out each half leaf, and to put the "rights" together in one pile, and the "lefts" together in another pile on the edge of the barrel. My fingers, strong and sensitive from their long training, were well adapted to this kind of work, and within two weeks I was accounted the fastest "stripper" in the factory. At first the heavy odor of the tobacco almost sickened me, but when I became accustomed to it, I liked the smell. I was now earning four dollars a week, and was soon able to pick up a couple more by teaching a few scholars at night, whom I had secured through the good offices of the preacher I had met on my first morning in Jacksonville.

I began work the next morning, sitting at a barrel with another boy. He showed me how to strip the stems from the leaves and smooth out each half leaf. He also showed me how to put the "rights" in one pile and the "lefts" in another on the barrel’s edge. My fingers were strong and sensitive from years of training, so they were well suited to the work. Within two weeks, I was considered the fastest "stripper" in the factory. At first, the strong smell of tobacco almost made me sick. But once I got used to it, I liked it. I was now earning four dollars a week. Soon I was able to earn a couple of dollars more by teaching a few students at night. The preacher I had met on my first morning in Jacksonville had helped me find them.

At the end of about three months, through my skill as a "stripper" and the influence of my landlord, I was advanced to a table and began to learn my trade; in fact, more than my trade; for I learned not only to make cigars, but also to smoke, to swear, and to speak Spanish. I discovered that I had a talent for languages as well as for music. The rapidity and ease with which I acquired Spanish astonished my associates. In a short time I was able not only to understand most of what was said at the table during meals, but to join in the conversation. I bought a method for learning the Spanish language, and with the aid of my landlord as a teacher, by constant practice with my fellow workmen, and by regularly reading the Cuban newspapers and finally some books of standard Spanish literature which were at the house, I was able in less than a year to speak like a native. In fact, it was my pride that I spoke better Spanish than many of the Cuban workmen at the factory.

After about three months, my skill as a "stripper" and my landlord’s influence earned me a place at a worktable. I began to learn my trade, and more besides. I learned not only to make cigars, but also to smoke, swear, and speak Spanish. I discovered that I had a talent for languages as well as music. My coworkers were amazed at how quickly and easily I learned Spanish. Before long, I could understand most of what was said at the table during meals and join the conversation. I bought a Spanish textbook, and my landlord helped teach me. I practiced constantly with my fellow workers and regularly read Cuban newspapers. Eventually, I also read some books of classic Spanish literature that were at the house. In less than a year, I could speak like a native. In fact, I was proud that I spoke better Spanish than many of the Cuban workers at the factory.

After I had been in the factory a little over a year, I was repaid for all the effort I had put forth to learn Spanish by being selected as "reader." The "reader" is quite an institution in all cigar factories which employ Spanish-speaking workmen. He sits in the center of the large room in which the cigar makers work and reads to them for a certain number of hours each day all the important news from the papers and whatever else he may consider would be interesting. He often selects an exciting novel and reads it in daily installments. He must, of course, have a good voice, but he must also have a reputation among the men for intelligence, for being well-posted and having in his head a stock of varied information. He is generally the final authority on all arguments which arise, and in a cigar factory these arguments are many and frequent, ranging from the respective and relative merits of rival baseball clubs to the duration of the sun's light and energy—cigar making is a trade in which talk does not interfere with work. My position as "reader" not only released me from the rather monotonous work of rolling cigars, and gave me something more in accord with my tastes, but also added considerably to my income. I was now earning about twenty-five dollars a week, and was able to give up my peripatetic method of giving music lessons. I hired a piano and taught only those who could arrange to take their lessons where I lived. I finally gave up teaching entirely, as what I made scarcely paid for my time and trouble. I kept the piano, however, in order to keep up my own studies, and occasionally I played at some church concert or other charitable entertainment.

After I had worked in the factory for a little over a year, my efforts to learn Spanish paid off. I was chosen as "reader." The "reader" is an established part of all cigar factories that employ Spanish-speaking workers. He sits in the center of the large room where the cigar makers work. For several hours each day, he reads them all the important news from the papers. He also reads whatever else he thinks might interest them. He often chooses an exciting novel and reads it in daily installments. He must, of course, have a good voice. But the men must also know him as intelligent and well-informed, with a store of knowledge on many subjects. He is generally the final authority in all arguments that arise. In a cigar factory, these arguments are many and frequent. They range from the relative merits of rival baseball clubs to how long the sun's light and energy will last. Cigar making is a trade in which talking does not interfere with work. My position as "reader" freed me from the rather monotonous work of rolling cigars. It gave me work more suited to my tastes and also increased my income considerably. I was now earning about twenty-five dollars a week. I could stop traveling from place to place to give music lessons. I rented a piano and taught only those who could arrange to take lessons where I lived. Eventually, I gave up teaching altogether because what I earned hardly paid for my time and trouble. I kept the piano, however, so I could continue my own studies. Occasionally, I played at a church concert or another charitable entertainment.

Through my music teaching and my not absolutely irregular attendance at church, I became acquainted with the best class of colored people in Jacksonville. This was really my entrance into the race. It was my initiation into what I have termed the freemasonry of the race. I had formulated a theory of what it was to be colored; now I was getting the practice. The novelty of my position caused me to observe and consider things which, I think, entirely escaped the young men I associated with; or, at least, were so commonplace to them as not to attract their attention. And of many of the impressions which came to me then I have realized the full import only within the past few years, since I have had a broader knowledge of men and history, and a fuller comprehension of the tremendous struggle which is going on between the races in the South.

Through teaching music and attending church somewhat regularly, I came to know the best class of colored people in Jacksonville. This was truly my entrance into the race. It was my introduction to what I have called the freemasonry of the race. I had formed a theory of what it meant to be colored. Now I was experiencing it. Because my position was new to me, I noticed and thought about things the young men I knew seemed to miss entirely. Or at least, I think those things were so ordinary to them that they paid no attention. Only in the past few years have I understood the full meaning of many impressions I formed then. Since then, I have gained a broader knowledge of people and history. I have also come to understand more fully the tremendous struggle going on between the races in the South.

It is a struggle; for though the black man fights passively, he nevertheless fights; and his passive resistance is more effective at present than active resistance could possibly be. He bears the fury of the storm as does the willow tree.

It is a struggle. Though the black man fights passively, he still fights. For now, his passive resistance is more effective than active resistance could possibly be. He weathers the fury of the storm like a willow tree.

It is a struggle; for though the white man of the South may be too proud to admit it, he is, nevertheless, using in the contest his best energies; he is devoting to it the greater part of his thought and much of his endeavor. The South today stands panting and almost breathless from its exertions.

It is a struggle. Though the white man of the South may be too proud to admit it, he is giving the contest his best efforts. He devotes most of his thought and much of his effort to it. Today, the South is panting and almost breathless from its efforts.

And how the scene of the struggle has shifted! The battle was first waged over the right of the Negro to be classed as a human being with a soul; later, as to whether he had sufficient intellect to master even the rudiments of learning; and today it is being fought out over his social recognition.

And how the scene of the struggle has shifted! At first, the battle was over the Negro's right to be recognized as a human being with a soul. Later, it was over whether he had enough intellect to master even the basics of learning. Today, the battle is over his social recognition.

I said somewhere in the early part of this narrative that because the colored man looked at everything through the prism of his relationship to society as a colored man, and because most of his mental efforts ran through the narrow channel bounded by his rights and his wrongs, it was to be wondered at that he has progressed so broadly as he has. The same thing may be said of the white man of the South; most of his mental efforts run through one narrow channel; his life as a man and a citizen, many of his financial activities, and all of his political activities are impassably limited by the ever present "Negro question." I am sure it would be safe to wager that no group of Southern white men could get together and talk for sixty minutes without bringing up the "race question." If a Northern white man happened to be in the group, the time could be safely cut to thirty minutes. In this respect I consider the conditions of the whites more to be deplored than that of the blacks. Here, a truly great people, a people that produced a majority of the great historic Americans from Washington to Lincoln, now forced to use up its energies in a conflict as lamentable as it is violent.

Earlier in this narrative, I said that the colored man saw everything through his relationship to society as a colored man. Most of his mental efforts were confined to the narrow subject of his rights and the wrongs done to him. Given these limits, it was remarkable that he had made such broad progress. The same can be said of the white man of the South. Most of his mental efforts follow one narrow path. The ever present "Negro question" places limits he cannot overcome on his life as a man and a citizen. It also limits many of his financial activities and all of his political activities. I am sure I could safely wager that no group of Southern white men could talk for sixty minutes without raising the "race question." If a Northern white man happened to be in the group, I could safely cut that time to thirty minutes. In this respect, I consider the condition of the whites more deplorable than that of the blacks. Here is a truly great people, a people that produced a majority of the great historic Americans from Washington to Lincoln. Yet they are now forced to spend their energies on a conflict as lamentable as it is violent.

I shall give the observations I made in Jacksonville as seen through the light of after years; and they apply generally to every Southern community. The colored people may be said to be roughly divided into three classes, not so much in respect to themselves as in respect to their relations with the whites. There are those constituting what might be called the desperate class—the men who work in the lumber and turpentine camps, the ex-convicts, the bar-room loafers are all in this class. These men conform to the requirements of civilization much as a trained lion with low muttered growls goes through his stunts under the crack of the trainer's whip. They cherish a sullen hatred for all white men, and they value life as cheap. I have heard more than one of them say: "I'll go to hell for the first white man that bothers me." Many who have expressed that sentiment have kept their word, and it is that fact which gives such prominence to this class; for in numbers it is only a small proportion of the colored people, but it often dominates public opinion concerning the whole race. Happily, this class represents the black people of the South far below their normal physical and moral condition, but in its increase lies the possibility of grave dangers. I am sure there is no more urgent work before the white South, not only for its present happiness, but for its future safety, than the decreasing of this class of blacks. And it is not at all a hopeless class; for these men are but the creatures of conditions, as much so as the slum and criminal elements of all the great cities of the world are creatures of conditions. Decreasing their number by shooting and burning them off will not be successful; for these men are truly desperate, and thoughts of death, however terrible, have little effect in deterring them from acts the result of hatred or degeneracy. This class of blacks hate everything covered by a white skin, and in return they are loathed by the whites. The whites regard them just about as a man would a vicious mule, a thing to be worked, driven, and beaten, and killed for kicking.

I will describe my observations in Jacksonville in the light of later years. They apply generally to every Southern community. The colored people can be roughly divided into three classes, based less on their relations with one another than on their relations with the whites. One group makes up what might be called the desperate class. It includes men who work in lumber and turpentine camps, ex-convicts, and men who hang around bars. These men follow the rules of civilization much as a trained lion performs under the crack of a trainer's whip, muttering low growls. They harbor a sullen hatred of all white men, and they place little value on life. I have heard more than one of them say: "I'll go to hell for the first white man that bothers me." Many who have said this have kept their word, and that fact gives this class its prominence. For it makes up only a small proportion of the colored people, but it often shapes public opinion of the whole race. Fortunately, this class is far below the normal physical and moral condition of the black people of the South. But its growth could bring grave dangers. I am sure that the white South has no more urgent task than reducing the size of this class of blacks. This is necessary not only for its present happiness, but for its future safety. And this class is not at all hopeless. These men are products of their conditions, just as the people in the slums and criminal elements of all the world's great cities are products of theirs. Shooting and burning them to reduce their numbers will not work. These men are truly desperate, and thoughts of death, however terrible, do little to deter them from acts driven by hatred or degeneracy. This class of blacks hate everyone with white skin, and the whites loathe them in return. The whites regard them much as a man would regard a vicious mule: a thing to be worked, driven, and beaten, and killed for kicking.

The second class, as regards the relation between blacks and whites, comprises the servants, the washerwomen, the waiters, the cooks, the coachmen, and all who are connected with the whites by domestic service. These may be generally characterized as simple, kind-hearted, and faithful; not over-fine in their moral deductions, but intensely religious, and relatively—such matters can be judged only relatively—about as honest and wholesome in their lives as any other grade of society. Any white person is "good" who treats them kindly, and they love him for that kindness. In return, the white people with whom they have to do regard them with indulgent affection. They come into close daily contact with the whites, and may be called the connecting link between whites and blacks; in fact, it is through them that the whites know the rest of their colored neighbors. Between this class of the blacks and the whites there is little or no friction.

The second class, in terms of relations between blacks and whites, includes servants, washerwomen, waiters, cooks, coachmen, and all others who work in white households. They can generally be described as simple, kindhearted, and faithful. They are not very refined in their moral judgments, but they are deeply religious. Matters like honesty and wholesomeness can only be judged in comparison with others. By that measure, their lives are about as honest and wholesome as those of any other class in society. Any white person who treats them kindly is "good" in their eyes, and they love him for his kindness. In return, the white people they deal with regard them with indulgent affection. They have close daily contact with whites and may be called the link between whites and blacks. In fact, whites know the rest of their colored neighbors through them. There is little or no friction between this class of blacks and whites.

The third class is composed of the independent workmen and tradesmen, and of the well-to-do and educated colored people; and, strange to say, for a directly opposite reason they are as far removed from the whites as the members of the first class I mentioned. These people live in a little world of their own; in fact, I concluded that if a colored man wanted to separate himself from his white neighbors, he had but to acquire some money, education, and culture, and to live in accordance. For example, the proudest and fairest lady in the South could with propriety—and it is what she would most likely do—go to the cabin of Aunt Mary, her cook, if Aunt Mary was sick, and minister to her comfort with her own hands; but if Mary's daughter, Eliza, a girl who used to run round my lady's kitchen, but who has received an education and married a prosperous young colored man, were at death's door, my lady would no more think of crossing the threshold of Eliza's cottage than she would of going into a bar-room for a drink.

The third class consists of independent workers and tradesmen, and well-to-do, educated colored people. Strangely enough, they are just as far removed from whites as the first class I mentioned, but for the opposite reason. These people live in a little world of their own. In fact, I concluded that a colored man need only acquire money, education, and culture, and live accordingly, to separate himself from his white neighbors. For example, the proudest and fairest lady in the South could properly visit her cook, Aunt Mary, if she were sick. She would most likely go to Aunt Mary's cabin and care for her with her own hands. But suppose Mary's daughter, Eliza, were at death's door. Eliza used to run around the lady's kitchen, but she has since been educated and married a prosperous young colored man. The lady would no more think of entering Eliza's cottage than she would think of going into a barroom for a drink.

I was walking down the street one day with a young man who was born in Jacksonville, but had been away to prepare himself for a professional life. We passed a young white man, and my companion said to me: "You see that young man? We grew up together; we have played, hunted, and fished together; we have even eaten and slept together; and now since I have come back home, he barely speaks to me." The fact that the whites of the South despise and ill-treat the desperate class of blacks is not only explainable according to the ancient laws of human nature, but it is not nearly so serious or important as the fact that as the progressive colored people advance, they constantly widen the gulf between themselves and their white neighbors. I think that the white people somehow feel that colored people who have education and money, who wear good clothes and live in comfortable houses, are "putting on airs," that they do these things for the sole purpose of "spiting the white folks," or are, at best, going through a sort of monkey-like imitation. Of course, such feelings can only cause irritation or breed disgust. It seems that the whites have not yet been able to realize and understand that these people in striving to better their physical and social surroundings in accordance with their financial and intellectual progress are simply obeying an impulse which is common to human nature the world over. I am in grave doubt as to whether the greater part of the friction in the South is caused by the whites' having a natural antipathy to Negroes as a race, or an acquired antipathy to Negroes in certain relations to themselves. However that may be, there is to my mind no more pathetic side of this many-sided question than the isolated position into which are forced the very colored people who most need and who could best appreciate sympathetic cooperation; and their position grows tragic when the effort is made to couple them, whether or no, with the Negroes of the first class I mentioned.

One day I was walking down the street with a young man who had been born in Jacksonville. He had gone away to prepare for a professional career. We passed a young white man, and my companion said to me: "You see that young man? We grew up together. We have played, hunted, and fished together. We have even eaten and slept together. And now that I have come back home, he barely speaks to me." The whites of the South despise and mistreat the desperate class of blacks. That is understandable under the ancient laws of human nature. But it is far less serious or important than the widening gulf between progressive colored people and their white neighbors. As colored people advance, that gulf keeps growing. I think white people somehow feel that colored people with education and money are "putting on airs." These colored people wear good clothes and live in comfortable houses. White people seem to feel that they do these things solely to "spite the white folks." Or, at best, white people see them as imitating whites like monkeys. Of course, such feelings can only cause irritation or breed disgust. It seems that whites have not yet understood why these people strive to improve their living conditions and social surroundings. Their efforts reflect their financial and intellectual progress. They are simply following an impulse common to human nature throughout the world. I am very doubtful about what causes most of the friction in the South. It may be a natural dislike among whites of Negroes as a race. Or it may be a dislike they have acquired toward Negroes in certain relationships to themselves. Whatever the cause, this question has many sides. To my mind, none is more painful than the isolation forced on the very colored people who most need sympathetic cooperation. They are also the people who could best appreciate it. Their position becomes tragic when an effort is made to group them, whether they like it or not, with the Negroes of the first class I mentioned.

This latter class of colored people are well-disposed towards the whites, and always willing to meet them more than halfway. They, however, feel keenly any injustice or gross discrimination, and generally show their resentment. The effort is sometimes made to convey the impression that the better class of colored people fight against riding in "Jim Crow" cars because they want to ride with white people or object to being with humbler members of their own race. The truth is they object to the humiliation of being forced to ride in a particular car, aside from the fact that that car is distinctly inferior, and that they are required to pay full first-class fare. To say that the whites are forced to ride in the superior car is less than a joke. And, too, odd as it may sound, refined colored people get no more pleasure out of riding with offensive Negroes than anybody else would get.

This latter group of colored people is well disposed toward whites and always willing to meet them more than halfway. But they feel injustice or blatant discrimination keenly and generally show their resentment. Some try to suggest that the better class of colored people oppose riding in "Jim Crow" cars because they want to ride with white people. Others suggest that they object to riding with humbler members of their own race. The truth is that they object to the humiliation of being forced to ride in a particular car. Besides, that car is distinctly inferior, and they have to pay full first-class fare. To say that whites are forced to ride in the superior car is less than a joke. And, odd as it may sound, refined colored people get no more pleasure from riding with offensive Negroes than anyone else would.

I can realize more fully than I could years ago that the position of the advanced element of the colored race is often very trying. They are the ones among the blacks who carry the entire weight of the race question; it worries the others very little, and I believe the only thing which at times sustains them is that they know that they are in the right. On the other hand, this class of colored people get a good deal of pleasure out of life; their existence is far from being one long groan about their condition. Out of a chaos of ignorance and poverty they have evolved a social life of which they need not be ashamed. In cities where the professional and well-to-do class is large they have formed society—society as discriminating as the actual conditions will allow it to be; I should say, perhaps, society possessing discriminating tendencies which become rules as fast as actual conditions allow. This statement will, I know, sound preposterous, even ridiculous, to some persons; but as this class of colored people is the least known of the race it is not surprising. These social circles are connected throughout the country, and a person in good standing in one city is readily accepted in another. One who is on the outside will often find it a difficult matter to get in. I know personally of one case in which money to the extent of thirty or forty thousand dollars and a fine house, not backed up by a good reputation, after several years of repeated effort, failed to gain entry for the possessor. These people have their dances and dinners and card parties, their musicals, and their literary societies. The women attend social affairs dressed in good taste, and the men in dress suits which they own; and the reader will make a mistake to confound these entertainments with the "Bellman's Balls" and "Whitewashers' Picnics" and "Lime-kiln Clubs" with which the humorous press of the country illustrates "Cullud Sassiety."

I can now understand more fully than I could years ago how difficult life often is for the advanced members of the colored race. They are the ones among the blacks who carry the entire weight of the race question. It worries the others very little. I believe that at times, only their knowledge that they are in the right sustains them. On the other hand, this class of colored people gets a good deal of pleasure from life. Their lives are far from one long groan about their condition. Out of a chaos of ignorance and poverty, they have created a social life they need not be ashamed of. In cities with a large professional and well-to-do class, they have formed a society. It is as selective as conditions allow. Perhaps I should say that it has selective tendencies, which become rules as soon as conditions allow. I know this statement will sound absurd, even ridiculous, to some people. But that is not surprising, since this class of colored people is the least known of the race. These social circles are connected across the country. A person in good standing in one city is readily accepted in another. Someone outside these circles will often find it difficult to get in. I know of one person who had thirty or forty thousand dollars and a fine house, but not a good reputation. Even after several years of repeated efforts, that person failed to gain entry. These people have dances, dinners, card parties, musical events, and literary societies. Women attend social events dressed in good taste, and men wear dress suits they own. Readers would be wrong to confuse these entertainments with the "Bellman's Balls," "Whitewashers' Picnics," and "Lime-kiln Clubs" that the country's humorous press uses to illustrate "Cullud Sassiety."

Jacksonville, when I was there, was a small town, and the number of educated and well-to-do colored people was small; so this society phase of life did not equal what I have since seen in Boston, Washington, Richmond, and Nashville; and it is upon what I have more recently seen in these cities that I have made the observations just above. However, there were many comfortable and pleasant homes in Jacksonville to which I was often invited. I belonged to the literary society—at which we generally discussed the race question—and attended all of the church festivals and other charitable entertainments. In this way I passed three years which were not at all the least enjoyable of my life. In fact, my joy took such an exuberant turn that I fell in love with a young school teacher and began to have dreams of matrimonial bliss; but another turn in the course of my life brought these dreams to an end.

When I was in Jacksonville, it was a small town with few educated and well-to-do colored people. So its social life did not equal what I have since seen in Boston, Washington, Richmond, and Nashville. My observations just above are based on what I have more recently seen in those cities. Still, Jacksonville had many comfortable and pleasant homes where I was often invited. I belonged to the literary society, where we generally discussed the race question. I also attended all the church festivals and other charitable entertainments. In this way, I spent three years that were by no means the least enjoyable of my life. In fact, my joy became so exuberant that I fell in love with a young schoolteacher. I began to dream of a happy marriage, but another turn in my life brought those dreams to an end.

I do not wish to mislead my readers into thinking that I led a life in Jacksonville which would make copy for the hero of a Sunday-school library book. I was a hail fellow well met with all of the workmen at the factory, most of whom knew little and cared less about social distinctions. From their example I learned to be careless about money, and for that reason I constantly postponed and finally abandoned returning to Atlanta University. It seemed impossible for me to save as much as two hundred dollars. Several of the men at the factory were my intimate friends, and I frequently joined them in their pleasures. During the summer months we went almost every Monday on an excursion to a seaside resort called Pablo Beach. These excursions were always crowded. There was a dancing pavilion, a great deal of drinking, and generally a fight or two to add to the excitement. I also contracted the cigar maker's habit of riding around in a hack on Sunday afternoons. I sometimes went with my cigar maker friends to public balls that were given at a large hall on one of the main streets. I learned to take a drink occasionally and paid for quite a number that my friends took; but strong liquors never appealed to my appetite. I drank them only when the company I was in required it, and suffered for it afterwards. On the whole, though I was a bit wild, I can't remember that I ever did anything disgraceful, or, as the usual standard for young men goes, anything to forfeit my claim to respectability.

I do not want to mislead my readers into thinking my life in Jacksonville was fit for a Sunday school story. I was friendly with all the workers at the factory. Most of them knew little and cared even less about social distinctions. Following their example, I learned to be careless with money. For that reason, I kept putting off my return to Atlanta University and finally gave up on it. It seemed impossible for me to save even two hundred dollars. Several of the men at the factory were close friends, and I often joined them in their amusements. During the summer, we went almost every Monday on a trip to a seaside resort called Pablo Beach. These trips were always crowded. There was a dance hall, plenty of drinking, and usually a fight or two to add to the excitement. I also picked up the cigar makers' habit of riding around in a hired carriage on Sunday afternoons. Sometimes I went with my cigar maker friends to public dances held in a large hall on a main street. I learned to have a drink now and then and paid for quite a few drinks for my friends. But I never cared for strong liquor. I drank it only when the company I was with expected it, and I suffered afterward. On the whole, though I was a bit wild, I can't remember ever doing anything disgraceful. By the usual standards for young men, I did nothing that cost me my claim to respectability.

At one of the first public balls I attended I saw the Pullman car porter who had so kindly assisted me in getting to Jacksonville. I went immediately to one of my factory friends and borrowed fifteen dollars with which to repay the loan my benefactor had made me. After I had given him the money, and was thanking him, I noticed that he wore what was, at least, an exact duplicate of my lamented black and gray tie. It was somewhat worn, but distinct enough for me to trace the same odd design which had first attracted my eye. This was enough to arouse my strongest suspicions, but whether it was sufficient for the law to take cognizance of I did not consider. My astonishment and the ironical humor of the situation drove everything else out of my mind.

At one of the first public balls I attended, I saw the Pullman car porter who had kindly helped me reach Jacksonville. I immediately went to one of my factory friends and borrowed fifteen dollars to repay him. After I gave him the money, I thanked him. Then I noticed he was wearing a tie that was at least an exact copy of my much-missed black and gray one. It was somewhat worn, but I could still make out the same odd design that had first caught my eye. This was enough to make me deeply suspicious, but I did not stop to consider whether the law would find it sufficient evidence. My astonishment and the ironic humor of the situation drove everything else out of my mind.

These balls were attended by a great variety of people. They were generally given by the waiters of some one of the big hotels, and were often patronized by a number of hotel guests who came to "see the sights." The crowd was always noisy, but good-natured; there was much quadrille-dancing, and a strong-lunged man called figures in a voice which did not confine itself to the limits of the hall. It is not worth the while for me to describe in detail how these people acted; they conducted themselves in about the same manner as I have seen other people at similar balls conduct themselves. When one has seen something of the world and human nature, one must conclude, after all, that between people in like stations of life there is very little difference the world over.

A great variety of people attended these balls. The waiters at one of the big hotels usually hosted them. A number of hotel guests often attended to "see the sights." The crowd was always noisy but good-natured, and there was a lot of quadrille dancing. A man with a powerful voice called out the dance figures loudly enough to be heard outside the hall. There is no point in describing in detail how these people behaved. They acted much like other people I have seen at similar balls. Once you have seen something of the world and human nature, you must come to a conclusion. After all, there is very little difference between people in similar stations of life, wherever they are in the world.

However, it was at one of these balls that I first saw the cake-walk. There was a contest for a gold watch, to be awarded to the hotel head-waiter receiving the greatest number of votes. There was some dancing while the votes were being counted. Then the floor was cleared for the cake-walk. A half-dozen guests from some of the hotels took seats on the stage to act as judges, and twelve or fourteen couples began to walk for a sure enough, highly decorated cake, which was in plain evidence. The spectators crowded about the space reserved for the contestants and watched them with interest and excitement. The couples did not walk round in a circle, but in a square, with the men on the inside. The fine points to be considered were the bearing of the men, the precision with which they turned the corners, the grace of the women, and the ease with which they swung around the pivots. The men walked with stately and soldierly step, and the women with considerable grace. The judges arrived at their decision by a process of elimination. The music and the walk continued for some minutes; then both were stopped while the judges conferred; when the walk began again, several couples were left out. In this way the contest was finally narrowed down to three or four couples. Then the excitement became intense; there was much partisan cheering as one couple or another would execute a turn in extra elegant style. When the cake was finally awarded, the spectators were about evenly divided between those who cheered the winners and those who muttered about the unfairness of the judges. This was the cake-walk in its original form, and it is what the colored performers on the theatrical stage developed into the prancing movements now known all over the world, and which some Parisian critics pronounced the acme of poetic motion.

However, it was at one of these balls that I first saw the cake-walk. There was a contest for a gold watch. It would go to the hotel head-waiter who received the most votes. While the votes were being counted, there was some dancing. Then the floor was cleared for the cake-walk. Six guests from some of the hotels sat on the stage as judges. Twelve or fourteen couples began to walk, competing for a real, highly decorated cake that everyone could see. The spectators crowded around the space reserved for the contestants and watched with interest and excitement. The couples walked in a square, not a circle, with the men on the inside. The judges considered the men’s bearing and the precision of their turns at the corners. They also considered the women’s grace and the ease with which they swung around their partners. The men walked with stately, soldierly steps, and the women moved with considerable grace. The judges made their decision by eliminating couples. The music and the walk continued for several minutes. Then both stopped while the judges discussed the contestants. When the walk began again, several couples were left out. In this way, the contest was finally narrowed down to three or four couples. Then the excitement became intense. Supporters cheered loudly whenever their favorite couple made an especially elegant turn. When the cake was finally awarded, the spectators were about evenly divided. Some cheered the winners, while others muttered that the judges had been unfair. This was the cake-walk in its original form. Colored performers on the theatrical stage developed it into the prancing movements now known all over the world. Some Parisian critics called those movements the height of poetic motion.

There are a great many colored people who are ashamed of the cake-walk, but I think they ought to be proud of it. It is my opinion that the colored people of this country have done four things which refute the oft-advanced theory that they are an absolutely inferior race, which demonstrate that they have originality and artistic conception, and, what is more, the power of creating that which can influence and appeal universally. The first two of these are the Uncle Remus stories, collected by Joel Chandler Harris, and the Jubilee songs, to which the Fisk singers made the public and the skilled musicians of both America and Europe listen. The other two are ragtime music and the cake-walk. No one who has traveled can question the world-conquering influence of ragtime, and I do not think it would be an exaggeration to say that in Europe the United States is popularly known better by ragtime than by anything else it has produced in a generation. In Paris they call it American music. The newspapers have already told how the practice of intricate cake-walk steps has taken up the time of European royalty and nobility. These are lower forms of art, but they give evidence of a power that will some day be applied to the higher forms. In this measure, at least, and aside from the number of prominent individuals the colored people of the United States have produced, the race has been a world influence; and all of the Indians between Alaska and Patagonia haven't done as much.

Many colored people are ashamed of the cake-walk, but I think they should be proud of it. In my opinion, the colored people of this country have done four things that disprove a common theory. That theory says they are an absolutely inferior race. These four achievements show that colored people have originality and artistic vision. More than that, they show the power to create things that can influence and appeal to people everywhere. The first two are the Uncle Remus stories, collected by Joel Chandler Harris, and the Jubilee songs. The Fisk singers brought the Jubilee songs to the attention of the public and skilled musicians across America and Europe. The other two achievements are ragtime music and the cake-walk. No one who has traveled can doubt ragtime’s influence across the world. I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that Europeans know the United States best by its ragtime. They know it better than anything else the country has produced in a generation. In Paris, they call ragtime American music. Newspapers have already reported how European royalty and nobility have spent time practicing complex cake-walk steps. These are lower forms of art, but they show a power that will someday be applied to higher forms. In this way, at least, the race has influenced the world. And that is apart from the many prominent individuals the colored people of the United States have produced. All the Indians between Alaska and Patagonia have not done as much.

Just when I was beginning to look upon Jacksonville as my permanent home and was beginning to plan about marrying the young school teacher, raising a family, and working in a cigar factory the rest of my life, for some reason, which I do not now remember, the factory at which I worked was indefinitely shut down. Some of the men got work in other factories in town; some decided to go to Key West and Tampa, others made up their minds to go to New York for work. All at once a desire like a fever seized me to see the North again and I cast my lot with those bound for New York.

Just as I was beginning to think of Jacksonville as my permanent home, the factory where I worked closed indefinitely. I was beginning to plan to marry the young schoolteacher, raise a family, and work in a cigar factory for the rest of my life. I no longer remember why the factory closed. Some of the men found work at other factories in town. Some decided to go to Key West and Tampa, while others decided to go to New York for work. Suddenly, a feverish desire to see the North again seized me, and I joined those heading for New York.