10

Among the first of my fellow-passengers of whom I took any particular notice was a tall, broad-shouldered, almost gigantic, colored man. His dark-brown face was clean-shaven; he was well-dressed and bore a decidedly distinguished air. In fact, if he was not handsome, he at least compelled admiration for his fine physical proportions. He attracted general attention as he strode the deck in a sort of majestic loneliness. I became curious to know who he was and determined to strike up an acquaintance with him at the first opportune moment. The chance came a day or two later. He was sitting in the smoking-room, with a cigar, which had gone out, in his mouth, reading a novel. I sat down beside him and, offering him a fresh cigar, said: "You don't mind my telling you something unpleasant, do you?" He looked at me with a smile, accepted the proffered cigar, and replied in a voice which comported perfectly with his size and appearance: "I think my curiosity overcomes any objections I might have." "Well," I said, "have you noticed that the man who sat at your right in the saloon during the first meal has not sat there since?" He frowned slightly without answering my question. "Well," I continued, "he asked the steward to remove him; and not only that, he attempted to persuade a number of the passengers to protest against your presence in the dining-saloon." The big man at my side took a long draw from his cigar, threw his head back, and slowly blew a great cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. Then turning to me he said: "Do you know, I don't object to anyone's having prejudices so long as those prejudices don't interfere with my personal liberty. Now, the man you are speaking of had a perfect right to change his seat if I in any way interfered with his appetite or his digestion. I should have no reason to complain if he removed to the farthest corner of the saloon, or even if he got off the ship; but when his prejudice attempts to move me one foot, one inch, out of the place where I am comfortably located, then I object." On the word "object" he brought his great fist down on the table in front of us with such a crash that everyone in the room turned to look. We both covered up the slight embarrassment with a laugh and strolled out on the deck.

One of the first fellow passengers I noticed was a tall, broad-shouldered, almost gigantic colored man. His dark-brown face was clean-shaven. He was well dressed and had a distinctly distinguished air. In fact, even if he was not handsome, his fine build compelled admiration. He drew everyone’s attention as he strode across the deck in a kind of majestic loneliness. I wanted to know who he was and decided to meet him at the first opportunity. The chance came a day or two later. He was sitting in the smoking room, reading a novel, with an unlit cigar in his mouth. I sat down beside him, offered him a fresh cigar, and said: "You don't mind my telling you something unpleasant, do you?" He smiled at me and accepted the cigar. His voice suited his size and appearance perfectly as he replied: "I think my curiosity overcomes any objections I might have." "Well," I said, "have you noticed that the man who sat to your right during the first meal hasn’t sat there since?" He frowned slightly but did not answer. "Well," I continued, "he asked the steward to move him. And not only that, he tried to persuade several passengers to protest your presence in the dining room." The big man beside me took a long draw on his cigar. He threw his head back and slowly blew a great cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. Then he turned to me and said: "You know, I don't object to anyone having prejudices as long as they don't interfere with my personal liberty. The man you’re speaking of had every right to change his seat if I interfered with his appetite or digestion. I’d have no reason to complain if he moved to the farthest corner of the dining room. I wouldn’t complain even if he got off the ship. But when his prejudice tries to move me one foot, one inch, from the place where I’m comfortably settled, then I object." On the word "object," he brought his great fist down on the table in front of us. The crash was so loud that everyone in the room turned to look. We both covered our slight embarrassment with a laugh and strolled out onto the deck.

We walked the deck for an hour or more, discussing different phases of the Negro question. In referring to the race I used the personal pronoun "we"; my companion made no comment about it, nor evinced any surprise, except to raise his eyebrows slightly the first time he caught the significance of the word. He was the broadest-minded colored man I have ever talked with on the Negro question. He even went so far as to sympathize with and offer excuses for some white Southern points of view. I asked him what were his main reasons for being so hopeful. He replied: "In spite of all that is written, said, and done, this great, big, incontrovertible fact stands out—the Negro is progressing, and that disproves all the arguments in the world that he is incapable of progress. I was born in slavery, and at emancipation was set adrift a ragged, penniless bit of humanity. I have seen the Negro in every grade, and I know what I am talking about. Our detractors point to the increase of crime as evidence against us; certainly we have progressed in crime as in other things; what less could be expected? And yet, in this respect, we are far from the point which has been reached by the more highly civilized white race. As we continue to progress, crime among us will gradually lose much of its brutal, vulgar, I might say healthy, aspect, and become more delicate, refined, and subtle. Then it will be less shocking and noticeable, although more dangerous to society." Then dropping his tone of irony, he continued with some show of eloquence: "But, above all, when I am discouraged and disheartened, I have this to fall back on: if there is a principle of right in the world, which finally prevails, and I believe that there is; if there is a merciful but justice-loving God in heaven, and I believe that there is, we shall win; for we have right on our side, while those who oppose us can defend themselves by nothing in the moral law, nor even by anything in the enlightened thought of the present age."

We walked the deck for an hour or more, discussing different aspects of the Negro question. When I spoke of the race, I used the word "we". My companion said nothing about it and showed no surprise. He only raised his eyebrows slightly when he first understood what I meant by "we". He was the most open-minded colored man I have ever talked with about the Negro question. He even sympathized with and offered excuses for some white Southern points of view. I asked him why he was so hopeful. He replied: "Despite all that is written, said, and done, one great, undeniable fact stands out: the Negro is progressing. That disproves every argument that he is incapable of progress. I was born in slavery, and at emancipation I was set adrift, a ragged, penniless bit of humanity. I have seen the Negro at every level, and I know what I am talking about. Our critics point to the increase in crime as evidence against us. Of course, we have progressed in crime as in other things. What less could be expected? And yet, in crime, we are far from the point reached by the more highly civilized white race. As we continue to progress, crime among us will gradually lose much of its brutal, vulgar, I might say healthy, character. It will become more delicate, refined, and subtle. Then it will be less shocking and noticeable, although more dangerous to society." Then he set aside his irony and continued with some eloquence: "But above all, when I am discouraged and disheartened, I have this to fall back on. If there is a principle of right in the world that finally prevails, and I believe there is, we shall win. If there is a merciful but justice-loving God in heaven, and I believe there is, we shall win. For we have right on our side. Those who oppose us can find nothing in moral law to defend themselves. They cannot even find a defense in the enlightened thought of the present age."

For several days, together with other topics, we discussed the race problem, not only of the United States, but as it affected native Africans and Jews. Finally, before we reached Boston, our conversation had grown familiar and personal. I had told him something of my past and much about my intentions for the future. I learned that he was a physician, a graduate of Howard University, Washington, and had done post-graduate work in Philadelphia; and this was his second trip abroad to attend professional courses. He had practiced for some years in the city of Washington, and though he did not say so, I gathered that his practice was a lucrative one. Before we left the ship, he had made me promise that I would stop two or three days in Washington before going on south.

For several days, we discussed various topics, including the race problem. We talked about it not only in the United States, but also as it affected native Africans and Jews. By the time we reached Boston, our conversation had become familiar and personal. I had told him something about my past and much about my plans for the future. I learned that he was a physician who had graduated from Howard University in Washington. He had also done postgraduate work in Philadelphia. This was his second trip abroad to take professional courses. He had practiced medicine in Washington for some years. Though he did not say so, I gathered that he had a profitable practice. Before we left the ship, he made me promise to spend two or three days in Washington before continuing south.

We put up at a hotel in Boston for a couple of days and visited several of my new friend's acquaintances; they were all people of education and culture and, apparently, of means. I could not help being struck by the great difference between them and the same class of colored people in the South. In speech and thought they were genuine Yankees. The difference was especially noticeable in their speech. There was none of that heavy-tongued enunciation which characterizes even the best-educated colored people of the South. It is remarkable, after all, what an adaptable creature the Negro is. I have seen the black West Indian gentleman in London, and he is in speech and manners a perfect Englishman. I have seen natives of Haiti and Martinique in Paris, and they are more Frenchy than a Frenchman. I have no doubt that the Negro would make a good Chinaman, with exception of the pigtail.

We stayed at a hotel in Boston for a couple of days and visited several of my new friend's acquaintances. They were all educated, cultured, and apparently wealthy. I could not help noticing how different they were from colored people of the same class in the South. In speech and thought, they were genuine Yankees. The difference was especially noticeable in their speech. They spoke without the heavy-tongued pronunciation that marks even the best-educated colored people of the South. After all, it is remarkable how adaptable the Negro is. I have seen the black West Indian gentleman in London. In speech and manners, he is a perfect Englishman. I have seen natives of Haiti and Martinique in Paris, and they are more Frenchy than a Frenchman. I have no doubt that the Negro would make a good Chinaman, except for the pigtail.

My stay in Washington, instead of being two or three days, was two or three weeks. This was my first visit to the national capital, and I was, of course, interested in seeing the public buildings and something of the working of the government; but most of my time I spent with the doctor among his friends and acquaintances. The social phase of life among colored people is more developed in Washington than in any other city in the country. This is on account of the large number of individuals earning good salaries and having a reasonable amount of leisure time to draw from. There are dozens of physicians and lawyers, scores of school teachers, and hundreds of clerks in the departments. As to the colored department clerks, I think it fair to say that in educational equipment they average above the white clerks of the same grade; for, whereas a colored college graduate will seek such a job, the white university man goes into one of the many higher vocations which are open to him.

I stayed in Washington for two or three weeks instead of two or three days. It was my first visit to the national capital. Of course, I was interested in seeing the public buildings and something of how the government worked. But I spent most of my time with the doctor, among his friends and acquaintances. Social life among colored people is more developed in Washington than in any other city in the country. This is because so many people there earn good salaries and have a reasonable amount of leisure time. There are dozens of physicians and lawyers, scores of schoolteachers, and hundreds of clerks in the government departments. I think it is fair to say that colored department clerks are, on average, better educated than white clerks of the same grade. A colored college graduate will seek such a job. A white university graduate, however, goes into one of the many higher professions open to him.

In a previous chapter I spoke of social life among colored people; so there is no need to take it up again here. But there is one thing I did not mention: among Negroes themselves there is the peculiar inconsistency of a color question. Its existence is rarely admitted and hardly ever mentioned; it may not be too strong a statement to say that the greater portion of the race is unconscious of its influence; yet this influence, though silent, is constant. It is evidenced most plainly in marriage selection; thus the black men generally marry women fairer than themselves; while, on the other hand, the dark women of stronger mental endowment are very often married to light-complexioned men; the effect is a tendency toward lighter complexions, especially among the more active elements in the race. Some might claim that this is a tacit admission of colored people among themselves of their own inferiority judged by the color line. I do not think so. What I have termed an inconsistency is, after all, most natural; it is, in fact, a tendency in accordance with what might be called an economic necessity. So far as racial differences go, the United States puts a greater premium on color, or, better, lack of color, than upon anything else in the world. To paraphrase, "Have a white skin, and all things else may be added unto you." I have seen advertisements in newspapers for waiters, bell-boys, or elevator men, which read: "Light-colored man wanted." It is this tremendous pressure which the sentiment of the country exerts that is operating on the race. There is involved not only the question of higher opportunity, but often the question of earning a livelihood; and so I say it is not strange, but a natural tendency. Nor is it any more a sacrifice of self-respect that a black man should give to his children every advantage he can which complexion of the skin carries than that the new or vulgar rich should purchase for their children the advantages which ancestry, aristocracy, and social position carry. I once heard a colored man sum it up in these words: "It's no disgrace to be black, but it's often very inconvenient."

In an earlier chapter, I discussed social life among colored people, so there is no need to return to it here. But there is one thing I did not mention. Among Negroes themselves, there is the strange inconsistency of a color question. Its existence is rarely admitted and hardly ever mentioned. It may not be too strong to say that most of the race is unaware of its influence. Yet this influence, though silent, is constant. The influence is clearest in the choice of marriage partners. Black men generally marry women lighter than themselves. On the other hand, dark women with stronger intellectual abilities are very often married to light-complexioned men. The result is a tendency toward lighter complexions, especially among the more active members of the race. Some might claim that this is a silent admission by colored people that they are inferior because of their color. I do not think so. What I have called an inconsistency is, after all, quite natural. In fact, it is a tendency in keeping with what might be called an economic necessity. When it comes to racial differences, the United States values color, or rather, the lack of color, above everything else in the world. To paraphrase, "Have a white skin, and everything else may be added to you." I have seen newspaper advertisements for waiters, bellboys, or elevator operators that read: "Light-colored man wanted." The race feels the effects of the tremendous pressure created by the country's attitudes. The issue is not only greater opportunity, but often the ability to earn a living. So I say this tendency is not strange, but natural. A black man gives his children every advantage he can that comes with their skin color. That is no greater sacrifice of self-respect than when the newly rich or vulgar rich buy advantages for their children. Those advantages come with ancestry, aristocracy, and social position. I once heard a colored man sum it up in these words: "It's no disgrace to be black, but it's often very inconvenient."

Washington shows the Negro not only at his best, but also at his worst. As I drove around with the doctor, he commented rather harshly on those of the latter class which we saw. He remarked: "You see those lazy, loafing, good-for-nothing darkies; they're not worth digging graves for; yet they are the ones who create impressions of the race for the casual observer. It's because they are always in evidence on the street corners, while the rest of us are hard at work, and you know a dozen loafing darkies make a bigger crowd and a worse impression in this country than fifty white men of the same class. But they ought not to represent the race. We are the race, and the race ought to be judged by us, not by them. Every race and every nation should be judged by the best it has been able to produce, not by the worst."

Washington shows the Negro at both his best and his worst. As I drove around with the doctor, he spoke rather harshly about the worst among those we saw. He said: "You see those lazy, loafing, good-for-nothing darkies. They're not worth digging graves for. Yet they're the ones who shape the casual observer's impression of the race. That's because they're always visible on street corners, while the rest of us are hard at work. And you know that a dozen loafing darkies make a bigger crowd and a worse impression in this country than fifty white men of the same class. But they shouldn't represent the race. We are the race, and the race should be judged by us, not by them. Every race and every nation should be judged by the best it has produced, not by the worst."

The recollection of my stay in Washington is a pleasure to me now. In company with the doctor I visited Howard University, the public schools, the excellent colored hospital, with which he was in some way connected, if I remember correctly, and many comfortable and even elegant homes. It was with some reluctance that I continued my journey south. The doctor was very kind in giving me letters to people in Richmond and Nashville when I told him that I intended to stop in both of these cities. In Richmond a man who was then editing a very creditable colored newspaper gave me a great deal of his time and made my stay there of three or four days very pleasant. In Nashville I spent a whole day at Fisk University, the home of the "Jubilee Singers," and was more than repaid for my time. Among my letters of introduction was one to a very prosperous physician. He drove me about the city and introduced me to a number of people. From Nashville I went to Atlanta, where I stayed long enough to gratify an old desire to see Atlanta University again. I then continued my journey to Macon.

I now look back on my stay in Washington with pleasure. The doctor took me to Howard University, the public schools, and the excellent colored hospital. If I remember correctly, he had some connection to the hospital. We also visited many comfortable and even elegant homes. I was somewhat reluctant to continue my journey south. When I told the doctor I planned to stop in Richmond and Nashville, he kindly gave me letters of introduction to people in both cities. In Richmond, a man who was then editing a very respectable colored newspaper spent a great deal of time with me. He made my three or four days there very pleasant. In Nashville, I spent a whole day at Fisk University, the home of the "Jubilee Singers." It was more than worth the time. One of my letters of introduction was to a very prosperous physician. He drove me around the city and introduced me to a number of people. From Nashville I went to Atlanta. I stayed long enough to fulfill an old wish to see Atlanta University again. Then I continued my journey to Macon.

During the trip from Nashville to Atlanta I went into the smoking-compartment of the car to smoke a cigar. I was traveling in a Pullman, not because of an abundance of funds, but because through my experience with my millionaire a certain amount of comfort and luxury had become a necessity to me whenever it was obtainable. When I entered the car, I found only a couple of men there; but in a half-hour there were half a dozen or more. From the general conversation I learned that a fat Jewish-looking man was a cigar manufacturer, and was experimenting in growing Havana tobacco in Florida; that a slender bespectacled young man was from Ohio and a professor in some State institution in Alabama; that a white-mustached, well-dressed man was an old Union soldier who had fought through the Civil War; and that a tall, raw-boned, red-faced man, who seemed bent on leaving nobody in ignorance of the fact that he was from Texas, was a cotton planter.

On the trip from Nashville to Atlanta, I went into the smoking compartment to smoke a cigar. I was traveling in a Pullman, not because I had plenty of money. My time with my millionaire had made some comfort and luxury a necessity whenever I could get them. When I entered the compartment, only two men were there. But within half an hour, there were six or more. From the conversation, I learned that a fat Jewish-looking man was a cigar manufacturer. He was experimenting with growing Havana tobacco in Florida. A slender young man with glasses was from Ohio and taught at a state institution in Alabama. A well-dressed man with a white mustache was an old Union soldier who had fought throughout the Civil War. A tall, bony, red-faced man was a cotton planter. He seemed determined to make sure everyone knew he was from Texas.

In the North men may ride together for hours in a "smoker" and unless they are acquainted with each other never exchange a word; in the South men thrown together in such manner are friends in fifteen minutes. There is always present a warm-hearted cordiality which will melt down the most frigid reserve. It may be because Southerners are very much like Frenchmen in that they must talk; and not only must they talk, but they must express their opinions.

In the North, men may ride together for hours in a "smoker" without exchanging a word, unless they know each other. In the South, men thrown together this way are friends in fifteen minutes. There is always a warmth and friendliness that can melt even the coldest reserve. This may be because Southerners are much like Frenchmen in their need to talk. And they must not only talk, but also express their opinions.

The talk in the car was for a while miscellaneous—on the weather, crops, business prospects; the old Union soldier had invested capital in Atlanta, and he predicted that that city would soon be one of the greatest in the country. Finally the conversation drifted to politics; then, as a natural sequence, turned upon the Negro question.

For a while, people in the car talked about various things: the weather, crops, and business prospects. The old Union soldier had invested money in Atlanta. He predicted that the city would soon be one of the greatest in the country. Finally, the conversation drifted to politics. From there, it naturally turned to the Negro question.

In the discussion of the race question the diplomacy of the Jew was something to be admired; he had the faculty of agreeing with everybody without losing his allegiance to any side. He knew that to sanction Negro oppression would be to sanction Jewish oppression and would expose him to a shot along that line from the old soldier, who stood firmly on the ground of equal rights and opportunity to all men; long traditions and business instincts told him when in Rome to act as a Roman. Altogether his position was a delicate one, and I gave him credit for the skill he displayed in maintaining it. The young professor was apologetic. He had had the same views as the G.A.R. man; but a year in the South had opened his eyes, and he had to confess that the problem could hardly be handled any better than it was being handled by the Southern whites. To which the G.A.R. man responded somewhat rudely that he had spent ten times as many years in the South as his young friend and that he could easily understand how holding a position in a State institution in Alabama would bring about a change of views. The professor turned very red and had very little more to say. The Texan was fierce, eloquent, and profane in his argument, and, in a lower sense, there was a direct logic in what he said, which was convincing; it was only by taking higher ground, by dealing in what Southerners call "theories," that he could be combated. Occasionally some one of the several other men in the "smoker" would throw in a remark to reinforce what he said, but he really didn't need any help; he was sufficient in himself.

In the discussion of the race question, the Jew’s diplomacy was admirable. He could agree with everyone without abandoning his loyalty to any side. He knew that approving Negro oppression would mean approving Jewish oppression. It would also leave him open to attack on that point by the old soldier. The soldier stood firmly for equal rights and opportunities for all men. Long traditions and business instincts told the Jew that when in Rome, he should act as a Roman. His position was delicate, and I gave him credit for the skill with which he maintained it. The young professor was apologetic. He had once shared the G.A.R. man’s views, but a year in the South had opened his eyes. He had to admit that the problem could hardly be handled better than Southern whites were handling it. The G.A.R. man responded somewhat rudely. He said he had spent ten times as many years in the South as his young friend. He could easily understand how a position at an Alabama State institution might change a man’s views. The professor turned very red and had little more to say. The Texan argued fiercely, eloquently, and with plenty of profanity. In a lower sense, his words had a direct logic that was convincing. He could only be challenged by taking higher ground and using what Southerners call "theories." Now and then, one of the other men in the "smoker" would add a remark to support him. But he really needed no help. He was enough on his own.

In the course of a short time the controversy narrowed itself down to an argument between the old soldier and the Texan. The latter maintained hotly that the Civil War was a criminal mistake on the part of the North and that the humiliation which the South suffered during Reconstruction could never be forgotten. The Union man retorted just as hotly that the South was responsible for the war and that the spirit of unforgetfulness on its part was the greatest cause of present friction; that it seemed to be the one great aim of the South to convince the North that the latter made a mistake in fighting to preserve the Union and liberate the slaves. "Can you imagine," he went on to say, "what would have been the condition of things eventually if there had been no war, and the South had been allowed to follow its course? Instead of one great, prosperous country with nothing before it but the conquests of peace, a score of petty republics, as in Central and South America, wasting their energies in war with each other or in revolutions."

Before long, the debate became an argument between the old soldier and the Texan. The Texan argued heatedly that the North had made a criminal mistake by fighting the Civil War. He also said the South could never forget the humiliation it suffered during Reconstruction. The Union man replied just as heatedly that the South was responsible for the war. He said the South’s refusal to forget was the greatest cause of friction today. It seemed that the South’s main goal was to convince the North that it had been wrong to fight. The North had fought to preserve the Union and free the slaves. "Can you imagine," he continued, "what would eventually have happened if there had been no war and the South had been allowed to go its own way? Instead of one great, prosperous country with nothing ahead of it but peaceful achievements, there would be twenty petty republics. They would be like those in Central and South America, wasting their energy on wars with one another or revolutions."

"Well," replied the Texan, "anything—no country at all—is better than having niggers over you. But anyhow, the war was fought and the niggers were freed; for it's no use beating around the bush, the niggers, and not the Union, was the cause of it; and now do you believe that all the niggers on earth are worth the good white blood that was spilt? You freed the nigger and you gave him the ballot, but you couldn't make a citizen out of him. He don't know what he's voting for, and we buy 'em like so many hogs. You're giving 'em education, but that only makes slick rascals out of 'em."

"Well," replied the Texan, "anything is better than having niggers over you, even having no country at all. But anyway, the war was fought and the niggers were freed. There's no use avoiding the truth. The niggers, not the Union, were the cause of the war. Now, do you believe all the niggers on earth are worth the good white blood that was spilled? You freed the nigger and gave him the vote, but you couldn't make a citizen out of him. He doesn't know what he's voting for, and we buy them like hogs. You're giving them education, but that only turns them into slick rascals."

"Don't fancy for a moment," said the Northern man, "that you have any monopoly in buying ignorant votes. The same thing is done on a larger scale in New York and Boston, and in Chicago and San Francisco; and they are not black votes either. As to education's making the Negro worse, you might just as well tell me that religion does the same thing. And, by the way, how many educated colored men do you know personally?"

"Don't think for a moment," said the Northern man, "that you are the only ones who buy ignorant people's votes. The same thing happens on a larger scale in New York, Boston, Chicago, and San Francisco. And those aren't black votes, either. As for education making the Negro worse, you might as well tell me that religion does the same thing. And, by the way, how many educated colored men do you know personally?"

The Texan admitted that he knew only one, and added that he was in the penitentiary. "But," he said, "do you mean to claim, ballot or no ballot, education or no education, that niggers are the equals of white men?"

The Texan admitted that he knew only one, and that he was in prison. "But," he said, "are you claiming that niggers are equal to white men, whether they can vote or not, whether they're educated or not?"

"That's not the question," answered the other, "but if the Negro is so distinctly inferior, it is a strange thing to me that it takes such tremendous effort on the part of the white man to make him realize it, and to keep him in the same place into which inferior men naturally fall. However, let us grant for sake of argument that the Negro is inferior in every respect to the white man; that fact only increases our moral responsibility in regard to our actions toward him. Inequalities of numbers, wealth, and power, even of intelligence and morals, should make no difference in the essential rights of men."

"That's not the question," the other replied. "But if the Negro is so clearly inferior, why must the white man work so hard to make him realize it? And why must he work so hard to keep the Negro in the place inferior men naturally fall into? Still, let's assume for the sake of argument that the Negro is inferior to the white man in every way. That would only increase our moral responsibility for how we treat him. Differences in numbers, wealth, and power should make no difference to men's essential rights. Nor should differences in intelligence or morals."

"If he's inferior and weaker, and is shoved to the wall, that's his own look-out," said the Texan. "That's the law of nature; and he's bound to go to the wall; for no race in the world has ever been able to stand competition with the Anglo-Saxon. The Anglo-Saxon race has always been and always will be the masters of the world, and the niggers in the South ain't going to change all the records of history."

"If he's inferior and weaker and gets pushed aside, that's his own problem," said the Texan. "That's the law of nature. And he's bound to be pushed aside, because no race in the world has ever been able to compete with the Anglo-Saxon. The Anglo-Saxon race has always been and always will be the masters of the world. And the niggers in the South ain't going to change all the records of history."

"My friend," said the old soldier slowly, "if you have studied history, will you tell me, as confidentially between white men, what the Anglo-Saxon has ever done?"

"My friend," the old soldier said slowly, "if you have studied history, can you tell me something? Just between white men, what has the Anglo-Saxon ever done?"

The Texan was too much astonished by the question to venture any reply.

The Texan was too surprised by the question to attempt an answer.

His opponent continued: "Can you name a single one of the great fundamental and original intellectual achievements which have raised man in the scale of civilization that may be credited to the Anglo-Saxon? The art of letters, of poetry, of music, of sculpture, of painting, of the drama, of architecture; the science of mathematics, of astronomy, of philosophy, of logic, of physics, of chemistry, the use of the metals, and the principles of mechanics, were all invented or discovered by darker and what we now call inferior races and nations. We have carried many of these to their highest point of perfection, but the foundation was laid by others. Do you know the only original contribution to civilization we can claim is what we have done in steam and electricity and in making implements of war more deadly? And there we worked largely on principles which we did not discover. Why, we didn't even originate the religion we use. We are a great race, the greatest in the world today, but we ought to remember that we are standing on a pile of past races, and enjoy our position with a little less show of arrogance. We are simply having our turn at the game, and we were a long time getting to it. After all, racial supremacy is merely a matter of dates in history. The man here who belongs to what is, all in all, the greatest race the world ever produced, is almost ashamed to own it. If the Anglo-Saxon is the source of everything good and great in the human race from the beginning, why wasn't the German forest the birthplace of civilization, rather than the valley of the Nile?"

His opponent continued: "Can you name one great, original intellectual achievement by Anglo-Saxons that has helped raise humanity's level of civilization? The arts of writing, poetry, music, sculpture, painting, drama, and architecture were all invented by darker races and nations. They also discovered mathematics, astronomy, philosophy, logic, physics, chemistry, the use of metals, and the principles of mechanics. We now call those races and nations inferior. We have brought many of these arts and sciences to their highest level of perfection, but others laid the foundation. Do you know that our only original contribution to civilization is our work on steam and electricity and more deadly weapons? Even there, we worked largely on principles we did not discover. We didn't even create the religion we practice. "We are a great race, the greatest in the world today. But we should remember that we stand on a pile of past races. We should enjoy our position with a little less arrogance. We are simply taking our turn at the game, and it took us a long time to get there. After all, racial supremacy is merely a matter of dates in history. The man here who belongs to what is, all in all, the greatest race the world ever produced is almost ashamed to admit it. If the Anglo-Saxon has been the source of everything good and great in humanity from the beginning, why wasn't civilization born in the German forest instead of the valley of the Nile?"

The Texan was somewhat disconcerted, for the argument had passed a little beyond his limits, but he swung it back to where he was sure of his ground by saying: "All that may be true, but it hasn't got much to do with us and the niggers here in the South. We've got 'em here, and we've got 'em to live with, and it's a question of white man or nigger, no middle ground. You want us to treat niggers as equals. Do you want to see 'em sitting around in our parlors? Do you want to see a mulatto South? To bring it right home to you, would you let your daughter marry a nigger?"

The Texan was a little uneasy because the argument had gone beyond what he knew. But he brought it back to familiar ground. He said: "All that may be true, but it doesn't have much to do with us and the niggers here in the South. We have them here, and we have to live with them. It's a question of white man or nigger, with no middle ground. You want us to treat niggers as equals. Do you want to see them sitting around in our living rooms? Do you want to see a mulatto South? To make it personal, would you let your daughter marry a nigger?"

"No, I wouldn't consent to my daughter's marrying a nigger, but that doesn't prevent my treating a black man fairly. And I don't see what fair treatment has to do with niggers sitting around in your parlors; they can't come there unless they're invited. Out of all the white men I know, only a hundred or so have the privilege of sitting around in my parlor. As to the mulatto South, if you Southerners have one boast that is stronger than another, it is your women; you put them on a pinnacle of purity and virtue and bow down in a chivalric worship before them; yet you talk and act as though, should you treat the Negro fairly and take the anti-inter-marriage laws off your statute books, these same women would rush into the arms of black lovers and husbands. It's a wonder to me that they don't rise up and resent the insult."

"No, I wouldn't agree to my daughter marrying a nigger, but that doesn't stop me from treating a black man fairly. And I don't see what fair treatment has to do with niggers sitting in your parlors. They can't come into your parlors unless they're invited. Of all the white men I know, only about a hundred have the privilege of sitting in my parlor. As for the mulatto South, if you Southerners boast about anything more than anything else, it's your women. You put them on a pedestal of purity and virtue and bow down before them in chivalrous worship. Yet you talk and act as though those same women would rush into the arms of black lovers and husbands. You act as though they would do this if you treated the Negro fairly and repealed the laws against interracial marriage. I'm surprised the women don't rise up and protest the insult."

"Colonel," said the Texan, as he reached into his handbag and brought out a large flask of whisky, "you might argue from now until hell freezes over, and you might convince me that you're right, but you'll never convince me that I'm wrong. All you say sounds very good, but it's got nothing to do with facts. You can say what men ought to be, but they ain't that; so there you are. Down here in the South we're up against facts, and we're meeting 'em like facts. We don't believe the nigger is or ever will be the equal of the white man, and we ain't going to treat him as an equal; I'll be damned if we will. Have a drink." Everybody except the professor partook of the generous Texan's flask, and the argument closed in a general laugh and good feeling.

"Colonel," said the Texan, reaching into his handbag and pulling out a large flask of whisky, "you might argue from now until hell freezes over. You might convince me that you're right, but you'll never convince me that I'm wrong. Everything you say sounds very good, but it's got nothing to do with facts. You can say what men ought to be, but they ain't that. So there you are. Down here in the South, we're dealing with facts, and we're treating them as facts. We don't believe the nigger is or ever will be the equal of the white man. And we ain't going to treat him as an equal. I'll be damned if we will. Have a drink." Everyone except the professor drank from the generous Texan's flask. The argument ended with everyone laughing and in good spirits.

I went back into the main part of the car with the conversation on my mind. Here I had before me the bald, raw, naked aspects of the race question in the South; and, in consideration of the step I was just taking, it was far from encouraging. The sentiments of the Texan—and he expressed the sentiments of the South—fell upon me like a chill. I was sick at heart. Yet I must confess that underneath it all I felt a certain sort of admiration for the man who could not be swayed from what he held as his principles. Contrasted with him, the young Ohio professor was indeed a pitiable character. And all along, in spite of myself, I have been compelled to accord the same kind of admiration to the Southern white man for the manner in which he defends not only his virtues, but his vices. He knows that, judged by a high standard, he is narrow and prejudiced, that he is guilty of unfairness, oppression, and cruelty, but this he defends as stoutly as he would his better qualities. This same spirit obtains in a great degree among the blacks; they, too, defend their faults and failings. This they generally do whenever white people are concerned. And yet among themselves they are their own most merciless critics. I have never heard the race so terribly arraigned as I have by colored speakers to strictly colored audiences. It is the spirit of the South to defend everything belonging to it. The North is too cosmopolitan and tolerant for such a spirit. If you should say to an Easterner that Paris is a gayer city than New York, he would be likely to agree with you, or at least to let you have your own way; but to suggest to a South Carolinian that Boston is a nicer city to live in than Charleston would be to stir his greatest depths of argument and eloquence.

I went back into the main part of the car, still thinking about the conversation. I had seen the race question in the South in its barest, rawest form. Considering the step I was about to take, it was far from encouraging. The Texan’s views, which were those of the South, chilled me. I felt sick at heart. Yet I must confess that, beneath it all, I felt a kind of admiration for him. He could not be swayed from what he held to be his principles. Compared with him, the young Ohio professor was indeed a pitiful figure. All along, despite myself, I have felt the same kind of admiration for the Southern white man. He defends not only his virtues, but his vices. He knows that, by a high standard, he is narrow-minded and prejudiced. He knows he is guilty of unfairness, oppression, and cruelty. But he defends these faults as firmly as he would his better qualities. This same spirit is common among the blacks. They, too, defend their faults and failings. They generally do so whenever white people are involved. Yet among themselves, they are their own harshest critics. I have never heard such severe criticism of the race as I have heard from colored speakers addressing strictly colored audiences. It is the spirit of the South to defend everything that belongs to it. The North is too cosmopolitan and tolerant for that kind of spirit. If you told an Easterner that Paris is a livelier city than New York, he would likely agree. Or he would at least let you have your opinion. But suggest to a South Carolinian that Boston is a nicer city to live in than Charleston, and you would stir him to his deepest powers of argument and eloquence.

But to-day, as I think over that smoking-car argument, I can see it in a different light. The Texan's position does not render things so hopeless, for it indicates that the main difficulty of the race question does not lie so much in the actual condition of the blacks as it does in the mental attitude of the whites; and a mental attitude, especially one not based on truth, can be changed more easily than actual conditions. That is to say, the burden of the question is not that the whites are struggling to save ten million despondent and moribund people from sinking into a hopeless slough of ignorance, poverty, and barbarity in their very midst, but that they are unwilling to open certain doors of opportunity and to accord certain treatment to ten million aspiring, education-and-property-acquiring people. In a word, the difficulty of the problem is not so much due to the facts presented as to the hypothesis assumed for its solution. In this it is similar to the problem of the solar system. By a complex, confusing, and almost contradictory mathematical process, by the use of zigzags instead of straight lines, the earth can be proved to be the center of things celestial; but by an operation so simple that it can be comprehended by a schoolboy, its position can be verified among the other worlds which revolve about the sun, and its movements harmonized with the laws of the universe. So, when the white race assumes as a hypothesis that it is the main object of creation and that all things else are merely subsidiary to its well-being, sophism, subterfuge, perversion of conscience, arrogance, injustice, oppression, cruelty, sacrifice of human blood, all are required to maintain the position, and its dealings with other races become indeed a problem, a problem which, if based on a hypothesis of common humanity, could be solved by the simple rules of justice.

But today, when I think back on that smoking-car argument, I see it differently. The Texan's position does not make things so hopeless. It suggests that the main difficulty of the race question lies less in the actual condition of the blacks than in the attitude of the whites. And an attitude, especially one not based on truth, can be changed more easily than actual conditions. The heart of the question is not that the whites are struggling to save ten million despairing and dying people. They are not trying to keep them from sinking into hopeless ignorance, poverty, and barbarity in their very midst. Rather, the whites are unwilling to open certain doors of opportunity to ten million people who have aspirations and are gaining education and property. They are also unwilling to give these people certain treatment. In short, the difficulty lies less in the facts than in the assumption used to solve the problem. In this, the problem resembles that of the solar system. A complex, confusing, and almost contradictory mathematical process can prove that the earth is the center of the heavens. But this process uses zigzags instead of straight lines. A method simple enough for a schoolboy to understand can confirm the earth's place among the other worlds that revolve around the sun. It can also show that the earth's movements agree with the laws of the universe. So, when the white race assumes that it is the main object of creation, it also assumes that everything else exists merely to serve its well-being. To maintain that position requires false reasoning, deceit, the twisting of conscience, arrogance, injustice, oppression, cruelty, and the shedding of human blood. Its dealings with other races then become a real problem. But if those dealings were based on the assumption of a common humanity, the problem could be solved by the simple rules of justice.

When I reached Macon, I decided to leave my trunk and all my surplus belongings, to pack my bag, and strike out into the interior. This I did; and by train, by mule and ox-cart, I traveled through many counties. This was my first real experience among rural colored people, and all that I saw was interesting to me; but there was a great deal which does not require description at my hands; for log cabins and plantations and dialect-speaking "darkies" are perhaps better known in American literature than any other single picture of our national life. Indeed, they form an ideal and exclusive literary concept of the American Negro to such an extent that it is almost impossible to get the reading public to recognize him in any other setting; so I shall endeavor to avoid giving the reader any already overworked and hackneyed descriptions. This generally accepted literary ideal of the American Negro constitutes what is really an obstacle in the way of the thoughtful and progressive element of the race. His character has been established as a happy-go-lucky, laughing, shuffling, banjo-picking being, and the reading public has not yet been prevailed upon to take him seriously. His efforts to elevate himself socially are looked upon as a sort of absurd caricature of "white civilization." A novel dealing with colored people who lived in respectable homes and amidst a fair degree of culture and who naturally acted "just like white folks" would be taken in a comic-opera sense. In this respect the Negro is much in the position of a great comedian who gives up the lighter roles to play tragedy. No matter how well he may portray the deeper passions, the public is loath to give him up in his old character; they even conspire to make him a failure in serious work, in order to force him back into comedy. In the same respect, the public is not too much to be blamed, for great comedians are far more scarce than mediocre tragedians; every amateur actor is a tragedian. However, this very fact constitutes the opportunity of the future Negro novelist and poet to give the country something new and unknown, in depicting the life, the ambitions, the struggles, and the passions of those of their race who are striving to break the narrow limits of traditions. A beginning has already been made in that remarkable book by Dr. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk.

When I reached Macon, I decided to leave my trunk and extra belongings behind. I packed my bag and set out into the interior. I traveled through many counties by train, mule, and ox-cart. This was my first real experience among rural colored people, and everything I saw interested me. But much of it needs no description from me. Log cabins, plantations, and dialect-speaking "darkies" are perhaps better known in American literature than any other single picture of our national life. Indeed, they have become an idealized and exclusive literary image of the American Negro. As a result, it is almost impossible to get the reading public to recognize him in any other setting. So I will try to spare the reader any descriptions that have already been used to death. This widely accepted literary image of the American Negro is an obstacle to the thoughtful and progressive members of the race. He has been portrayed as a happy-go-lucky, laughing, shuffling, banjo-picking figure. The reading public has yet to be persuaded to take him seriously. His efforts to improve his social standing are seen as a kind of absurd caricature of "white civilization." Imagine a novel about colored people living in respectable homes and with a fair degree of culture. If they naturally acted "just like white folks," the novel would be taken as comic opera. In this respect, the Negro is much like a great comedian who gives up lighter roles to play tragedy. No matter how well he portrays the deeper passions, the public is reluctant to give up his old character. People even conspire to make him fail at serious work, to force him back into comedy. In the comedian's case, the public is not too much to blame. Great comedians are far rarer than mediocre tragedians. Every amateur actor is a tragedian. However, this very fact gives the future Negro novelist and poet a chance to offer the country something new and unknown. They can portray the lives, ambitions, struggles, and passions of those in their race who strive to break free of tradition's narrow limits. A beginning has already been made in that remarkable book by Dr. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk.

Much, too, that I saw while on this trip, in spite of my enthusiasm, was disheartening. Often I thought of what my millionaire had said to me, and wished myself back in Europe. The houses in which I had to stay were generally uncomfortable, sometimes worse. I often had to sleep in a division or compartment with several other people. Once or twice I was not so fortunate as to find divisions; everybody slept on pallets on the floor. Frequently I was able to lie down and contemplate the stars which were in their zenith. The food was at times so distasteful and poorly cooked that I could not eat it. I remember that once I lived for a week or more on buttermilk, on account of not being able to stomach the fat bacon, the rank turnip-tops, and the heavy damp mixture of meal, salt, and water which was called corn bread. It was only my ambition to do the work which I had planned that kept me steadfast to my purpose. Occasionally I would meet with some signs of progress and uplift in even one of these back-wood settlements—houses built of boards, with windows, and divided into rooms; decent food, and a fair standard of living. This condition was due to the fact that there was in the community some exceptionally capable Negro farmer whose thrift served as an example. As I went about among these dull, simple people—the great majority of them hard working, in their relations with the whites submissive, faithful, and often affectionate, negatively content with their lot—and contrasted them with those of the race who had been quickened by the forces of thought, I could not but appreciate the logic of the position held by those Southern leaders who have been bold enough to proclaim against the education of the Negro. They are consistent in their public speech with Southern sentiment and desires. Those public men of the South who have not been daring or heedless enough to defy the ideals of twentieth-century civilization and of modern humanitarianism and philanthropy, find themselves in the embarrassing situation of preaching one thing and praying for another. They are in the position of the fashionable woman who is compelled by the laws of polite society to say to her dearest enemy: "How happy I am to see you!"

Despite my enthusiasm, much of what I saw on this trip was disheartening. I often thought about what my millionaire had told me and wished I were back in Europe. The houses where I had to stay were usually uncomfortable, and sometimes worse. I often had to sleep in a partitioned space with several other people. Once or twice I was not even lucky enough to find partitions. Everyone slept on pallets on the floor. Often, as I lay down, I could see the stars directly overhead. At times the food was so unpleasant and badly cooked that I could not eat it. Once I lived for a week or more on buttermilk. I could not stomach the fat bacon, the foul-smelling turnip greens, or the heavy, damp mixture of meal, salt, and water called corn bread. Only my ambition to do the work I had planned kept me focused on my purpose. Occasionally, even in one of these remote settlements, I would find signs of progress and improvement. There were houses built of boards, with windows and separate rooms. There was decent food and a fair standard of living. This was because the community had some exceptionally capable Negro farmer whose thrift set an example. As I traveled among these dull, simple people, I contrasted them with members of the race whose minds had been awakened. The great majority of these people worked hard. In their relations with whites, they were submissive, faithful, and often affectionate. They were content with their lot in a passive way. I could not help seeing the logic in the position of Southern leaders bold enough to speak against educating the Negro. In their public statements, these leaders are consistent with Southern feelings and desires. Other Southern public figures have not been daring or reckless enough to defy the ideals of twentieth-century civilization, modern humanitarianism, and philanthropy. They find themselves in the embarrassing position of preaching one thing and praying for another. They are like the fashionable woman whom polite society forces to say to her dearest enemy: "How happy I am to see you!"

And yet in this respect how perplexing is Southern character; for, in opposition to the above, it may be said that the claim of the Southern whites that they love the Negro better than the Northern whites do is in a manner true. Northern white people love the Negro in a sort of abstract way, as a race; through a sense of justice, charity, and philanthropy, they will liberally assist in his elevation. A number of them have heroically spent their lives in this effort (and just here I wish to say that when the colored people reach the monument-building stage, they should not forget the men and women who went South after the war and founded schools for them). Yet, generally speaking, they have no particular liking for individuals of the race. Southern white people despise the Negro as a race, and will do nothing to aid in his elevation as such; but for certain individuals they have a strong affection, and are helpful to them in many ways. With these individual members of the race they live on terms of the greatest intimacy; they entrust to them their children, their family treasures, and their family secrets; in trouble they often go to them for comfort and counsel; in sickness they often rely upon their care. This affectionate relation between the Southern whites and those blacks who come into close touch with them has not been overdrawn even in fiction.

And yet Southern character is puzzling in this respect. Despite what I have said above, Southern whites are in some ways right to claim they love the Negro more than Northern whites do. Northern white people love the Negro in an abstract way, as a race. Out of justice, charity, and philanthropy, they generously help raise the race’s standing. Many have heroically spent their lives in this effort. (Here I want to say that when colored people begin building monuments, they should remember the men and women who went South after the war and founded schools for them.) Yet, generally speaking, Northern whites have no particular liking for individual members of the race. Southern white people despise the Negro as a race and will do nothing to raise the race’s standing. But they feel strong affection for certain individuals and help them in many ways. Southern whites are very close to these individual members of the race. They entrust them with their children, family treasures, and family secrets. In times of trouble, they often turn to them for comfort and advice. When sick, they often rely on their care. Even fiction has not exaggerated the affectionate relationship between Southern whites and the blacks who come into close contact with them.

This perplexity of Southern character extends even to the intermixture of the races. That is spoken of as though it were dreaded worse than smallpox, leprosy, or the plague. Yet, when I was in Jacksonville, I knew several prominent families there with large colored branches, which went by the same name and were known and acknowledged as blood relatives. And what is more, there seemed to exist between these black brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts a decidedly friendly feeling.

This puzzling aspect of Southern character extends even to the mixing of the races. People talk about it as though they fear it more than smallpox, leprosy, or the plague. Yet, when I was in Jacksonville, I knew several prominent families with large colored branches. These colored relatives shared the family name and were known and acknowledged as blood relatives. What is more, there seemed to be a distinctly friendly feeling between these black brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts.

I said above that Southern whites would do nothing for the Negro as a race. I know the South claims that it has spent millions for the education of the blacks, and that it has of its own free will shouldered this awful burden. It seems to be forgetful of the fact that these millions have been taken from the public tax funds for education, and that the law of political economy which recognizes the land owner as the one who really pays the taxes is not tenable. It would be just as reasonable for the relatively few land owners of Manhattan to complain that they had to stand the financial burden of the education of the thousands and thousands of children whose parents pay rent for tenements and flats. Let the millions of producing and consuming Negroes be taken out of the South, and it would be quickly seen how much less of public funds there would be to appropriate for education or any other purpose.

I said above that Southern whites would do nothing for the Negro as a race. I know the South claims it has spent millions educating blacks and taken on this terrible burden willingly. But the South seems to forget that those millions came from public education taxes. It also seems to forget that the economic theory that landowners really pay the taxes does not hold up. By that reasoning, Manhattan’s relatively few landowners could just as well complain that they bear the financial burden of education. They could say they pay to educate thousands upon thousands of children whose parents rent tenements and apartments. If the millions of Negroes who produce and consume goods were taken out of the South, the result would quickly become clear. There would be far less public money to spend on education or anything else.

In thus traveling about through the country I was sometimes amused on arriving at some little railroad-station town to be taken for and treated as a white man, and six hours later, when it was learned that I was stopping at the house of the colored preacher or school teacher, to note the attitude of the whole town change. At times this led even to embarrassment. Yet it cannot be so embarrassing for a colored man to be taken for white as for a white man to be taken for colored; and I have heard of several cases of the latter kind.

As I traveled around the country, I was sometimes amused when I arrived in a small railroad town. People would take me for a white man and treat me as one. Then, six hours later, they would learn I was staying with the colored preacher or schoolteacher. I would see the whole town’s attitude change. At times, this was even embarrassing. Yet being taken for white cannot be as embarrassing for a colored man as being taken for colored is for a white man. I have heard of several cases of the latter.

All this while I was gathering material for work, jotting down in my note-book themes and melodies, and trying to catch the spirit of the Negro in his relatively primitive state. I began to feel the necessity of hurrying so that I might get back to some city like Nashville to begin my compositions and at the same time earn at least a living by teaching and performing before my funds gave out. At the last settlement in which I stopped I found a mine of material. This was due to the fact that "big meeting" was in progress. "Big meeting" is an institution something like camp-meeting, the difference being that it is held in a permanent church, and not in a temporary structure. All the churches of some one denomination—of course, either Methodist or Baptist—in a county, or, perhaps, in several adjoining counties, are closed, and the congregations unite at some centrally located church for a series of meetings lasting a week. It is really a social as well as a religious function. The people come in great numbers, making the trip, according to their financial status, in buggies drawn by sleek, fleet-footed mules, in ox-carts, or on foot. It was amusing to see some of the latter class trudging down the hot and dusty road, with their shoes, which were brand-new, strung across their shoulders. When they got near the church, they sat on the side of the road and, with many grimaces, tenderly packed their feet into those instruments of torture. This furnished, indeed, a trying test of their religion. The famous preachers come from near and far and take turns in warning sinners of the day of wrath. Food, in the form of those two Southern luxuries, fried chicken and roast pork, is plentiful, and no one need go hungry. On the opening Sunday the women are immaculate in starched stiff white dresses adorned with ribbons, either red or blue. Even a great many of the men wear streamers of vari-colored ribbons in the buttonholes of their coats. A few of them carefully cultivate a forelock of hair by wrapping it in twine, and on such festive occasions decorate it with a narrow ribbon streamer. Big meetings afford a fine opportunity to the younger people to meet each other dressed in their Sunday clothes, and much rustic courting, which is as enjoyable as any other kind, is indulged in.

All this time, I was gathering material for my work. I jotted down themes and melodies in my notebook and tried to capture the spirit of the Negro in his relatively primitive state. I began to feel I needed to hurry back to a city like Nashville. There I could begin composing and earn at least a living by teaching and performing before my money ran out. At the last settlement where I stopped, I found a mine of material because a "big meeting" was in progress. A "big meeting" is something like a camp meeting, except that it is held in a permanent church rather than a temporary structure. All the churches of one denomination in a county, or perhaps several neighboring counties, close for the occasion. The denomination is, of course, either Methodist or Baptist. The congregations come together at a centrally located church for a week of meetings. It is a social event as well as a religious one. People come in great numbers. Depending on what they can afford, they arrive in buggies drawn by sleek, swift mules, in ox carts, or on foot. It was amusing to see some of those on foot trudging down the hot, dusty road. Their brand-new shoes hung across their shoulders. When they got near the church, they sat by the road and, grimacing, gently squeezed their feet into those instruments of torture. This was indeed a trying test of their religion. Famous preachers come from near and far and take turns warning sinners about the day of wrath. Food is plentiful, especially those two Southern luxuries, fried chicken and roast pork. No one need go hungry. On the opening Sunday, the women are immaculate in stiffly starched white dresses decorated with red or blue ribbons. Many of the men also wear streamers of different-colored ribbons in their coat buttonholes. A few carefully cultivate a lock of hair at the front by wrapping it in twine. On festive occasions like this, they decorate it with a narrow ribbon streamer. Big meetings give young people a fine chance to meet one another dressed in their Sunday clothes. There is plenty of rustic courting, which is as enjoyable as any other kind.

This big meeting which I was lucky enough to catch was particularly well attended; the extra large attendance was due principally to two attractions, a man by the name of John Brown, who was renowned as the most powerful preacher for miles around; and a wonderful leader of singing, who was known as "Singing Johnson." These two men were a study and a revelation to me. They caused me to reflect upon how great an influence their types have been in the development of the Negro in America. Both these types are now looked upon generally with condescension or contempt by the progressive element among the colored people; but it should never be forgotten that it was they who led the race from paganism and kept it steadfast to Christianity through all the long, dark years of slavery.

The big meeting I was lucky enough to attend was especially well attended. The large crowd came mainly for two attractions. One was a man named John Brown, famous as the most powerful preacher for miles around. The other was a wonderful singing leader known as "Singing Johnson." These two men fascinated me and opened my eyes. They made me reflect on how greatly their types had influenced the development of the Negro in America. Today, the progressive element among colored people generally looks down on or despises both types. But we should never forget that they led the race from paganism. They also kept it steadfast in Christianity through all the long, dark years of slavery.

John Brown was a jet-black man of medium size, with a strikingly intelligent head and face, and a voice like an organ peal. He preached each night after several lesser lights had successively held the pulpit during an hour or so. As far as subject-matter is concerned, all of the sermons were alike: each began with the fall of man, ran through various trials and tribulations of the Hebrew children, on to the redemption by Christ, and ended with a fervid picture of the judgment day and the fate of the damned. But John Brown possessed magnetism and an imagination so free and daring that he was able to carry through what the other preachers would not attempt. He knew all the arts and tricks of oratory, the modulation of the voice to almost a whisper, the pause for effect, the rise through light, rapid-fire sentences to the terrific, thundering outburst of an electrifying climax. In addition, he had the intuition of a born theatrical manager. Night after night this man held me fascinated. He convinced me that, after all, eloquence consists more in the manner of saying than in what is said. It is largely a matter of tone pictures.

John Brown was a jet-black man of medium size, with a strikingly intelligent head and face. His voice rang like an organ. Each night, he preached after several lesser preachers had taken turns in the pulpit for an hour or so. In subject matter, all the sermons were alike. Each began with the fall of man and went through the various trials and troubles of the Hebrew children. Then it moved on to redemption through Christ. It ended with a passionate picture of Judgment Day and the fate of the damned. But John Brown had magnetism and an imagination so free and daring that he could accomplish what the other preachers would not attempt. He knew all the arts and tricks of public speaking. He could lower his voice almost to a whisper or pause for effect. He could build from light, rapid-fire sentences to a tremendous, thundering burst at an electrifying climax. He also had the instincts of a born theater manager. Night after night, this man held me fascinated. He convinced me that, after all, eloquence depends more on how something is said than on what is said. It is largely a matter of the pictures created by tone.

The most striking example of John Brown's magnetism and imagination was his "heavenly march"; I shall never forget how it impressed me when I heard it. He opened his sermon in the usual way; then, proclaiming to his listeners that he was going to take them on the heavenly march, he seized the Bible under his arm and began to pace up and down the pulpit platform. The congregation immediately began with their feet a tramp, tramp, tramp, in time with the preacher's march in the pulpit, all the while singing in an undertone a hymn about marching to Zion. Suddenly he cried: "Halt!" Every foot stopped with the precision of a company of well-drilled soldiers, and the singing ceased. The morning star had been reached. Here the preacher described the beauties of that celestial body. Then the march, the tramp, tramp, tramp, and the singing were again taken up. Another "Halt!" They had reached the evening star. And so on, past the sun and moon—the intensity of religious emotion all the time increasing—along the milky way, on up to the gates of heaven. Here the halt was longer, and the preacher described at length the gates and walls of the New Jerusalem. Then he took his hearers through the pearly gates, along the golden streets, pointing out the glories of the city, pausing occasionally to greet some patriarchal members of the church, well-known to most of his listeners in life, who had had "the tears wiped from their eyes, were clad in robes of spotless white, with crowns of gold upon their heads and harps within their hands," and ended his march before the great white throne. To the reader this may sound ridiculous, but listened to under the circumstances, it was highly and effectively dramatic. I was a more or less sophisticated and non-religious man of the world, but the torrent of the preacher's words, moving with the rhythm and glowing with the eloquence of primitive poetry, swept me along, and I, too, felt like joining in the shouts of "Amen! Hallelujah!"

The most striking example of John Brown's magnetism and imagination was his "heavenly march." I shall never forget the impression it made on me when I heard it. He began his sermon in the usual way. Then he announced that he was going to take his listeners on the heavenly march. He tucked the Bible under his arm and began pacing up and down the pulpit platform. The congregation immediately began stamping their feet, tramp, tramp, tramp, in time with the preacher's march. All the while, they sang softly a hymn about marching to Zion. Suddenly he cried: "Halt!" Every foot stopped with the precision of a company of well-drilled soldiers, and the singing ceased. They had reached the morning star. Here the preacher described the beauty of that heavenly body. Then the march, the tramp, tramp, tramp, and the singing began again. Another "Halt!" They had reached the evening star. And so they continued, past the sun and moon, along the milky way, and up to the gates of heaven. All the while, their religious excitement grew. Here they stopped for longer, and the preacher described the gates and walls of the New Jerusalem in detail. Then he led his listeners through the pearly gates and along the golden streets. He pointed out the glories of the city, pausing now and then to greet some of the church's elder members. Most of his listeners had known them in life. They had had "the tears wiped from their eyes, were clad in robes of spotless white, with crowns of gold upon their heads and harps within their hands." He ended his march before the great white throne. This may sound ridiculous to the reader, but hearing it under those circumstances was highly and powerfully dramatic. I was a more or less sophisticated, non-religious man of the world. But the preacher's torrent of words swept me along. His words moved with the rhythm and glowed with the eloquence of primitive poetry. I, too, felt like joining in the shouts of "Amen! Hallelujah!"

John Brown's powers in describing the delights of heaven were no greater than those in depicting the horrors of hell. I saw great, strapping fellows trembling and weeping like children at the "mourners' bench." His warnings to sinners were truly terrible. I shall never forget one expression that he used, which for originality and aptness could not be excelled. In my opinion, it is more graphic and, for us, far more expressive than St. Paul's "It is hard to kick against the pricks." He struck the attitude of a pugilist and thundered out: "Young man, your arm's too short to box with God!"

John Brown was just as skilled at describing the horrors of hell as he was at describing the delights of heaven. I saw big, strong men trembling and weeping like children at the "mourners' bench." His warnings to sinners were truly terrifying. I will never forget one expression he used. Nothing could have been more original or fitting. In my opinion, it is more vivid and, for us, far more expressive than St. Paul's "It is hard to kick against the pricks." He took a boxer's stance and thundered: "Young man, your arm's too short to box with God!"

Interesting as was John Brown to me, the other man, "Singing Johnson," was more so. He was a small, dark-brown, one-eyed man, with a clear, strong, high-pitched voice, a leader of singing, a maker of songs, a man who could improvise at the moment lines to fit the occasion. Not so striking a figure as John Brown, but, at "big meetings," equally important. It is indispensable to the success of the singing, when the congregation is a large one made up of people from different communities, to have someone with a strong voice who knows just what hymn to sing and when to sing it, who can pitch it in the right key, and who has all the leading lines committed to memory. Sometimes it devolves upon the leader to "sing down" a long-winded or uninteresting speaker. Committing to memory the leading lines of all the Negro spiritual songs is no easy task, for they run up into the hundreds. But the accomplished leader must know them all, because the congregation sings only the refrains and repeats; every ear in the church is fixed upon him, and if he becomes mixed in his lines or forgets them, the responsibility falls directly on his shoulders.

John Brown interested me, but the other man, "Singing Johnson," interested me even more. He was small, dark-brown, and had one eye. His voice was clear, strong, and high-pitched. He led singing, made up songs, and could improvise lines on the spot to suit the occasion. He was not as striking a figure as John Brown, but he was equally important at "big meetings." When a large congregation includes people from different communities, a leader is essential to successful singing. The leader must have a strong voice and know exactly which hymn to sing and when. He must also pitch it in the right key and know all the leading lines by heart. Sometimes the leader must "sing down" a long-winded or uninteresting speaker. Memorizing the leading lines of all the Negro spiritual songs is no easy task. There are hundreds of them. But an accomplished leader must know them all, because the congregation sings only the refrains and repeats. Everyone in the church listens closely to him. If he mixes up or forgets his lines, the responsibility falls squarely on him.

For example, most of these hymns are constructed to be sung in the following manner:

For example, most of these hymns are meant to be sung like this:

The solitary and plaintive voice of the leader is answered by a sound like the roll of the sea, producing a most curious effect.

The leader’s lone, mournful voice is answered by a sound like the rolling sea, creating a very strange effect.

In only a few of these songs do the leader and the congregation start off together. Such a song is the well-known "Steal away to Jesus."

In only a few of these songs do the leader and the congregation start singing together. One such song is the well-known "Steal away to Jesus."

The leader and the congregation begin with part-singing:

The leader and the congregation begin singing in harmony:

Then the leader alone or the congregation in unison:

Then the leader alone or the congregation together:

My Lord he calls me, He calls me by the thunder, The trumpet sounds within-a my soul.

My Lord calls me. He calls me with the thunder. The trumpet sounds within my soul.

Then all together:

Then all together:

I ain't got long to stay here.

I ain't got long to stay here.

The leader and the congregation again take up the opening refrain; then the leader sings three more leading lines alone, and so on almost ad infinitum. It will be seen that even here most of the work falls upon the leader, for the congregation sings the same lines over and over, while his memory and ingenuity are taxed to keep the songs going.

The leader and the congregation sing the opening refrain again. Then the leader sings three more leading lines alone, and the pattern continues almost endlessly. Even here, most of the work falls on the leader. The congregation sings the same lines over and over, while he must rely on his memory and ingenuity to keep the songs going.

Generally the parts taken up by the congregation are sung in a three-part harmony, the women singing the soprano and a transposed tenor, the men with high voices singing the melody, and those with low voices a thundering bass. In a few of these songs, however, the leading part is sung in unison by the whole congregation, down to the last line, which is harmonized. The effect of this is intensely thrilling. Such a hymn is "Go down, Moses." It stirs the heart like a trumpet call.

Usually, the congregation sings its parts in three-part harmony. The women sing soprano and a transposed tenor part. The men with high voices sing the melody, while those with low voices sing a thundering bass. In a few songs, though, the whole congregation sings the leading part in unison until the last line. Then they sing the last line in harmony. The effect is intensely thrilling. One such hymn is "Go down, Moses." It stirs the heart like a trumpet call.

"Singing Johnson" was an ideal leader, and his services were in great demand. He spent his time going about the country from one church to another. He received his support in much the same way as the preachers—part of a collection, food and lodging. All of his leisure time he devoted to originating new words and melodies and new lines for old songs. He always sang with his eyes—or, to be more exact, his eye—closed, indicating the tempo by swinging his head to and fro. He was a great judge of the proper hymn to sing at a particular moment; and I noticed several times, when the preacher reached a certain climax, or expressed a certain sentiment, that Johnson broke in with a line or two of some appropriate hymn. The speaker understood and would pause until the singing ceased.

"Singing Johnson" was an ideal leader, and his services were in great demand. He traveled around the country, going from one church to another. He was supported much like the preachers, with part of a collection, food, and lodging. He spent all his spare time creating new words and melodies, as well as new lines for old songs. He always sang with his eyes closed. Or, to be more exact, his eye was closed. He marked the tempo by swinging his head back and forth. He was very good at choosing the right hymn for the moment. Several times, I noticed Johnson break in with a line or two from a fitting hymn. He did this when the preacher reached a certain climax or expressed a certain sentiment. The speaker understood and would pause until the singing stopped.

As I listened to the singing of these songs, the wonder of their production grew upon me more and more. How did the men who originated them manage to do it? The sentiments are easily accounted for; they are mostly taken from the Bible; but the melodies, where did they come from? Some of them so weirdly sweet, and others so wonderfully strong. Take, for instance, "Go down, Moses." I doubt that there is a stronger theme in the whole musical literature of the world. And so many of these songs contain more than mere melody; there is sounded in them that elusive undertone, the note in music which is not heard with the ears. I sat often with the tears rolling down my cheeks and my heart melted within me. Any musical person who has never heard a Negro congregation under the spell of religious fervor sing these old songs has missed one of the most thrilling emotions which the human heart may experience. Anyone who without shedding tears can listen to Negroes sing "Nobody knows de trouble I see, Nobody knows but Jesus" must indeed have a heart of stone.

As I listened to these songs, I became more and more amazed that anyone had created them. How did the men who first made them do it? The feelings they express are easy to explain. Most come from the Bible. But where did the melodies come from? Some are strangely sweet, and others are wonderfully powerful. Take "Go down, Moses," for example. I doubt there is a stronger theme in all the world’s music. Many of these songs contain more than just a melody. They have an elusive undertone, a note in the music that the ears cannot hear. I often sat with tears rolling down my cheeks and my heart melting within me. Any musical person who has never heard a Negro congregation sing these old songs in a spirit of religious fervor has missed one of the most thrilling emotions the human heart can experience. Anyone who can listen without tears as Negroes sing "Nobody knows the trouble I see, Nobody knows but Jesus" must indeed have a heart of stone.

As yet, the Negroes themselves do not fully appreciate these old slave songs. The educated classes are rather ashamed of them and prefer to sing hymns from books. This feeling is natural; they are still too close to the conditions under which the songs were produced; but the day will come when this slave music will be the most treasured heritage of the American Negro.

Negroes themselves do not yet fully appreciate these old slave songs. The educated classes are somewhat ashamed of them and prefer to sing hymns from books. This feeling is natural. They are still too close to the conditions that produced the songs. But the day will come when this slave music will be the most treasured heritage of the American Negro.

At the close of the "big meeting" I left the settlement where it was being held, full of enthusiasm. I was in that frame of mind which, in the artistic temperament, amounts to inspiration. I was now ready and anxious to get to some place where I might settle down to work, and give expression to the ideas which were teeming in my head; but I strayed into another deviation from my path of life as I had it marked out, which led me upon an entirely different road. Instead of going to the nearest and most convenient railroad station, I accepted the invitation of a young man who had been present the closing Sunday at the meeting to drive with him some miles farther to the town in which he taught school, and there take the train. My conversation with this young man as we drove along through the country was extremely interesting. He had been a student in one of the Negro colleges—strange coincidence, in the very college, as I learned through him, in which "Shiny" was now a professor. I was, of course, curious to hear about my boyhood friend; and had it not been vacation time, and that I was not sure that I should find him, I should have gone out of my way to pay him a visit; but I determined to write to him as soon as the school opened. My companion talked to me about his work among the people, of his hopes and his discouragements. He was tremendously in earnest; I might say, too much so. In fact, it may be said that the majority of intelligent colored people are, in some degree, too much in earnest over the race question. They assume and carry so much that their progress is at times impeded and they are unable to see things in their proper proportions. In many instances a slight exercise of the sense of humor would save much anxiety of soul. Anyone who marks the general tone of editorials in colored newspapers is apt to be impressed with this idea. If the mass of Negroes took their present and future as seriously as do the most of their leaders, the race would be in no mental condition to sustain the terrible pressure which it undergoes; it would sink of its own weight. Yet it must be acknowledged that in the making of a race overseriousness is a far lesser failing than its reverse, and even the faults resulting from it lean toward the right.

At the close of the "big meeting," I left the settlement where it had been held, full of enthusiasm. I was in a state of mind that, for an artist, amounts to inspiration. I was ready and eager to find a place where I could settle down and work. I wanted to express the ideas crowding my mind. But once again, I strayed from the path I had planned for my life, and it led me down an entirely different road. Instead of going to the nearest, most convenient railroad station, I accepted an invitation from a young man. He had attended the meeting on its closing Sunday. He invited me to drive with him several miles farther to the town where he taught school and take the train there. Our conversation as we drove through the country was extremely interesting. He had been a student at one of the Negro colleges. By a strange coincidence, I learned from him that it was the very college where "Shiny" was now a professor. Of course, I was curious to hear about my boyhood friend. I would have gone out of my way to visit him if it had not been vacation time and I had been sure of finding him. But I decided to write to him as soon as school opened. My companion told me about his work among the people, his hopes, and his discouragements. He was tremendously earnest, perhaps too much so. In fact, it may be said that most intelligent colored people are, to some degree, too earnest about the race question. They take on and carry so much that their progress is sometimes slowed. They are unable to see things in their proper proportions. In many cases, a little sense of humor would save them much anguish. Anyone who notices the general tone of editorials in colored newspapers is likely to come away with this impression. If the mass of Negroes took their present and future as seriously as most of their leaders do, the race would not be in a mental state to withstand the terrible pressure it faces. It would sink under its own weight. Yet it must be acknowledged that, in the making of a race, being too serious is a far lesser failing than being too casual. Even the faults that result from too much seriousness lean in the right direction.

We drove into the town just before dark. As we passed a large, unpainted church, my companion pointed it out as the place where he held his school. I promised that I would go there with him the next morning and visit awhile. The town was of that kind which hardly requires or deserves description; a straggling line of brick and wooden stores on one side of the railroad track and some cottages of various sizes on the other side constituted about the whole of it. The young school teacher boarded at the best house in the place owned by a colored man. It was painted, had glass windows, contained "store bought" furniture, an organ, and lamps with chimneys. The owner held a job of some kind on the railroad. After supper it was not long before everybody was sleepy. I occupied the room with the school teacher. In a few minutes after we got into the room he was in bed and asleep; but I took advantage of the unusual luxury of a lamp which gave light, and sat looking over my notes and jotting down some ideas which were still fresh in my mind. Suddenly I became conscious of that sense of alarm which is always aroused by the sound of hurrying footsteps on the silence of the night. I stopped work and looked at my watch. It was after eleven. I listened, straining every nerve to hear above the tumult of my quickening pulse. I caught the murmur of voices, then the gallop of a horse, then of another and another. Now thoroughly alarmed, I woke my companion, and together we both listened. After a moment he put out the light and softly opened the window-blind, and we cautiously peeped out. We saw men moving in one direction, and from the mutterings we vaguely caught the rumor that some terrible crime had been committed. I put on my coat and hat. My friend did all in his power to dissuade me from venturing out, but it was impossible for me to remain in the house under such tense excitement. My nerves would not have stood it. Perhaps what bravery I exercised in going out was due to the fact that I felt sure my identity as a colored man had not yet become known in the town.

We drove into town just before dark. As we passed a large, unpainted church, my companion pointed it out. He held his school there. I promised to go with him the next morning and visit for a while. The town was the kind that hardly needs or deserves a description. It was little more than a scattered row of brick and wooden stores on one side of the railroad tracks. Cottages of various sizes stood on the other side. The young schoolteacher boarded at the best house in town owned by a colored man. It was painted and had glass windows, "store bought" furniture, an organ, and lamps with glass chimneys. The owner had some kind of job on the railroad. It wasn't long after supper before everyone was sleepy. I shared a room with the schoolteacher. Within a few minutes of entering the room, he was in bed and asleep. But I took advantage of the unusual luxury of a lamp that gave light. I sat looking over my notes and writing down some ideas that were still fresh in my mind. Suddenly, I felt the alarm that always comes when hurried footsteps break the silence of the night. I stopped working and looked at my watch. It was after eleven. I listened, straining to hear over the pounding of my quickening pulse. I heard murmuring voices, then a horse galloping, then another and another. Now thoroughly alarmed, I woke my companion, and we both listened. After a moment, he put out the light and quietly opened the window blind. We cautiously peered out. We saw men moving in one direction. From their murmuring, we faintly heard a rumor that some terrible crime had been committed. I put on my coat and hat. My friend did everything he could to persuade me not to go out. But with all the tense excitement, I couldn't stay in the house. My nerves wouldn't have stood it. Perhaps whatever bravery I showed in going out came from my certainty that people in town didn't yet know I was a colored man.

I went out and, following the drift, reached the railroad station. There was gathered there a crowd of men, all white, and others were steadily arriving, seemingly from all the surrounding country. How did the news spread so quickly? I watched these men moving under the yellow glare of the kerosene lamps about the station, stern, comparatively silent, all of them armed, some of them in boots and spurs; fierce, determined men. I had come to know the type well, blond, tall, and lean, with ragged mustache and beard, and glittering gray eyes. At the first suggestion of daylight they began to disperse in groups, going in several directions. There was no extra noise or excitement, no loud talking, only swift, sharp words of command given by those who seemed to be accepted as leaders by mutual understanding. In fact, the impression made upon me was that everything was being done in quite an orderly manner. In spite of so many leaving, the crowd around the station continued to grow; at sunrise there were a great many women and children. By this time I also noticed some colored people; a few seemed to be going about customary tasks; several were standing on the outskirts of the crowd; but the gathering of Negroes usually seen in such towns was missing.

I went out and followed the flow of people to the railroad station. A crowd of men had gathered there, all white. More were steadily arriving, apparently from all the surrounding countryside. How had the news spread so quickly? I watched the men move about the station under the yellow glare of the kerosene lamps. They were stern and relatively quiet, and all of them were armed. Some wore boots and spurs. They were fierce, determined men. I had come to know the type well: blond, tall, and lean, with ragged mustaches and beards and glittering gray eyes. At the first sign of daylight, they began to leave in groups, heading in several directions. There was no extra noise or excitement, no loud talking. There were only quick, sharp commands from men who seemed to be accepted as leaders by mutual understanding. In fact, everything seemed to be happening in a very orderly way. Though so many were leaving, the crowd around the station kept growing. By sunrise, there were a great many women and children. By then, I also noticed some colored people. A few seemed to be going about their usual tasks. Several stood at the edges of the crowd. But the gathering of Negroes usually seen in such towns was missing.

Before noon they brought him in. Two horsemen rode abreast; between them, half dragged, the poor wretch made his way through the dust. His hands were tied behind him, and ropes around his body were fastened to the saddle horns of his double guard. The men who at midnight had been stern and silent were now emitting that terror-instilling sound known as the "rebel yell." A space was quickly cleared in the crowd, and a rope placed about his neck, when from somewhere came the suggestion, "Burn him!" It ran like an electric current. Have you ever witnessed the transformation of human beings into savage beasts? Nothing can be more terrible. A railroad tie was sunk into the ground, the rope was removed, and a chain brought and securely coiled around the victim and the stake. There he stood, a man only in form and stature, every sign of degeneracy stamped upon his countenance. His eyes were dull and vacant, indicating not a single ray of thought. Evidently the realization of his fearful fate had robbed him of whatever reasoning power he had ever possessed. He was too stunned and stupefied even to tremble. Fuel was brought from everywhere, oil, the torch; the flames crouched for an instant as though to gather strength, then leaped up as high as their victim's head. He squirmed, he writhed, strained at his chains, then gave out cries and groans that I shall always hear. The cries and groans were choked off by the fire and smoke; but his eyes, bulging from their sockets, rolled from side to side, appealing in vain for help. Some of the crowd yelled and cheered, others seemed appalled at what they had done, and there were those who turned away sickened at the sight. I was fixed to the spot where I stood, powerless to take my eyes from what I did not want to see.

Before noon they brought him in. Two men rode side by side, half dragging the poor wretch between them through the dust. His hands were tied behind him. Ropes around his body were fastened to the saddle horns of both guards. The men who had been stern and silent at midnight were now making that terrifying sound known as the "rebel yell." A space was quickly cleared in the crowd, and a rope was placed around his neck. Then someone suggested, "Burn him!" The suggestion spread like an electric current. Have you ever seen human beings turn into savage beasts? Nothing could be more terrible. A railroad tie was planted in the ground, and the rope was removed. A chain was brought and securely wound around the victim and the stake. There he stood, a man only in form and size, with every sign of degeneracy stamped on his face. His eyes were dull and vacant, showing no sign of thought. The realization of his terrible fate had apparently robbed him of whatever power to reason he had ever had. He was too stunned and dazed even to tremble. Fuel was brought from everywhere, along with oil and a torch. For an instant, the flames crouched as if gathering strength. Then they leaped as high as the victim's head. He squirmed and writhed and strained against his chains. Then he let out cries and groans that I will always hear. The fire and smoke choked off his cries and groans. But his eyes bulged from their sockets and rolled from side to side, pleading in vain for help. Some people in the crowd yelled and cheered. Others seemed horrified by what they had done. Still others turned away, sickened by the sight. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to take my eyes off what I did not want to see.

It was over before I realized that time had elapsed. Before I could make myself believe that what I saw was really happening, I was looking at a scorched post, a smoldering fire, blackened bones, charred fragments sifting down through coils of chain; and the smell of burnt flesh—human flesh—was in my nostrils.

It was over before I realized any time had passed. I could hardly believe what I was seeing had really happened. I was looking at a scorched post, a smoldering fire, and blackened bones. Charred fragments sifted down through coils of chain. The smell of burned flesh, human flesh, filled my nostrils.

I walked a short distance away and sat down in order to clear my dazed mind. A great wave of humiliation and shame swept over me. Shame that I belonged to a race that could be so dealt with; and shame for my country, that it, the great example of democracy to the world, should be the only civilized, if not the only state on earth, where a human being would be burned alive. My heart turned bitter within me. I could understand why Negroes are led to sympathize with even their worst criminals and to protect them when possible. By all the impulses of normal human nature they can and should do nothing less.

I walked a short distance away and sat down to clear my dazed mind. A great wave of humiliation and shame swept over me. I felt ashamed to belong to a race that could be treated this way. I also felt ashamed of my country, the world’s great example of democracy. It was the only civilized state, if not the only state on earth, where a human being would be burned alive. My heart filled with bitterness. I could understand why Negroes come to sympathize with even their worst criminals and protect them when possible. By every impulse of normal human nature, they can and should do nothing less.

Whenever I hear protests from the South that it should be left alone to deal with the Negro question, my thoughts go back to that scene of brutality and savagery. I do not see how a people that can find in its conscience any excuse whatever for slowly burning to death a human being, or for tolerating such an act, can be entrusted with the salvation of a race. Of course, there are in the South men of liberal thought who do not approve lynching, but I wonder how long they will endure the limits which are placed upon free speech. They still cower and tremble before "Southern opinion." Even so late as the recent Atlanta riot those men who were brave enough to speak a word in behalf of justice and humanity felt called upon, by way of apology, to preface what they said with a glowing rhetorical tribute to the Anglo-Saxon's superiority and to refer to the "great and impassable gulf" between the races "fixed by the Creator at the foundation of the world." The question of the relative qualities of the two races is still an open one. The reference to the "great gulf" loses force in face of the fact that there are in this country perhaps three or four million people with the blood of both races in their veins; but I fail to see the pertinency of either statement subsequent to the beating and murdering of scores of innocent people in the streets of a civilized and Christian city.

Whenever I hear people in the South insist that they should be left alone to deal with the Negro question, I remember that scene of brutality and savagery. I cannot see how a people can be trusted with the salvation of a race when their conscience allows any excuse for slowly burning a human being to death or tolerating such an act. Of course, there are men in the South with liberal views who do not approve of lynching. But I wonder how long they will put up with the limits placed on free speech. They still cower and tremble before "Southern opinion." Even as recently as the Atlanta riot, some men were brave enough to speak up for justice and humanity. But they felt obliged to begin with an apology of sorts. They first paid a glowing rhetorical tribute to the Anglo-Saxon's superiority and referred to the "great and impassable gulf" between the races "fixed by the Creator at the foundation of the world." The question of the relative qualities of the two races is still open. The reference to the "great gulf" loses force when we consider that perhaps three or four million people in this country have the blood of both races in their veins. But I cannot see how either statement is relevant after scores of innocent people were beaten and murdered in the streets of a civilized and Christian city.

The Southern whites are in many respects a great people. Looked at from a certain point of view, they are picturesque. If one will put oneself in a romantic frame of mind, one can admire their notions of chivalry and bravery and justice. In this same frame of mind an intelligent man can go to the theatre and applaud the impossible hero, who with his single sword slays everybody in the play except the equally impossible heroine. So can an ordinary peace-loving citizen sit by a comfortable fire and read with enjoyment of the bloody deeds of pirates and the fierce brutality of Vikings. This is the way in which we gratify the old, underlying animal instincts and passions; but we should shudder with horror at the mere idea of such practices being realities in this day of enlightened and humanitarianized thought. The Southern whites are not yet living quite in the present age; many of their general ideas hark back to a former century, some of them to the Dark Ages. In the light of other days they are sometimes magnificent. Today they are often cruel and ludicrous.

The Southern whites are a great people in many ways. From a certain point of view, they are picturesque. If you put yourself in a romantic frame of mind, you can admire their ideas of chivalry, bravery, and justice. In that same frame of mind, an intelligent man can go to the theater and applaud an impossible hero. With a single sword, the hero kills everyone in the play except the equally impossible heroine. In the same way, an ordinary, peace-loving citizen can sit by a comfortable fire. He can enjoy reading about the bloody deeds of pirates and the fierce brutality of Vikings. This is how we satisfy our old, underlying animal instincts and passions. But we should shudder with horror at the mere idea of such practices being real in today's enlightened, humane age. The Southern whites are not yet living entirely in the present age. Many of their general ideas go back to an earlier century, and some to the Dark Ages. In the light of earlier times, they are sometimes magnificent. Today, they are often cruel and ridiculous.

How long I sat with bitter thoughts running through my mind I do not know; perhaps an hour or more. When I decided to get up and go back to the house, I found that I could hardly stand on my feet. I was as weak as a man who had lost blood. However, I dragged myself along, with the central idea of a general plan well fixed in my mind. I did not find my school teacher friend at home, so I did not see him again. I swallowed a few mouthfuls of food, packed my bag, and caught the afternoon train.

I do not know how long I sat there with bitter thoughts running through my mind. Perhaps it was an hour or more. When I decided to get up and return to the house, I found I could hardly stand. I was as weak as a man who had lost blood. Still, I dragged myself along, with the main idea of a plan firmly fixed in my mind. My schoolteacher friend was not at home, so I did not see him again. I swallowed a few mouthfuls of food, packed my bag, and caught the afternoon train.

When I reached Macon, I stopped only long enough to get the main part of my luggage and to buy a ticket for New York.

When I reached Macon, I stopped just long enough to pick up most of my luggage and buy a ticket to New York.

All along the journey I was occupied in debating with myself the step which I had decided to take. I argued that to forsake one's race to better one's condition was no less worthy an action than to forsake one's country for the same purpose. I finally made up my mind that I would neither disclaim the black race nor claim the white race; but that I would change my name, raise a mustache, and let the world take me for what it would; that it was not necessary for me to go about with a label of inferiority pasted across my forehead. All the while I understood that it was not discouragement or fear or search for a larger field of action and opportunity that was driving me out of the Negro race. I knew that it was shame, unbearable shame. Shame at being identified with a people that could with impunity be treated worse than animals. For certainly the law would restrain and punish the malicious burning alive of animals.

Throughout the journey, I debated the step I had decided to take. I argued that leaving one's race to improve one's circumstances was no less worthy than leaving one's country for the same purpose. Finally, I made up my mind. I would neither deny the black race nor claim the white race. But I would change my name, grow a mustache, and let the world take me for whatever it would. I did not need to go around with a label of inferiority pasted across my forehead. All the while, I understood what was driving me out of the Negro race. It was not discouragement or fear, or a search for greater freedom to act and more opportunities. I knew it was shame, unbearable shame. I was ashamed to be identified with a people who could be treated worse than animals without anyone being punished. The law would surely stop and punish anyone who maliciously burned animals alive.

So once again I found myself gazing at the towers of New York and wondering what future that city held in store for me.

Once again, I looked at the towers of New York and wondered what future the city held for me.