The Black Belt

Out of the North the train thundered, and we woke to see the crimson soil of Georgia stretching away bare and monotonous right and left. Here and there lay straggling, unlovely villages, and lean men loafed leisurely at the depots; then again came the stretch of pines and clay. Yet we did not nod, nor weary of the scene; for this is historic ground. Right across our track, three hundred and sixty years ago, wandered the cavalcade of Hernando de Soto, looking for gold and the Great Sea; and he and his foot-sore captives disappeared yonder in the grim forests to the west. Here sits Atlanta, the city of a hundred hills, with something Western, something Southern, and something quite its own, in its busy life. Just this side Atlanta is the land of the Cherokees and to the southwest, not far from where Sam Hose was crucified, you may stand on a spot which is to-day the centre of the Negro problem,—the centre of those nine million men who are America’s dark heritage from slavery and the slave-trade.

The train thundered out of the North. We woke to see Georgia’s crimson soil stretching out on both sides, bare and monotonous. Here and there stood scattered, unattractive villages, and thin men lounged lazily at the stations. Then came more stretches of pines and clay. Yet we did not doze or grow tired of the view, for we were crossing historic ground. Three hundred and sixty years ago, Hernando de Soto’s party crossed the path of our train, seeking gold and the Great Sea. He and his captives, their feet sore from walking, disappeared into the grim forests to the west. Here stands Atlanta, the city of a hundred hills. Its busy life has something Western, something Southern, and something entirely its own. Just before Atlanta lies the land of the Cherokees. To the southwest, not far from where Sam Hose was crucified, you may stand at a particular spot. That spot is today the center of the Negro problem. It is the center of those nine million people who are America’s dark inheritance from slavery and the slave trade.

Not only is Georgia thus the geographical focus of our Negro population, but in many other respects, both now and yesterday, the Negro problems have seemed to be centered in this State. No other State in the Union can count a million Negroes among its citizens,—a population as large as the slave population of the whole Union in 1800; no other State fought so long and strenuously to gather this host of Africans. Oglethorpe thought slavery against law and gospel; but the circumstances which gave Georgia its first inhabitants were not calculated to furnish citizens over-nice in their ideas about rum and slaves. Despite the prohibitions of the trustees, these Georgians, like some of their descendants, proceeded to take the law into their own hands; and so pliant were the judges, and so flagrant the smuggling, and so earnest were the prayers of Whitefield, that by the middle of the eighteenth century all restrictions were swept away, and the slave-trade went merrily on for fifty years and more.

Georgia is thus not only the geographical center of our Black population. In many other ways, both now and in the past, the problems facing Black people have seemed centered in Georgia. No other State in the Union has a million Black citizens. That population equals the enslaved population of the entire Union in 1800. No other State fought so long and so hard to bring together so many Africans. Oglethorpe believed slavery violated both the law and the gospel. But the circumstances that brought Georgia its first settlers hardly encouraged scruples about rum and slaves. Despite the trustees’ bans, these Georgians, like some of their descendants, took the law into their own hands. The judges were so easily swayed, the smuggling so blatant, and Whitefield’s prayers so earnest that all restrictions eventually disappeared. By the middle of the eighteenth century, the slave trade was free to carry merrily on for fifty years and more.

Down in Darien, where the Delegal riots took place some summers ago, there used to come a strong protest against slavery from the Scotch Highlanders; and the Moravians of Ebenezer did not like the system. But not till the Haytian Terror of Toussaint was the trade in men even checked; while the national statute of 1808 did not suffice to stop it. How the Africans poured in!—fifty thousand between 1790 and 1810, and then, from Virginia and from smugglers, two thousand a year for many years more. So the thirty thousand Negroes of Georgia in 1790 doubled in a decade,—were over a hundred thousand in 1810, had reached two hundred thousand in 1820, and half a million at the time of the war. Thus like a snake the black population writhed upward.

Down in Darien, the Scotch Highlanders once protested strongly against slavery. Darien was where the Delegal riots took place a few summers ago. The Moravians of Ebenezer also disliked slavery. But only with the Haytian Terror of Toussaint was the trade in human beings even slowed. Even the national law of 1808 failed to stop the trade. How the Africans poured in! Fifty thousand arrived between 1790 and 1810. Then, through Virginia and smugglers, two thousand arrived each year for many more years. So Georgia’s Black population, thirty thousand in 1790, doubled in a decade. The population exceeded a hundred thousand in 1810 and reached two hundred thousand in 1820. By the time of the war, the number had reached half a million. Thus, like a snake, the Black population writhed upward.

But we must hasten on our journey. This that we pass as we near Atlanta is the ancient land of the Cherokees,—that brave Indian nation which strove so long for its fatherland, until Fate and the United States Government drove them beyond the Mississippi. If you wish to ride with me you must come into the “Jim Crow Car.” There will be no objection,—already four other white men, and a little white girl with her nurse, are in there. Usually the races are mixed in there; but the white coach is all white. Of course this car is not so good as the other, but it is fairly clean and comfortable. The discomfort lies chiefly in the hearts of those four black men yonder—and in mine.

But we must hurry on our journey. As we near Atlanta, we pass through the ancient land of the Cherokees. That brave Indian nation fought so long for its homeland, until Fate and the United States Government drove them beyond the Mississippi. If you wish to ride with me, you must come into the “Jim Crow Car.” No one will object. Four other white men and a little white girl with her nurse are already in the car. Usually, the races are mixed in this car, but the white coach is all white. Of course, this car is not as good as the white coach, but it is fairly clean and comfortable. The discomfort lies chiefly in the hearts of those four black men over there, and in mine.

We rumble south in quite a business-like way. The bare red clay and pines of Northern Georgia begin to disappear, and in their place appears a rich rolling land, luxuriant, and here and there well tilled. This is the land of the Creek Indians; and a hard time the Georgians had to seize it. The towns grow more frequent and more interesting, and brand-new cotton mills rise on every side. Below Macon the world grows darker; for now we approach the Black Belt,—that strange land of shadows, at which even slaves paled in the past, and whence come now only faint and half-intelligible murmurs to the world beyond. The “Jim Crow Car” grows larger and a shade better; three rough field-hands and two or three white loafers accompany us, and the newsboy still spreads his wares at one end. The sun is setting, but we can see the great cotton country as we enter it,—the soil now dark and fertile, now thin and gray, with fruit-trees and dilapidated buildings,—all the way to Albany.

We rumble south in a brisk, businesslike way. The bare red clay and pines of Northern Georgia begin to disappear. In their place comes rich, rolling land, lush and here and there well farmed. This is the land of the Creek Indians, and the Georgians had a hard time seizing it. The towns become more frequent and more interesting, and brand-new cotton mills rise on every side. Beyond Macon, the world grows darker, for we are now approaching the Black Belt, that strange land of shadows. Even slaves once grew pale at the thought of this land. Now only faint, barely understandable murmurs reach the outside world from there. The “Jim Crow Car” grows larger and a little better. Three rough field workers and two or three white loafers travel with us. The newsboy still displays his goods at one end. The sun is setting, but we can see the great cotton country as we enter. All the way to Albany, the soil shifts between dark and fertile and thin and gray, with fruit trees and run-down buildings.

At Albany, in the heart of the Black Belt, we stop. Two hundred miles south of Atlanta, two hundred miles west of the Atlantic, and one hundred miles north of the Great Gulf lies Dougherty County, with ten thousand Negroes and two thousand whites. The Flint River winds down from Andersonville, and, turning suddenly at Albany, the county-seat, hurries on to join the Chattahoochee and the sea. Andrew Jackson knew the Flint well, and marched across it once to avenge the Indian Massacre at Fort Mims. That was in 1814, not long before the battle of New Orleans; and by the Creek treaty that followed this campaign, all Dougherty County, and much other rich land, was ceded to Georgia. Still, settlers fought shy of this land, for the Indians were all about, and they were unpleasant neighbors in those days. The panic of 1837, which Jackson bequeathed to Van Buren, turned the planters from the impoverished lands of Virginia, the Carolinas, and east Georgia, toward the West. The Indians were removed to Indian Territory, and settlers poured into these coveted lands to retrieve their broken fortunes. For a radius of a hundred miles about Albany, stretched a great fertile land, luxuriant with forests of pine, oak, ash, hickory, and poplar; hot with the sun and damp with the rich black swamp-land; and here the corner-stone of the Cotton Kingdom was laid.

We stop at Albany, in the heart of the Black Belt. Dougherty County lies two hundred miles south of Atlanta, two hundred miles west of the Atlantic, and one hundred miles north of the Great Gulf. The county has ten thousand Black residents and two thousand white residents. The Flint River winds down from Andersonville and turns suddenly at Albany, the county seat. Then the river rushes on to join the Chattahoochee and reach the sea. Andrew Jackson knew the Flint well and once marched across the river to avenge the Indian Massacre at Fort Mims. That was in 1814, not long before the battle of New Orleans. Under the Creek treaty that followed the campaign, all Dougherty County and much other rich land were ceded to Georgia. Still, settlers avoided the land because Native Americans lived all around and were unwelcome neighbors in those days. The panic of 1837, which Jackson left for Van Buren, turned planters toward the West. The planters came from the worn-out farmlands of Virginia, the Carolinas, and east Georgia. Native Americans were forcibly relocated to Indian Territory, and settlers poured into the coveted lands to rebuild their shattered fortunes. Fertile land stretched for a hundred miles around Albany, thick with forests of pine, oak, ash, hickory, and poplar. The land was hot under the sun and damp with rich black swampland. Here the cornerstone of the Cotton Kingdom was laid.

Albany is to-day a wide-streeted, placid, Southern town, with a broad sweep of stores and saloons, and flanking rows of homes,—whites usually to the north, and blacks to the south. Six days in the week the town looks decidedly too small for itself, and takes frequent and prolonged naps. But on Saturday suddenly the whole county disgorges itself upon the place, and a perfect flood of black peasantry pours through the streets, fills the stores, blocks the sidewalks, chokes the thoroughfares, and takes full possession of the town. They are black, sturdy, uncouth country folk, good-natured and simple, talkative to a degree, and yet far more silent and brooding than the crowds of the Rhine-pfalz, or Naples, or Cracow. They drink considerable quantities of whiskey, but do not get very drunk; they talk and laugh loudly at times, but seldom quarrel or fight. They walk up and down the streets, meet and gossip with friends, stare at the shop windows, buy coffee, cheap candy, and clothes, and at dusk drive home—happy? well no, not exactly happy, but much happier than as though they had not come.

Albany today is a quiet Southern town with wide streets, a broad stretch of stores and saloons, and homes alongside. White residents usually live to the north, and black residents to the south. Six days a week, the town seems much too small for itself and takes frequent, lengthy naps. But on Saturday, the whole county suddenly pours into town. A flood of black country folk fills the streets and stores, blocks the sidewalks, and clogs the roads. They take full possession of the town. These black country folk are sturdy and rough-mannered, good-natured and simple, and very talkative. Yet they are far more silent and brooding than the crowds of the Rhine-pfalz, Naples, or Cracow. They drink considerable amounts of whiskey but do not get very drunk. At times they talk and laugh loudly, but they seldom quarrel or fight. They walk up and down the streets, meet friends and gossip, and stare into shop windows. They buy coffee, cheap candy, and clothes, then drive home at dusk. Are they happy? Well, no, not exactly happy, but much happier than if they had not come.

Thus Albany is a real capital,—a typical Southern county town, the centre of the life of ten thousand souls; their point of contact with the outer world, their centre of news and gossip, their market for buying and selling, borrowing and lending, their fountain of justice and law. Once upon a time we knew country life so well and city life so little, that we illustrated city life as that of a closely crowded country district. Now the world has well-nigh forgotten what the country is, and we must imagine a little city of black people scattered far and wide over three hundred lonesome square miles of land, without train or trolley, in the midst of cotton and corn, and wide patches of sand and gloomy soil.

So Albany is a true capital, a typical Southern county town at the center of life for ten thousand people. It is their point of contact with the outside world and their center for news and gossip. It is their market for buying and selling, borrowing and lending, and their source of justice and law. Once, we knew country life so well and city life so little that we explained cities through comparisons with the countryside. We described city life as life in a densely crowded rural district. Now the world has almost forgotten what the countryside is like. So we must imagine a little city of black people scattered across three hundred lonely square miles of land. There are no trains or trolleys, only cotton and corn, broad stretches of sand, and gloomy soil.

It gets pretty hot in Southern Georgia in July,—a sort of dull, determined heat that seems quite independent of the sun; so it took us some days to muster courage enough to leave the porch and venture out on the long country roads, that we might see this unknown world. Finally we started. It was about ten in the morning, bright with a faint breeze, and we jogged leisurely southward in the valley of the Flint. We passed the scattered box-like cabins of the brickyard hands, and the long tenement-row facetiously called “The Ark,” and were soon in the open country, and on the confines of the great plantations of other days. There is the “Joe Fields place”; a rough old fellow was he, and had killed many a “nigger” in his day. Twelve miles his plantation used to run,—a regular barony. It is nearly all gone now; only straggling bits belong to the family, and the rest has passed to Jews and Negroes. Even the bits which are left are heavily mortgaged, and, like the rest of the land, tilled by tenants. Here is one of them now,—a tall brown man, a hard worker and a hard drinker, illiterate, but versed in farmlore, as his nodding crops declare. This distressingly new board house is his, and he has just moved out of yonder moss-grown cabin with its one square room.

Southern Georgia gets pretty hot in July. The heat is dull and relentless, and seems quite independent of the sun. So we needed several days to gather enough courage to leave the porch and explore the long country roads. We wanted to see this unknown world. Finally we set out. It was about ten in the morning, bright with a faint breeze. We traveled leisurely southward through the Flint valley. We passed the scattered, boxlike cabins of the brickyard workers and the long row of housing jokingly called “The Ark.” Soon we were in open country, at the edges of the great plantations of earlier days. There is the “Joe Fields place.” He was a rough old fellow who had killed many a “nigger” in his day. His plantation once stretched twelve miles, like a baron’s estate. Nearly all of it is gone now. Only scattered pieces still belong to the family, and the rest has passed to Jews and Black people. Even the remaining pieces are heavily mortgaged and, like the rest of the land, farmed by tenants. Here is one of those tenants now, a tall brown man, a hard worker and a heavy drinker. He cannot read or write, but he knows farming, as his nodding crops show. This painfully new house, built of boards, is his. He has just moved out of that moss-covered cabin over there, with its one square room.

From the curtains in Benton’s house, down the road, a dark comely face is staring at the strangers; for passing carriages are not every-day occurrences here. Benton is an intelligent yellow man with a good-sized family, and manages a plantation blasted by the war and now the broken staff of the widow. He might be well-to-do, they say; but he carouses too much in Albany. And the half-desolate spirit of neglect born of the very soil seems to have settled on these acres. In times past there were cotton-gins and machinery here; but they have rotted away.

Behind the curtains in Benton’s house down the road, a handsome, dark face stares at the strangers. Passing carriages are not an everyday sight here. Benton is an intelligent, light-skinned Black man with a fairly large family. He manages a plantation devastated by the war, now a broken source of support for the widow. People say he might be prosperous, but he spends too much time drinking and partying in Albany. And a bleak spirit of neglect, born of the soil itself, seems to have settled over these acres. There used to be cotton gins and machinery here, but they have rotted away.

The whole land seems forlorn and forsaken. Here are the remnants of the vast plantations of the Sheldons, the Pellots, and the Rensons; but the souls of them are passed. The houses lie in half ruin, or have wholly disappeared; the fences have flown, and the families are wandering in the world. Strange vicissitudes have met these whilom masters. Yonder stretch the wide acres of Bildad Reasor; he died in war-time, but the upstart overseer hastened to wed the widow. Then he went, and his neighbors too, and now only the black tenant remains; but the shadow-hand of the master’s grand-nephew or cousin or creditor stretches out of the gray distance to collect the rack-rent remorselessly, and so the land is uncared-for and poor. Only black tenants can stand such a system, and they only because they must. Ten miles we have ridden to-day and have seen no white face.

The whole land seems lonely and abandoned. Here are the remains of the vast plantations of the Sheldons, the Pellots, and the Rensons. But their souls are gone. The houses are half in ruins or have disappeared entirely. The fences are gone, and the families are scattered across the world. Strange changes of fortune have come to these former masters. Over there lie the broad acres of Bildad Reasor. He died during the war, but the ambitious overseer hurried to marry his widow. Then the overseer left, and so did his neighbors. Now only the black tenant remains. But the shadowy hand of the master’s grand-nephew or cousin or creditor reaches out from the gray distance. It ruthlessly collects an exorbitant rent, leaving the land neglected and poor. Only black tenants can endure such a system, and only because they must. We have ridden ten miles today and have not seen a single white face.

A resistless feeling of depression falls slowly upon us, despite the gaudy sunshine and the green cottonfields. This, then, is the Cotton Kingdom,—the shadow of a marvellous dream. And where is the King? Perhaps this is he,—the sweating ploughman, tilling his eighty acres with two lean mules, and fighting a hard battle with debt. So we sit musing, until, as we turn a corner on the sandy road, there comes a fairer scene suddenly in view,—a neat cottage snugly ensconced by the road, and near it a little store. A tall bronzed man rises from the porch as we hail him, and comes out to our carriage. He is six feet in height, with a sober face that smiles gravely. He walks too straight to be a tenant,—yes, he owns two hundred and forty acres. “The land is run down since the boom-days of eighteen hundred and fifty,” he explains, and cotton is low. Three black tenants live on his place, and in his little store he keeps a small stock of tobacco, snuff, soap, and soda, for the neighborhood. Here is his gin-house with new machinery just installed. Three hundred bales of cotton went through it last year. Two children he has sent away to school. Yes, he says sadly, he is getting on, but cotton is down to four cents; I know how Debt sits staring at him.

An overwhelming sadness slowly settles over us, despite the showy sunshine and green cotton fields. So this is the Cotton Kingdom, the shadow of a marvelous dream. And where is the King? Perhaps he is this sweating plowman, working his eighty acres with two thin mules and struggling hard against debt. So we sit thinking until we turn a corner on the sandy road. Suddenly, a prettier scene comes into view: a neat cottage tucked beside the road, with a little store nearby. A tall, bronze-skinned man rises from the porch when we call to him and comes out to our carriage. He is six feet tall, with a serious face and a solemn smile. He stands too straight to be a tenant. Yes, he owns two hundred and forty acres. “The land is worn out since the boom days of 1850,” he explains, and cotton prices are low. Three black tenants live on his land. In his little store, he keeps a small supply of tobacco, snuff, soap, and soda for the neighborhood. Here is his cotton gin building, with new machinery just installed. Three hundred bales of cotton went through the gin last year. He has sent two children away to school. Yes, he says sadly, he is making progress, but cotton is down to four cents. I know how Debt sits staring at him.

Wherever the King may be, the parks and palaces of the Cotton Kingdom have not wholly disappeared. We plunge even now into great groves of oak and towering pine, with an undergrowth of myrtle and shrubbery. This was the “home-house” of the Thompsons,—slave-barons who drove their coach and four in the merry past. All is silence now, and ashes, and tangled weeds. The owner put his whole fortune into the rising cotton industry of the fifties, and with the falling prices of the eighties he packed up and stole away. Yonder is another grove, with unkempt lawn, great magnolias, and grass-grown paths. The Big House stands in half-ruin, its great front door staring blankly at the street, and the back part grotesquely restored for its black tenant. A shabby, well-built Negro he is, unlucky and irresolute. He digs hard to pay rent to the white girl who owns the remnant of the place. She married a policeman, and lives in Savannah.

Wherever the King may be, the parks and palaces of the Cotton Kingdom have not entirely disappeared. Even now, we plunge into great groves of oak and towering pine, with myrtle and shrubs growing beneath them. This was the “home-house” of the Thompsons, slave barons who rode in a coach pulled by four horses in those merry days. Now all is silence, ashes, and tangled weeds. The owner invested his entire fortune in the growing cotton industry of the 1850s. When prices fell in the 1880s, he packed up and slipped away. Over there is another grove, with a neglected lawn, great magnolias, and paths overgrown with grass. The Big House stands half in ruins, its great front door staring blankly at the street. The back has been awkwardly restored for the Black tenant. He is a shabbily dressed, well-built Black man, unlucky and indecisive. He digs hard to pay rent to the white girl who owns what remains of the property. She married a policeman and lives in Savannah.

Now and again we come to churches. Here is one now,—Shepherd’s, they call it,—a great whitewashed barn of a thing, perched on stilts of stone, and looking for all the world as though it were just resting here a moment and might be expected to waddle off down the road at almost any time. And yet it is the centre of a hundred cabin homes; and sometimes, of a Sunday, five hundred persons from far and near gather here and talk and eat and sing. There is a schoolhouse near,—a very airy, empty shed; but even this is an improvement, for usually the school is held in the church. The churches vary from log-huts to those like Shepherd’s, and the schools from nothing to this little house that sits demurely on the county line. It is a tiny plank-house, perhaps ten by twenty, and has within a double row of rough unplaned benches, resting mostly on legs, sometimes on boxes. Opposite the door is a square home-made desk. In one corner are the ruins of a stove, and in the other a dim blackboard. It is the cheerfulest schoolhouse I have seen in Dougherty, save in town. Back of the schoolhouse is a lodgehouse two stories high and not quite finished. Societies meet there,—societies “to care for the sick and bury the dead”; and these societies grow and flourish.

Now and then we come to churches. Here is one now, called Shepherd’s. It is a huge, whitewashed barn of a building, perched on stone stilts. It looks just as though it were resting here a moment and might waddle down the road at any time. And yet the church is the center of a hundred cabin homes. Sometimes on Sundays, five hundred people gather here from far and near to talk, eat, and sing. There is a schoolhouse nearby, a very airy, empty shed. But even this shed is an improvement, since school is usually held in the church. The churches range from log huts to buildings like Shepherd’s. The schools range from nothing at all to this little house sitting quietly on the county line. It is a tiny plank building, perhaps ten by twenty feet. Inside are two rows of rough, unplaned benches, supported mostly by legs, sometimes by boxes. Opposite the door is a square homemade desk. In one corner are the remains of a stove, and in the other is a faded blackboard. This is the most cheerful schoolhouse I have seen in Dougherty, except for those in town. Behind the schoolhouse stands a two-story lodge building, not quite finished. Societies meet there, societies “to care for the sick and bury the dead”. And these societies grow and flourish.

We had come to the boundaries of Dougherty, and were about to turn west along the county-line, when all these sights were pointed out to us by a kindly old man, black, white-haired, and seventy. Forty-five years he had lived here, and now supports himself and his old wife by the help of the steer tethered yonder and the charity of his black neighbors. He shows us the farm of the Hills just across the county line in Baker,—a widow and two strapping sons, who raised ten bales (one need not add “cotton” down here) last year. There are fences and pigs and cows, and the soft-voiced, velvet-skinned young Memnon, who sauntered half-bashfully over to greet the strangers, is proud of his home. We turn now to the west along the county line. Great dismantled trunks of pines tower above the green cottonfields, cracking their naked gnarled fingers toward the border of living forest beyond. There is little beauty in this region, only a sort of crude abandon that suggests power,—a naked grandeur, as it were. The houses are bare and straight; there are no hammocks or easy-chairs, and few flowers. So when, as here at Rawdon’s, one sees a vine clinging to a little porch, and home-like windows peeping over the fences, one takes a long breath. I think I never before quite realized the place of the Fence in civilization. This is the Land of the Unfenced, where crouch on either hand scores of ugly one-room cabins, cheerless and dirty. Here lies the Negro problem in its naked dirt and penury. And here are no fences. But now and then the crisscross rails or straight palings break into view, and then we know a touch of culture is near. Of course Harrison Gohagen,—a quiet yellow man, young, smooth-faced, and diligent,—of course he is lord of some hundred acres, and we expect to see a vision of well-kept rooms and fat beds and laughing children. For has he not fine fences? And those over yonder, why should they build fences on the rack-rented land? It will only increase their rent.

We had reached the edge of Dougherty and were about to turn west along the county line. A kindly old Black man pointed out all these sights to us. He was white-haired and seventy years old. He had lived here for forty-five years. Now he supports himself and his elderly wife with help from the steer tethered over there and his Black neighbors’ charity. He shows us the Hills’ farm, just across the county line in Baker. A widow and her two strong sons raised ten bales last year. Down here, there is no need to add “cotton”. There are fences, pigs, and cows. The soft-voiced young Memnon, with his velvety skin, strolled over a little shyly to greet the strangers. He is proud of his home. Now we turn west along the county line. Great stripped pine trunks tower above the green cotton fields. Their bare, twisted fingers crack toward the edge of the living forest beyond. There is little beauty in this region, only a kind of rough wildness that suggests power. It has a bare grandeur, as it were. The houses are plain and straight-sided. There are no hammocks or comfortable chairs, and few flowers. So when we see a vine clinging to a little porch, as here at Rawdon’s, we take a deep breath. Welcoming windows peek over the fences. I think I had never before quite understood the place of the Fence in civilization. This is the Land of the Unfenced. On either side crouch scores of ugly, one-room cabins, cheerless and dirty. Here lies the Negro problem, exposed in all its dirt and poverty. And here there are no fences. But now and then, crisscross rails or straight wooden pickets come into view. Then we know a touch of culture is near. Of course Harrison Gohagen is master of some hundred acres. He is a quiet, light-skinned Black man, young, smooth-faced, and hardworking. Of course we expect to see well-kept rooms, plump beds, and laughing children. After all, doesn’t he have fine fences? And those people over there, why should they build fences on land rented at such excessive rates? Building fences will only increase their rent.

On we wind, through sand and pines and glimpses of old plantations, till there creeps into sight a cluster of buildings,—wood and brick, mills and houses, and scattered cabins. It seemed quite a village. As it came nearer and nearer, however, the aspect changed: the buildings were rotten, the bricks were falling out, the mills were silent, and the store was closed. Only in the cabins appeared now and then a bit of lazy life. I could imagine the place under some weird spell, and was half-minded to search out the princess. An old ragged black man, honest, simple, and improvident, told us the tale. The Wizard of the North—the Capitalist—had rushed down in the seventies to woo this coy dark soil. He bought a square mile or more, and for a time the field-hands sang, the gins groaned, and the mills buzzed. Then came a change. The agent’s son embezzled the funds and ran off with them. Then the agent himself disappeared. Finally the new agent stole even the books, and the company in wrath closed its business and its houses, refused to sell, and let houses and furniture and machinery rust and rot. So the Waters-Loring plantation was stilled by the spell of dishonesty, and stands like some gaunt rebuke to a scarred land.

We wind on through sand and pines, catching glimpses of old plantations, until a cluster of buildings slowly comes into view. There are wooden and brick buildings, mills and houses, and scattered cabins. The place seemed quite a village. As we drew closer, however, the scene changed. The buildings were rotting, the bricks were falling out, the mills were silent, and the store was closed. Only in the cabins did we now and then see a little idle life. I could imagine the place under some strange spell, and I was half tempted to search for the princess. An old Black man in ragged clothes told us the story. He was honest and simple, and gave no thought to the future. The Wizard of the North, the Capitalist, had rushed down in the 1870s to court this shy, dark soil. He bought a square mile or more. For a time, the field workers sang, the cotton gins groaned, and the mills buzzed. Then came a change. The agent’s son stole the funds entrusted to him and ran off with the money. Then the agent himself disappeared. Finally, the new agent stole even the account books. In anger, the company shut down its business and closed its houses. The company refused to sell and left the houses, furniture, and machinery to rust and rot. So the Waters-Loring plantation fell silent under the spell of dishonesty. It stands like a gaunt reproach to a scarred land.

Somehow that plantation ended our day’s journey; for I could not shake off the influence of that silent scene. Back toward town we glided, past the straight and thread-like pines, past a dark tree-dotted pond where the air was heavy with a dead sweet perfume. White slender-legged curlews flitted by us, and the garnet blooms of the cotton looked gay against the green and purple stalks. A peasant girl was hoeing in the field, white-turbaned and black-limbed. All this we saw, but the spell still lay upon us.

Somehow, that plantation brought our day’s journey to an end, because I could not shake the feeling of that silent scene. We glided back toward town, past the straight, threadlike pines. We passed a dark pond dotted with trees, where the air was heavy with a lifeless, sweet scent. White curlews with slender legs flitted past us. The deep red cotton blossoms looked cheerful against the green and purple stalks. A peasant girl with a white turban and black limbs was hoeing in the field. We saw all of this, but the spell of that silent scene still held us.

How curious a land is this,—how full of untold story, of tragedy and laughter, and the rich legacy of human life; shadowed with a tragic past, and big with future promise! This is the Black Belt of Georgia. Dougherty County is the west end of the Black Belt, and men once called it the Egypt of the Confederacy. It is full of historic interest. First there is the Swamp, to the west, where the Chickasawhatchee flows sullenly southward. The shadow of an old plantation lies at its edge, forlorn and dark. Then comes the pool; pendent gray moss and brackish waters appear, and forests filled with wildfowl. In one place the wood is on fire, smouldering in dull red anger; but nobody minds. Then the swamp grows beautiful; a raised road, built by chained Negro convicts, dips down into it, and forms a way walled and almost covered in living green. Spreading trees spring from a prodigal luxuriance of undergrowth; great dark green shadows fade into the black background, until all is one mass of tangled semi-tropical foliage, marvellous in its weird savage splendor. Once we crossed a black silent stream, where the sad trees and writhing creepers, all glinting fiery yellow and green, seemed like some vast cathedral,—some green Milan builded of wildwood. And as I crossed, I seemed to see again that fierce tragedy of seventy years ago. Osceola, the Indian-Negro chieftain, had risen in the swamps of Florida, vowing vengeance. His war-cry reached the red Creeks of Dougherty, and their war-cry rang from the Chattahoochee to the sea. Men and women and children fled and fell before them as they swept into Dougherty. In yonder shadows a dark and hideously painted warrior glided stealthily on,—another and another, until three hundred had crept into the treacherous swamp. Then the false slime closing about them called the white men from the east. Waist-deep, they fought beneath the tall trees, until the war-cry was hushed and the Indians glided back into the west. Small wonder the wood is red.

What a curious land this is! How full of untold stories, tragedy and laughter, and the rich legacy of human life! A tragic past casts its shadow over the land, yet the future is full of promise. This is the Black Belt of Georgia. Dougherty County lies at the western end of the Black Belt. People once called the county the Egypt of the Confederacy. It is full of historical interest. First there is the Swamp, to the west, where the Chickasawhatchee flows gloomily southward. The shadow of an old plantation lies at the swamp’s edge, lonely and dark. Then comes the pool, with hanging gray moss, brackish water, and forests filled with wild birds. In one place the woods are on fire, smoldering with a dull red anger. But nobody minds. Then the swamp grows beautiful. A raised road, built by chained Black convicts, dips into the swamp. The road forms a passage walled and almost covered by living greenery. Spreading trees rise from an extravagant abundance of undergrowth. Great dark green shadows fade into the black background. Everything becomes one mass of tangled, semitropical foliage, marvelous in its strange, wild splendor. Once we crossed a black, silent stream. The sorrowful trees and twisting vines, all flashing fiery yellow and green, seemed like some vast cathedral. They seemed like a green Milan built from wild woodland. And as I crossed, I seemed to see again the fierce tragedy of seventy years earlier. Osceola, the Indian-Negro chieftain, had risen in the swamps of Florida, vowing revenge. His war cry reached the Native American Creeks of Dougherty. Their war cry rang from the Chattahoochee to the sea. Men, women, and children fled and fell before the warriors as they swept into Dougherty. In those shadows, a dark warrior, his body hideously painted, glided forward in silence. Another followed, and another, until three hundred had crept into the treacherous swamp. Then the deceptive slime closed around them and called the white men from the east. Waist-deep, they fought beneath the tall trees, until the war cry fell silent and the Indians slipped back west. No wonder the woods are red.

Then came the black slaves. Day after day the clank of chained feet marching from Virginia and Carolina to Georgia was heard in these rich swamp lands. Day after day the songs of the callous, the wail of the motherless, and the muttered curses of the wretched echoed from the Flint to the Chickasawhatchee, until by 1860 there had risen in West Dougherty perhaps the richest slave kingdom the modern world ever knew. A hundred and fifty barons commanded the labor of nearly six thousand Negroes, held sway over farms with ninety thousand acres tilled land, valued even in times of cheap soil at three millions of dollars. Twenty thousand bales of ginned cotton went yearly to England, New and Old; and men that came there bankrupt made money and grew rich. In a single decade the cotton output increased four-fold and the value of lands was tripled. It was the heyday of the nouveau riche, and a life of careless extravagance among the masters. Four and six bobtailed thoroughbreds rolled their coaches to town; open hospitality and gay entertainment were the rule. Parks and groves were laid out, rich with flower and vine, and in the midst stood the low wide-halled “big house,” with its porch and columns and great fireplaces.

Then came the black slaves. Day after day, chained feet clanked as slaves marched from Virginia and Carolina to Georgia through these rich swamplands. Day after day, the songs of the hardened, the cries of the motherless, and the muttered curses of the wretched echoed. The sounds carried from the Flint to the Chickasawhatchee. By 1860, West Dougherty had become perhaps the richest slave kingdom the modern world had ever known. A hundred and fifty barons controlled the labor of nearly six thousand black people. They ruled over farms with ninety thousand acres of cultivated land, worth three million dollars even when land was cheap. Twenty thousand bales of ginned cotton went each year to New England and England. Men who arrived bankrupt made money and grew rich. In a single decade, cotton production grew fourfold, and land values tripled. It was the heyday of the nouveau riche, and the masters lived in careless extravagance. Teams of four or six thoroughbred horses with cropped tails pulled their coaches into town. Generous hospitality and lively entertainment were the rule. Parks and groves were laid out, lush with flowers and vines. In their midst stood the low “big house,” with its wide halls, porch, columns, and great fireplaces.

And yet with all this there was something sordid, something forced,—a certain feverish unrest and recklessness; for was not all this show and tinsel built upon a groan? “This land was a little Hell,” said a ragged, brown, and grave-faced man to me. We were seated near a roadside blacksmith shop, and behind was the bare ruin of some master’s home. “I’ve seen niggers drop dead in the furrow, but they were kicked aside, and the plough never stopped. Down in the guard-house, there’s where the blood ran.”

And yet, with all this, there was something sordid and forced, a feverish restlessness and recklessness. For wasn’t all this glitter and show built on a groan? “This land was a little Hell,” a brown-skinned man with ragged clothes and a solemn face told me. We sat near a roadside blacksmith shop. Behind us stood the bare ruins of some slaveholder’s home. “I’ve seen niggers drop dead in the furrow, but they were kicked aside, and the plow never stopped. Down in the guardhouse, that’s where the blood ran.”

With such foundations a kingdom must in time sway and fall. The masters moved to Macon and Augusta, and left only the irresponsible overseers on the land. And the result is such ruin as this, the Lloyd “home-place”:—great waving oaks, a spread of lawn, myrtles and chestnuts, all ragged and wild; a solitary gate-post standing where once was a castle entrance; an old rusty anvil lying amid rotting bellows and wood in the ruins of a blacksmith shop; a wide rambling old mansion, brown and dingy, filled now with the grandchildren of the slaves who once waited on its tables; while the family of the master has dwindled to two lone women, who live in Macon and feed hungrily off the remnants of an earldom. So we ride on, past phantom gates and falling homes,—past the once flourishing farms of the Smiths, the Gandys, and the Lagores,—and find all dilapidated and half ruined, even there where a solitary white woman, a relic of other days, sits alone in state among miles of Negroes and rides to town in her ancient coach each day.

Built on such foundations, a kingdom must eventually totter and fall. The masters moved to Macon and Augusta, leaving only irresponsible overseers on the land. The result is ruin like the Lloyd “home-place”: great, swaying oaks, a stretch of lawn, myrtles and chestnuts, all overgrown and wild. A single gatepost stands where a castle entrance once stood. An old, rusty anvil lies among rotting bellows and wood in the ruins of a blacksmith shop. A sprawling old mansion, brown and dingy, now houses the grandchildren of the slaves who once served at its tables. Meanwhile, the master's family has dwindled to two lone women. They live in Macon and feed hungrily on the remains of an earldom. So we ride on, past ghostly gates and collapsing homes. We pass the once-thriving farms of the Smiths, the Gandys, and the Lagores, and find everything decaying and half ruined. Even where a lone white woman remains, everything is decaying and half ruined. A relic of earlier days, she sits alone in grandeur, surrounded by miles of Black people. Each day she rides to town in her ancient coach.

This was indeed the Egypt of the Confederacy,—the rich granary whence potatoes and corn and cotton poured out to the famished and ragged Confederate troops as they battled for a cause lost long before 1861. Sheltered and secure, it became the place of refuge for families, wealth, and slaves. Yet even then the hard ruthless rape of the land began to tell. The red-clay sub-soil already had begun to peer above the loam. The harder the slaves were driven the more careless and fatal was their farming. Then came the revolution of war and Emancipation, the bewilderment of Reconstruction,—and now, what is the Egypt of the Confederacy, and what meaning has it for the nation’s weal or woe?

This was indeed the Egypt of the Confederacy, a rich storehouse of food. Potatoes, corn, and cotton poured out to starving Confederate troops dressed in rags. They fought for a cause lost long before 1861. Sheltered and secure, the region became a refuge for families, wealth, and enslaved people. Yet even then, the ruthless plundering of the land began to take its toll. The red-clay subsoil had already begun to show through the topsoil. The harder enslaved people were driven, the more careless and destructive their farming became. Then came the upheaval of war and Emancipation, followed by the confusion of Reconstruction. And now, what has become of the Egypt of the Confederacy? What does the region mean for the nation’s well-being or suffering?

It is a land of rapid contrasts and of curiously mingled hope and pain. Here sits a pretty blue-eyed quadroon hiding her bare feet; she was married only last week, and yonder in the field is her dark young husband, hoeing to support her, at thirty cents a day without board. Across the way is Gatesby, brown and tall, lord of two thousand acres shrewdly won and held. There is a store conducted by his black son, a blacksmith shop, and a ginnery. Five miles below here is a town owned and controlled by one white New Englander. He owns almost a Rhode Island county, with thousands of acres and hundreds of black laborers. Their cabins look better than most, and the farm, with machinery and fertilizers, is much more business-like than any in the county, although the manager drives hard bargains in wages. When now we turn and look five miles above, there on the edge of town are five houses of prostitutes,—two of blacks and three of whites; and in one of the houses of the whites a worthless black boy was harbored too openly two years ago; so he was hanged for rape. And here, too, is the high whitewashed fence of the “stockade,” as the county prison is called; the white folks say it is ever full of black criminals,—the black folks say that only colored boys are sent to jail, and they not because they are guilty, but because the State needs criminals to eke out its income by their forced labor.

This is a land of sharp contrasts, where hope and pain mingle strangely. Here sits a pretty, blue-eyed quadroon, a woman of one-quarter Black ancestry, hiding her bare feet. She married only last week. Over there in the field, her young, dark-skinned husband hoes to support her for thirty cents a day, without meals. Across the way is Gatesby, brown-skinned and tall, master of two thousand acres he shrewdly acquired and kept. There is a store run by his Black son, a blacksmith shop, and a cotton gin. Five miles farther down is a town owned and controlled by one white New Englander. He owns nearly as much land as a Rhode Island county, with thousands of acres and hundreds of Black laborers. Their cabins look better than most. With machinery and fertilizers, the farm operates far more efficiently than any other in the county. Yet the manager bargains hard over wages. Now we turn and look five miles in the other direction. There, on the edge of town, are five brothels, two with Black prostitutes and three with white prostitutes. Two years ago, a worthless Black boy was sheltered too openly in one of the white brothels. So he was hanged for rape. Here, too, is the high whitewashed fence of the “stockade,” as the county prison is called. White people say the prison is always full of Black criminals. Black people say only Black boys are sent to jail, not because the boys are guilty. Instead, they say, the State needs criminals to supplement its income through their forced labor.

The Jew is the heir of the slave baron in Dougherty; and as we ride westward, by wide stretching cornfields and stubby orchards of peach and pear, we see on all sides within the circle of dark forest a Land of Canaan. Here and there are tales of projects for money-getting, born in the swift days of Reconstruction,—“improvement” companies, wine companies, mills and factories; most failed, and the Jew fell heir. It is a beautiful land, this Dougherty, west of the Flint. The forests are wonderful, the solemn pines have disappeared, and this is the “Oakey Woods,” with its wealth of hickories, beeches, oaks and palmettos. But a pall of debt hangs over the beautiful land; the merchants are in debt to the wholesalers, the planters are in debt to the merchants, the tenants owe the planters, and laborers bow and bend beneath the burden of it all. Here and there a man has raised his head above these murky waters. We passed one fenced stock-farm with grass and grazing cattle, that looked very home-like after endless corn and cotton. Here and there are black free-holders: there is the gaunt dull-black Jackson, with his hundred acres. “I says, ‘Look up! If you don’t look up you can’t get up,’” remarks Jackson, philosophically. And he’s gotten up. Dark Carter’s neat barns would do credit to New England. His master helped him to get a start, but when the black man died last fall the master’s sons immediately laid claim to the estate. “And them white folks will get it, too,” said my yellow gossip.

The Jew has inherited the slave baron’s place in Dougherty. As we ride westward, we pass broad cornfields and small, stunted peach and pear orchards. All around us, within a ring of dark forest, we see a Land of Canaan. Here and there, we hear stories of money-making ventures launched in the fast-moving days of Reconstruction. These included “improvement” companies, wine companies, mills, and factories. Most failed, and the Jew inherited what remained. Dougherty, west of the Flint, is a beautiful land. The forests are wonderful. The solemn pines have disappeared, and here are the “Oakey Woods,” rich in hickories, beeches, oaks, and palmettos. But a cloud of debt hangs over this beautiful land. Merchants owe wholesalers, planters owe merchants, tenants owe planters, and laborers bend beneath the burden of it all. Here and there, a man has lifted his head above these murky waters. We passed one fenced livestock farm with grass and grazing cattle. After endless corn and cotton, the farm looked very home-like. Here and there, Black people own their own land. There is the gaunt, dark-skinned Jackson, with his hundred acres. “I say, ‘Look up! If you don’t look up, you can’t get up,’” Jackson remarks philosophically. And he has risen. Dark-skinned Carter’s neat barns would do credit to New England. His former master helped him get started. But when Carter died last fall, his former master’s sons immediately claimed the estate. “And those white folks will get it, too,” said my light-skinned companion.

I turn from these well-tended acres with a comfortable feeling that the Negro is rising. Even then, however, the fields, as we proceed, begin to redden and the trees disappear. Rows of old cabins appear filled with renters and laborers,—cheerless, bare, and dirty, for the most part, although here and there the very age and decay makes the scene picturesque. A young black fellow greets us. He is twenty-two, and just married. Until last year he had good luck renting; then cotton fell, and the sheriff seized and sold all he had. So he moved here, where the rent is higher, the land poorer, and the owner inflexible; he rents a forty-dollar mule for twenty dollars a year. Poor lad!—a slave at twenty-two. This plantation, owned now by a foreigner, was a part of the famous Bolton estate. After the war it was for many years worked by gangs of Negro convicts,—and black convicts then were even more plentiful than now; it was a way of making Negroes work, and the question of guilt was a minor one. Hard tales of cruelty and mistreatment of the chained freemen are told, but the county authorities were deaf until the free-labor market was nearly ruined by wholesale migration. Then they took the convicts from the plantations, but not until one of the fairest regions of the “Oakey Woods” had been ruined and ravished into a red waste, out of which only a Yankee or an immigrant could squeeze more blood from debt-cursed tenants.

I turn away from these well-kept acres with the comforting feeling that Black people are making progress. Even then, however, as we go on, the fields begin to turn red and the trees disappear. Rows of old cabins appear, filled with tenant farmers and laborers. Most cabins are cheerless, bare, and dirty, although here and there their very age and decay make the scene picturesque. A young Black man greets us. He is twenty-two and newly married. Until last year, he had done well as a tenant farmer. Then cotton prices fell, and the sheriff seized and sold everything he had. So he moved here, where the rent is higher, the land poorer, and the owner unwilling to bend. He pays twenty dollars a year to rent a mule worth forty dollars. Poor young man! A slave at twenty-two. This plantation, now owned by a foreigner, was part of the famous Bolton estate. After the war, gangs of Black convicts worked the plantation for many years. Black convicts were even more plentiful then than now. Convict labor was a way to make Black people work, and whether they were guilty mattered little. People tell grim stories of cruelty and abuse suffered by these free people in chains. But county officials refused to listen until so many workers moved away that the free-labor market was nearly ruined. Then the officials removed the convicts from the plantations. But by then, one of the loveliest parts of the “Oakey Woods” had been devastated and reduced to red wasteland. Only a Yankee or an immigrant could squeeze more blood from debt-ridden tenants on that land.

No wonder that Luke Black, slow, dull, and discouraged, shuffles to our carriage and talks hopelessly. Why should he strive? Every year finds him deeper in debt. How strange that Georgia, the world-heralded refuge of poor debtors, should bind her own to sloth and misfortune as ruthlessly as ever England did! The poor land groans with its birth-pains, and brings forth scarcely a hundred pounds of cotton to the acre, where fifty years ago it yielded eight times as much. Of his meagre yield the tenant pays from a quarter to a third in rent, and most of the rest in interest on food and supplies bought on credit. Twenty years yonder sunken-cheeked, old black man has labored under that system, and now, turned day-laborer, is supporting his wife and boarding himself on his wages of a dollar and a half a week, received only part of the year.

No wonder Luke Black, slow, dull, and discouraged, shuffles over to our carriage and speaks without hope. Why should he try? Every year leaves him deeper in debt. How strange that Georgia, celebrated worldwide as a refuge for poor debtors, should trap its own people in idleness and misfortune! Georgia does so as ruthlessly as England ever did. The poor land groans with labor pains and produces barely a hundred pounds of cotton per acre. Fifty years ago, the same land yielded eight times as much. From his small harvest, the tenant pays a quarter to a third in rent. Most of the rest goes toward interest on food and supplies bought on credit. That old Black man over there, with his sunken cheeks, has worked under this system for twenty years. Now he works as a day laborer, supporting his wife and feeding himself on a dollar and a half a week. He receives those wages for only part of the year.

The Bolton convict farm formerly included the neighboring plantation. Here it was that the convicts were lodged in the great log prison still standing. A dismal place it still remains, with rows of ugly huts filled with surly ignorant tenants. “What rent do you pay here?” I inquired. “I don’t know,—what is it, Sam?” “All we make,” answered Sam. It is a depressing place,—bare, unshaded, with no charm of past association, only a memory of forced human toil,—now, then, and before the war. They are not happy, these black men whom we meet throughout this region. There is little of the joyous abandon and playfulness which we are wont to associate with the plantation Negro. At best, the natural good-nature is edged with complaint or has changed into sullenness and gloom. And now and then it blazes forth in veiled but hot anger. I remember one big red-eyed black whom we met by the roadside. Forty-five years he had labored on this farm, beginning with nothing, and still having nothing. To be sure, he had given four children a common-school training, and perhaps if the new fence-law had not allowed unfenced crops in West Dougherty he might have raised a little stock and kept ahead. As it is, he is hopelessly in debt, disappointed, and embittered. He stopped us to inquire after the black boy in Albany, whom it was said a policeman had shot and killed for loud talking on the sidewalk. And then he said slowly: “Let a white man touch me, and he dies; I don’t boast this,—I don’t say it around loud, or before the children,—but I mean it. I’ve seen them whip my father and my old mother in them cotton-rows till the blood ran; by—” and we passed on.

The Bolton convict farm once included the neighboring plantation. The convicts were housed here in the large log prison that still stands. The place remains dismal, with rows of ugly huts filled with sullen, uneducated tenants. “What rent do you pay here?” I asked. “I don’t know. What is it, Sam?” “All we make,” answered Sam. It is a depressing place, bare and without shade. No pleasant memories of the past give it charm, only the memory of forced human labor, now, then, and before the war. The black men we meet throughout this region are not happy. They show little of the carefree joy and playfulness we usually associate with black people on plantations. At best, their natural good nature carries an edge of complaint or has turned into sullenness and gloom. Now and then, their discontent flares into guarded but fierce anger. I remember one large, red-eyed black man we met by the roadside. He had worked on this farm for forty-five years, starting with nothing and still having nothing. To be sure, he had given four children a basic public-school education. And perhaps he might have raised a few livestock and stayed ahead if not for the new fence law. That law allowed crops to be grown without fences in West Dougherty. As things stand, he is hopelessly in debt, disappointed, and bitter. He stopped us to ask about the black boy in Albany. People said a policeman had shot and killed the boy for talking loudly on the sidewalk. Then the man said slowly: “Let a white man touch me, and he dies. I’m not boasting. I don’t say this loudly, or in front of the children, but I mean it. I’ve seen them whip my father and my old mother in those cotton rows until the blood ran. By...” And we moved on.

Now Sears, whom we met next lolling under the chubby oak-trees, was of quite different fibre. Happy?—Well, yes; he laughed and flipped pebbles, and thought the world was as it was. He had worked here twelve years and has nothing but a mortgaged mule. Children? Yes, seven; but they hadn’t been to school this year,—couldn’t afford books and clothes, and couldn’t spare their work. There go part of them to the fields now,—three big boys astride mules, and a strapping girl with bare brown legs. Careless ignorance and laziness here, fierce hate and vindictiveness there;—these are the extremes of the Negro problem which we met that day, and we scarce knew which we preferred.

Next we met Sears, lounging under the squat oak trees. He was a very different sort of man. Happy? Well, yes. He laughed and tossed pebbles, and accepted the world as it was. He had worked here twelve years and had nothing but a mortgaged mule. Children? Yes, seven. But they hadn’t been to school this year. He couldn’t afford books and clothes, and couldn’t do without their work. There go some of them to the fields now. Three big boys ride mules, and a tall, sturdy girl walks with her brown legs bare. Here was careless ignorance and laziness, and there was fierce hatred and a desire for revenge. These were the extremes of the Negro problem we encountered that day, and we hardly knew which we preferred.

Here and there we meet distinct characters quite out of the ordinary. One came out of a piece of newly cleared ground, making a wide detour to avoid the snakes. He was an old, hollow-cheeked man, with a drawn and characterful brown face. He had a sort of self-contained quaintness and rough humor impossible to describe; a certain cynical earnestness that puzzled one. “The niggers were jealous of me over on the other place,” he said, “and so me and the old woman begged this piece of woods, and I cleared it up myself. Made nothing for two years, but I reckon I’ve got a crop now.” The cotton looked tall and rich, and we praised it. He curtsied low, and then bowed almost to the ground, with an imperturbable gravity that seemed almost suspicious. Then he continued, “My mule died last week,”—a calamity in this land equal to a devastating fire in town,—“but a white man loaned me another.” Then he added, eyeing us, “Oh, I gets along with white folks.” We turned the conversation. “Bears? deer?” he answered, “well, I should say there were,” and he let fly a string of brave oaths, as he told hunting-tales of the swamp. We left him standing still in the middle of the road looking after us, and yet apparently not noticing us.

Here and there we meet unusual people who stand apart from the rest. One came out of a newly cleared patch of land, taking a wide detour to avoid the snakes. He was an old man with hollow cheeks and a drawn brown face full of character. He had a quiet, odd charm and rough humor that were impossible to describe. There was a certain cynical seriousness about him that puzzled us. “The niggers were jealous of me over at the other place,” he said. “So my old woman and I begged for this patch of woods, and I cleared it myself. I made nothing for two years, but I reckon I’ve got a crop now.” The cotton looked tall and healthy, and we praised it. He curtsied low, then bowed almost to the ground. His unshakable solemnity seemed almost suspicious. Then he continued, “My mule died last week.” In this country, losing a mule was as disastrous as a devastating fire in town. “But a white man lent me another.” Then he added, watching us, “Oh, I get along with white folks.” We changed the subject. “Bears? Deer?” he answered. “Well, I should say there were.” He let loose a string of bold curses as he told hunting stories about the swamp. We left him standing still in the middle of the road, watching us go, yet apparently not noticing us.

The Whistle place, which includes his bit of land, was bought soon after the war by an English syndicate, the “Dixie Cotton and Corn Company.” A marvellous deal of style their factor put on, with his servants and coach-and-six; so much so that the concern soon landed in inextricable bankruptcy. Nobody lives in the old house now, but a man comes each winter out of the North and collects his high rents. I know not which are the more touching,—such old empty houses, or the homes of the masters’ sons. Sad and bitter tales lie hidden back of those white doors,—tales of poverty, of struggle, of disappointment. A revolution such as that of ’63 is a terrible thing; they that rose rich in the morning often slept in paupers’ beds. Beggars and vulgar speculators rose to rule over them, and their children went astray. See yonder sad-colored house, with its cabins and fences and glad crops! It is not glad within; last month the prodigal son of the struggling father wrote home from the city for money. Money! Where was it to come from? And so the son rose in the night and killed his baby, and killed his wife, and shot himself dead. And the world passed on.

The Whistle place, which includes his small plot of land, was bought soon after the war by an English syndicate. The syndicate was called the “Dixie Cotton and Corn Company.” Its agent put on a tremendous show, with servants and a carriage drawn by six horses. His extravagance soon drove the company into bankruptcy from which it could not recover. Nobody lives in the old house now. But each winter, a man comes from the North and collects his high rents. I do not know which is more touching: these old empty houses or the homes of the former masters’ sons. Sad and bitter stories lie hidden behind those white doors, stories of poverty, struggle, and disappointment. A revolution like the one in 1863 is a terrible thing. People who woke up rich often went to sleep in paupers’ beds. Beggars and vulgar speculators rose to rule over them, and their children went astray. Look at that somber-looking house over there, with its cabins and fences and cheerful crops! There is no happiness inside. Last month, the wayward son of the struggling father wrote home from the city, asking for money. Money! Where was the money to come from? And so the son got up in the night and killed his baby, killed his wife, and shot himself dead. And the world moved on.

I remember wheeling around a bend in the road beside a graceful bit of forest and a singing brook. A long low house faced us, with porch and flying pillars, great oaken door, and a broad lawn shining in the evening sun. But the window-panes were gone, the pillars were worm-eaten, and the moss-grown roof was falling in. Half curiously I peered through the unhinged door, and saw where, on the wall across the hall, was written in once gay letters a faded “Welcome.”

I remember rounding a bend in the road beside a lovely patch of woods and a singing brook. A long, low house faced us, with a porch, soaring pillars, and a great oak door. A broad lawn shone in the evening sun. But the windowpanes were gone, the pillars were worm-eaten, and the moss-covered roof was falling in. With some curiosity, I peered through the door hanging off its hinges. On the wall across the hall, I saw a faded “Welcome” written in letters that had once looked cheerful.

Quite a contrast to the southwestern part of Dougherty County is the northwest. Soberly timbered in oak and pine, it has none of that half-tropical luxuriance of the southwest. Then, too, there are fewer signs of a romantic past, and more of systematic modern land-grabbing and money-getting. White people are more in evidence here, and farmer and hired labor replace to some extent the absentee landlord and rack-rented tenant. The crops have neither the luxuriance of the richer land nor the signs of neglect so often seen, and there were fences and meadows here and there. Most of this land was poor, and beneath the notice of the slave-baron, before the war. Since then his poor relations and foreign immigrants have seized it. The returns of the farmer are too small to allow much for wages, and yet he will not sell off small farms. There is the Negro Sanford; he has worked fourteen years as overseer on the Ladson place, and “paid out enough for fertilizers to have bought a farm,” but the owner will not sell off a few acres.

The northwest of Dougherty County is quite different from the southwest. Its subdued oak and pine woods have none of the southwest’s almost tropical lushness. There are also fewer signs of a romantic past and more of organized modern land-grabbing and money-making. White people are more visible here. Farmers and hired workers have partly replaced absentee landlords and tenants charged excessive rents. The crops are neither as lush as those on richer land nor as visibly neglected as crops so often are. Here and there are fences and meadows. Before the war, most of this land was poor and beneath the notice of the great slaveholders. Since then, their poor relatives and immigrants from abroad have seized the land. Farmers earn too little to pay much in wages, yet they will not sell small farms from their land. Take Sanford, a Black man. He has worked fourteen years as overseer on the Ladson place. He has “paid out enough for fertilizers to have bought a farm,” but the owner will not sell a few acres.

Two children—a boy and a girl—are hoeing sturdily in the fields on the farm where Corliss works. He is smooth-faced and brown, and is fencing up his pigs. He used to run a successful cotton-gin, but the Cotton Seed Oil Trust has forced the price of ginning so low that he says it hardly pays him. He points out a stately old house over the way as the home of “Pa Willis.” We eagerly ride over, for “Pa Willis” was the tall and powerful black Moses who led the Negroes for a generation, and led them well. He was a Baptist preacher, and when he died, two thousand black people followed him to the grave; and now they preach his funeral sermon each year. His widow lives here,—a weazened, sharp-featured little woman, who curtsied quaintly as we greeted her. Further on lives Jack Delson, the most prosperous Negro farmer in the county. It is a joy to meet him,—a great broad-shouldered, handsome black man, intelligent and jovial. Six hundred and fifty acres he owns, and has eleven black tenants. A neat and tidy home nestled in a flower-garden, and a little store stands beside it.

Two children, a boy and a girl, are hoeing steadily in the fields on the farm where Corliss works. Corliss is brown-skinned and clean-shaven, and he is putting up a fence around his pigs. He used to run a successful cotton gin. But the Cotton Seed Oil Trust has driven ginning prices so low that he says the work hardly pays. He points to a grand old house across the way as the home of “Pa Willis.” We eagerly ride over, for “Pa Willis” was the tall, powerful Black Moses who led Black people for a generation. He led them well. He was a Baptist preacher, and when he died, two thousand Black people followed him to his grave. Now they preach a funeral sermon in his memory each year. His widow lives here, a small, wizened woman with sharp features. She gave an old-fashioned curtsy as we greeted her. Farther on lives Jack Delson, the most prosperous Black farmer in the county. Meeting him is a joy. He is a large, broad-shouldered, handsome Black man, intelligent and cheerful. He owns six hundred and fifty acres and has eleven Black tenants. His neat, tidy home sits in a flower garden, with a little store beside it.

We pass the Munson place, where a plucky white widow is renting and struggling; and the eleven hundred acres of the Sennet plantation, with its Negro overseer. Then the character of the farms begins to change. Nearly all the lands belong to Russian Jews; the overseers are white, and the cabins are bare board-houses scattered here and there. The rents are high, and day-laborers and “contract” hands abound. It is a keen, hard struggle for living here, and few have time to talk. Tired with the long ride, we gladly drive into Gillonsville. It is a silent cluster of farmhouses standing on the crossroads, with one of its stores closed and the other kept by a Negro preacher. They tell great tales of busy times at Gillonsville before all the railroads came to Albany; now it is chiefly a memory. Riding down the street, we stop at the preacher’s and seat ourselves before the door. It was one of those scenes one cannot soon forget:—a wide, low, little house, whose motherly roof reached over and sheltered a snug little porch. There we sat, after the long hot drive, drinking cool water,—the talkative little storekeeper who is my daily companion; the silent old black woman patching pantaloons and saying never a word; the ragged picture of helpless misfortune who called in just to see the preacher; and finally the neat matronly preacher’s wife, plump, yellow, and intelligent. “Own land?” said the wife; “well, only this house.” Then she added quietly. “We did buy seven hundred acres across up yonder, and paid for it; but they cheated us out of it. Sells was the owner.” “Sells!” echoed the ragged misfortune, who was leaning against the balustrade and listening, “he’s a regular cheat. I worked for him thirty-seven days this spring, and he paid me in cardboard checks which were to be cashed at the end of the month. But he never cashed them,—kept putting me off. Then the sheriff came and took my mule and corn and furniture—” “Furniture? But furniture is exempt from seizure by law.” “Well, he took it just the same,” said the hard-faced man.

We pass the Munson place, where a determined white widow rents the land and struggles to get by. Then we pass the eleven hundred acres of the Sennet plantation, with its Black overseer. After that, the farms begin to change. Nearly all the land belongs to Russian Jews. The overseers are white, and the cabins are plain wooden houses scattered here and there. Rents are high, and day laborers and “contract” workers are plentiful. The struggle to make a living here is fierce and hard, and few people have time to talk. Tired from the long ride, we gladly drive into Gillonsville. The town is a quiet cluster of farmhouses at a crossroads. One store is closed, and a Black preacher runs the other. People tell grand stories of busy times in Gillonsville before all the railroads came to Albany. Now the town is mostly a memory. Riding down the street, we stop at the preacher’s store and sit outside the door. The scene was one that stays with you: a small, wide, low house with a motherly roof sheltering a cozy porch. We sat there after the long, hot drive, drinking cool water. There was the talkative little storekeeper, my daily companion. There was the silent old Black woman, patching trousers without saying a word. There was a ragged man, a picture of helpless misfortune, who had stopped by just to see the preacher. And finally, there was the preacher’s wife, neat, motherly, plump, light-skinned, and intelligent. “Own land?” said the wife. “Well, only this house.” Then she added quietly, “We did buy seven hundred acres across up there, and paid for the land. But they cheated us out of it. Sells was the owner.” “Sells!” echoed the ragged, unfortunate man, who was leaning against the porch railing and listening. “He’s a regular cheat. I worked for him thirty-seven days this spring. He paid me in cardboard checks that were supposed to be cashed at the end of the month. But he never cashed the checks. He kept putting me off. Then the sheriff came and took my mule and corn and furniture.” “Furniture? But the law protects furniture from seizure.” “Well, he took the furniture just the same,” said the hard-faced man.