The Quest for the Golden Fleece

Have you ever seen a cotton-field white with harvest,—its golden fleece hovering above the black earth like a silvery cloud edged with dark green, its bold white signals waving like the foam of billows from Carolina to Texas across that Black and human Sea? I have sometimes half suspected that here the winged ram Chrysomallus left that Fleece after which Jason and his Argonauts went vaguely wandering into the shadowy East three thousand years ago; and certainly one might frame a pretty and not far-fetched analogy of witchery and dragons’ teeth, and blood and armed men, between the ancient and the modern quest of the Golden Fleece in the Black Sea.

Have you ever seen a cotton field white with its harvest? Its golden fleece hovers above the black earth like a silvery cloud edged with dark green. Its bold white signals wave like foam on great waves, from Carolina to Texas across that Black and human Sea. I have sometimes half suspected that the winged ram Chrysomallus left his Fleece here. Jason and his Argonauts wandered vaguely into the shadowy East in search of that Fleece three thousand years ago. And certainly, one could draw a beautiful comparison, not at all far-fetched, between the ancient and modern quests for the Golden Fleece in the Black Sea. Both quests offer magic and dragons’ teeth, blood and armed men.

And now the golden fleece is found; not only found, but, in its birthplace, woven. For the hum of the cotton-mills is the newest and most significant thing in the New South to-day. All through the Carolinas and Georgia, away down to Mexico, rise these gaunt red buildings, bare and homely, and yet so busy and noisy withal that they scarce seem to belong to the slow and sleepy land. Perhaps they sprang from dragons’ teeth. So the Cotton Kingdom still lives; the world still bows beneath her sceptre. Even the markets that once defied the parvenu have crept one by one across the seas, and then slowly and reluctantly, but surely, have started toward the Black Belt.

And now the golden fleece has been found. Not only found, but woven in its birthplace. For the hum of cotton mills is the newest and most significant thing in the New South today. All through the Carolinas and Georgia, and down to Mexico, these tall, stark red buildings rise, plain and unattractive. Yet the mills are so busy and noisy that they hardly seem to belong to the slow, sleepy land. Perhaps the mills sprang from dragons’ teeth. So the Cotton Kingdom still lives, and the world still bows beneath her scepter. Even the markets that once defied this upstart kingdom have crept one by one across the seas. Then, slowly and reluctantly, but surely, those markets have begun moving toward the Black Belt.

To be sure, there are those who wag their heads knowingly and tell us that the capital of the Cotton Kingdom has moved from the Black to the White Belt,—that the Negro of to-day raises not more than half of the cotton crop. Such men forget that the cotton crop has doubled, and more than doubled, since the era of slavery, and that, even granting their contention, the Negro is still supreme in a Cotton Kingdom larger than that on which the Confederacy builded its hopes. So the Negro forms to-day one of the chief figures in a great world-industry; and this, for its own sake, and in the light of historic interest, makes the field-hands of the cotton country worth studying.

To be sure, some people shake their heads knowingly and tell us the Cotton Kingdom’s capital has moved. It has shifted from the Black Belt to the White Belt, they say. Black people today, they argue, grow no more than half the cotton crop. These men forget that the cotton crop has more than doubled since slavery. Even if their claim is true, Black people still dominate a Cotton Kingdom larger than the Confederacy built its hopes on. So Black people today play one of the leading roles in a major global industry. That role, important in itself and for its historical significance, makes the cotton country’s field workers worth studying.

We seldom study the condition of the Negro to-day honestly and carefully. It is so much easier to assume that we know it all. Or perhaps, having already reached conclusions in our own minds, we are loth to have them disturbed by facts. And yet how little we really know of these millions,—of their daily lives and longings, of their homely joys and sorrows, of their real shortcomings and the meaning of their crimes! All this we can only learn by intimate contact with the masses, and not by wholesale arguments covering millions separate in time and space, and differing widely in training and culture. To-day, then, my reader, let us turn our faces to the Black Belt of Georgia and seek simply to know the condition of the black farm-laborers of one county there.

We seldom study the lives of Black people today honestly and carefully. It is so much easier to assume we know everything. Or perhaps we have already reached our own conclusions and are unwilling to let facts disturb those conclusions. Yet how little we really know about these millions of people! We know so little about their daily lives and hopes, their everyday joys and sorrows. We know so little about their actual shortcomings and what their crimes mean. We can learn all this only through close contact with ordinary Black people. We cannot learn it through sweeping arguments about millions living in different times and places, with widely differing education and cultures. So today, my reader, let us turn toward the Black Belt of Georgia. Let us seek simply to understand the lives of Black farm laborers in one county there.

Here in 1890 lived ten thousand Negroes and two thousand whites. The country is rich, yet the people are poor. The keynote of the Black Belt is debt; not commercial credit, but debt in the sense of continued inability on the part of the mass of the population to make income cover expense. This is the direct heritage of the South from the wasteful economies of the slave régime; but it was emphasized and brought to a crisis by the Emancipation of the slaves. In 1860, Dougherty County had six thousand slaves, worth at least two and a half millions of dollars; its farms were estimated at three millions,—making five and a half millions of property, the value of which depended largely on the slave system, and on the speculative demand for land once marvellously rich but already partially devitalized by careless and exhaustive culture. The war then meant a financial crash; in place of the five and a half millions of 1860, there remained in 1870 only farms valued at less than two millions. With this came increased competition in cotton culture from the rich lands of Texas; a steady fall in the normal price of cotton followed, from about fourteen cents a pound in 1860 until it reached four cents in 1898. Such a financial revolution was it that involved the owners of the cotton-belt in debt. And if things went ill with the master, how fared it with the man?

In 1890, ten thousand Black people and two thousand white people lived here. The land is rich, yet the people are poor. Debt defines the Black Belt. This is not commercial credit, but the continuing inability of most people to earn enough to cover their expenses. This debt is a direct legacy of the South’s wasteful economy under the slave system. But the emancipation of enslaved people deepened the problem and brought it to a crisis. In 1860, Dougherty County had six thousand enslaved people, valued at no less than two and a half million dollars. Its farms were valued at three million dollars. Together, these amounted to five and a half million dollars in property, whose value depended largely on slavery. That value also depended on speculative demand for land that had once been remarkably rich. But careless farming that exhausted the soil had already drained some of its fertility. The war therefore meant a financial collapse. In place of the five and a half million dollars of 1860, only farms worth under two million remained in 1870. Along with this collapse came greater competition in cotton farming from the rich lands of Texas. The usual price of cotton then fell steadily, from about fourteen cents a pound in 1860 to four cents in 1898. This financial upheaval plunged the cotton-belt’s property owners into debt. And if things went badly for the master, how did the laborer fare?

The plantations of Dougherty County in slavery days were not as imposing and aristocratic as those of Virginia. The Big House was smaller and usually one-storied, and sat very near the slave cabins. Sometimes these cabins stretched off on either side like wings; sometimes only on one side, forming a double row, or edging the road that turned into the plantation from the main thoroughfare. The form and disposition of the laborers’ cabins throughout the Black Belt is to-day the same as in slavery days. Some live in the self-same cabins, others in cabins rebuilt on the sites of the old. All are sprinkled in little groups over the face of the land, centering about some dilapidated Big House where the head-tenant or agent lives. The general character and arrangement of these dwellings remains on the whole unaltered. There were in the county, outside the corporate town of Albany, about fifteen hundred Negro families in 1898. Out of all these, only a single family occupied a house with seven rooms; only fourteen have five rooms or more. The mass live in one- and two-room homes.

During slavery, the plantations of Dougherty County were less grand and aristocratic than those of Virginia. The Big House was smaller, usually had one story, and stood very close to the cabins of enslaved people. Sometimes the cabins stretched out on both sides like wings. Sometimes they stood on just one side in a double row. Others lined the road leading into the plantation from the main road. Throughout the Black Belt, the workers’ cabins still have the same form and layout as during slavery. Some workers live in the very same cabins, others in cabins rebuilt where the old ones stood. All the cabins are scattered in small groups across the land, clustered around some run-down Big House. The head tenant or agent lives in that house. Overall, the general character and arrangement of these homes remain unchanged. In 1898, about fifteen hundred Black families lived in the county outside the town limits of Albany. Of all these families, only one lived in a seven-room house. Only fourteen had homes with five rooms or more. Most lived in one-room or two-room homes.

The size and arrangements of a people’s homes are no unfair index of their condition. If, then, we inquire more carefully into these Negro homes, we find much that is unsatisfactory. All over the face of the land is the one-room cabin,—now standing in the shadow of the Big House, now staring at the dusty road, now rising dark and sombre amid the green of the cotton-fields. It is nearly always old and bare, built of rough boards, and neither plastered nor ceiled. Light and ventilation are supplied by the single door and by the square hole in the wall with its wooden shutter. There is no glass, porch, or ornamentation without. Within is a fireplace, black and smoky, and usually unsteady with age. A bed or two, a table, a wooden chest, and a few chairs compose the furniture; while a stray show-bill or a newspaper makes up the decorations for the walls. Now and then one may find such a cabin kept scrupulously neat, with merry steaming fireplaces and hospitable door; but the majority are dirty and dilapidated, smelling of eating and sleeping, poorly ventilated, and anything but homes.

The size and layout of a people’s homes are a fair measure of their living conditions. If, then, we look more closely at these Black homes, we find much that is unsatisfactory. All across the land stands the one-room cabin. Sometimes it stands in the shadow of the Big House, sometimes it faces the dusty road. Sometimes it rises dark and gloomy amid the green cotton fields. The cabin is nearly always old and bare, built of rough boards, with no plaster or finished ceiling. Light and fresh air come through the single door and a square hole in the wall with a wooden shutter. There is no window glass, porch, or decoration outside. Inside is a black, smoky fireplace, usually made unstable by age. A bed or two, a table, a wooden chest, and a few chairs make up the furniture. An occasional poster advertising a show or a newspaper provides the wall decorations. Now and then, one may find such a cabin kept spotlessly neat, with a cheerful, steaming fireplace and welcoming doorway. But most are dirty and run-down, smelling of eating and sleeping, poorly ventilated, and anything but homes.

Above all, the cabins are crowded. We have come to associate crowding with homes in cities almost exclusively. This is primarily because we have so little accurate knowledge of country life. Here in Dougherty County one may find families of eight and ten occupying one or two rooms, and for every ten rooms of house accommodation for the Negroes there are twenty-five persons. The worst tenement abominations of New York do not have above twenty-two persons for every ten rooms. Of course, one small, close room in a city, without a yard, is in many respects worse than the larger single country room. In other respects it is better; it has glass windows, a decent chimney, and a trustworthy floor. The single great advantage of the Negro peasant is that he may spend most of his life outside his hovel, in the open fields.

Above all, the cabins are overcrowded. We have come to associate overcrowding almost entirely with city homes. This is mainly because we know so little about what country life is really like. Here in Dougherty County, families of eight or ten can be found living in one or two rooms. For every ten rooms available to Black residents, there are twenty-five people. Even the worst tenements in New York have no more than twenty-two people for every ten rooms. Of course, a small, cramped city room without a yard is in many ways worse than a larger country room. In other ways, though, the city room is better. It has glass windows, a decent chimney, and a reliable floor. The Black peasant’s one great advantage is being able to spend most of his life outside his shack, in the open fields.

There are four chief causes of these wretched homes: First, long custom born of slavery has assigned such homes to Negroes; white laborers would be offered better accommodations, and might, for that and similar reasons, give better work. Secondly, the Negroes, used to such accommodations, do not as a rule demand better; they do not know what better houses mean. Thirdly, the landlords as a class have not yet come to realize that it is a good business investment to raise the standard of living among labor by slow and judicious methods; that a Negro laborer who demands three rooms and fifty cents a day would give more efficient work and leave a larger profit than a discouraged toiler herding his family in one room and working for thirty cents. Lastly, among such conditions of life there are few incentives to make the laborer become a better farmer. If he is ambitious, he moves to town or tries other labor; as a tenant-farmer his outlook is almost hopeless, and following it as a makeshift, he takes the house that is given him without protest.

There are four main causes of these miserable homes. First, a long-standing practice rooted in slavery has left Black people with homes like these. White laborers would be offered better housing and might work better for that and similar reasons. Second, Black people are used to such housing and generally do not demand better. They do not know what better homes would mean for them. Third, landlords as a group have not yet realized that gradually and carefully improving workers’ living standards is a good investment. A Black laborer who demands three rooms and fifty cents a day would work more efficiently and bring greater profits. By comparison, a discouraged worker crowds his family into one room and works for thirty cents a day. Finally, these living conditions give laborers little incentive to become better farmers. If a laborer is ambitious, he moves to town or tries other work. As a tenant farmer, his prospects are almost hopeless. Because he farms only as a temporary way to get by, he accepts the house offered without protest.

In such homes, then, these Negro peasants live. The families are both small and large; there are many single tenants,—widows and bachelors, and remnants of broken groups. The system of labor and the size of the houses both tend to the breaking up of family groups: the grown children go away as contract hands or migrate to town, the sister goes into service; and so one finds many families with hosts of babies, and many newly married couples, but comparatively few families with half-grown and grown sons and daughters. The average size of Negro families has undoubtedly decreased since the war, primarily from economic stress. In Russia over a third of the bridegrooms and over half the brides are under twenty; the same was true of the antebellum Negroes. Today, however, very few of the boys and less than a fifth of the Negro girls under twenty are married. The young men marry between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five; the young women between twenty and thirty. Such postponement is due to the difficulty of earning sufficient to rear and support a family; and it undoubtedly leads, in the country districts, to sexual immorality. The form of this immorality, however, is very seldom that of prostitution, and less frequently that of illegitimacy than one would imagine. Rather, it takes the form of separation and desertion after a family group has been formed. The number of separated persons is thirty-five to the thousand,—a very large number. It would of course be unfair to compare this number with divorce statistics, for many of these separated women are in reality widowed, were the truth known, and in other cases the separation is not permanent. Nevertheless, here lies the seat of greatest moral danger. There is little or no prostitution among these Negroes, and over three-fourths of the families, as found by house-to-house investigation, deserve to be classed as decent people with considerable regard for female chastity. To be sure, the ideas of the mass would not suit New England, and there are many loose habits and notions. Yet the rate of illegitimacy is undoubtedly lower than in Austria or Italy, and the women as a class are modest. The plague-spot in sexual relations is easy marriage and easy separation. This is no sudden development, nor the fruit of Emancipation. It is the plain heritage from slavery. In those days Sam, with his master’s consent, “took up” with Mary. No ceremony was necessary, and in the busy life of the great plantations of the Black Belt it was usually dispensed with. If now the master needed Sam’s work in another plantation or in another part of the same plantation, or if he took a notion to sell the slave, Sam’s married life with Mary was usually unceremoniously broken, and then it was clearly to the master’s interest to have both of them take new mates. This widespread custom of two centuries has not been eradicated in thirty years. To-day Sam’s grandson “takes up” with a woman without license or ceremony; they live together decently and honestly, and are, to all intents and purposes, man and wife. Sometimes these unions are never broken until death; but in too many cases family quarrels, a roving spirit, a rival suitor, or perhaps more frequently the hopeless battle to support a family, lead to separation, and a broken household is the result. The Negro church has done much to stop this practice, and now most marriage ceremonies are performed by the pastors. Nevertheless, the evil is still deep seated, and only a general raising of the standard of living will finally cure it.

These, then, are the homes where these Black peasants live. Some families are small, and others are large. Many tenants live alone: widows, bachelors, and those left from broken families. Both the labor system and the small houses tend to break families apart. The grown children leave to become contract workers or move to town, and the sister becomes a domestic servant. So there are many families with large numbers of babies, and many newly married couples. But comparatively few families have teenage or adult sons and daughters at home. The average Black family has undoubtedly grown smaller since the Civil War, mainly because of economic hardship. In Russia, over a third of bridegrooms and over half of brides are under twenty. The same was true of Black people before the Civil War. Today, however, very few Black boys under twenty are married, and fewer than a fifth of Black girls under twenty. Young men marry between twenty-five and thirty-five, and young women between twenty and thirty. Marriage is delayed because earning enough to raise and support a family is difficult. In rural areas, this delay undoubtedly leads to sexual immorality. Yet this immorality very seldom takes the form of prostitution. It also involves children born outside marriage less often than one might imagine. Instead, it takes the form of separation and abandonment after a family has formed. Thirty-five people in every thousand are separated, a very large number. Of course, comparing this figure with divorce statistics would be unfair. If the truth were known, many of these separated women would actually be widows. In other cases, the separation is not permanent. Nevertheless, separation and abandonment are the greatest moral danger here. There is little or no prostitution among these Black people. House-to-house investigations found that over three-fourths of the families deserve to be considered decent people who value women's chastity. Certainly, most people's views would not meet New England's standards, and many habits and attitudes are lax. Yet the rate of births outside marriage is undoubtedly lower than in Austria or Italy. The women, as a group, are modest. The blight on sexual relationships is the ease of forming and breaking marriages. This is neither a sudden development nor a result of Emancipation. It is a direct legacy of slavery. In those days, Sam, with his enslaver's consent, “took up” with Mary. No ceremony was required. In the busy life of the great plantations of the Black Belt, ceremonies were usually skipped. The enslaver might need Sam's labor on another plantation or in another part of the same plantation. Or the enslaver might decide to sell him. In either case, Sam's married life with Mary was usually abruptly ended. Then it clearly served the enslaver's interests for both Sam and Mary to find new partners. This widespread custom, practiced for two centuries, has not been erased in thirty years. Today, Sam's grandson “takes up” with a woman without a license or ceremony. They live together decently and honestly, and are, in every practical sense, husband and wife. Sometimes these unions last until death. But in too many cases, family quarrels, restlessness, or a rival suitor lead to separation. Perhaps more often, the cause is the hopeless struggle to support a family. The result is a broken home. The Black church has done much to stop this practice, and pastors now perform most marriage ceremonies. Nevertheless, the problem remains deeply rooted. Only a general rise in the standard of living will finally solve it.

Looking now at the county black population as a whole, it is fair to characterize it as poor and ignorant. Perhaps ten per cent compose the well-to-do and the best of the laborers, while at least nine per cent are thoroughly lewd and vicious. The rest, over eighty per cent, are poor and ignorant, fairly honest and well meaning, plodding, and to a degree shiftless, with some but not great sexual looseness. Such class lines are by no means fixed; they vary, one might almost say, with the price of cotton. The degree of ignorance cannot easily be expressed. We may say, for instance, that nearly two-thirds of them cannot read or write. This but partially expresses the fact. They are ignorant of the world about them, of modern economic organization, of the function of government, of individual worth and possibilities,—of nearly all those things which slavery in self-defence had to keep them from learning. Much that the white boy imbibes from his earliest social atmosphere forms the puzzling problems of the black boy’s mature years. America is not another word for Opportunity to all her sons.

Looking now at the county’s Black population as a whole, it is fair to describe them as poor and uneducated. Perhaps ten percent are financially comfortable or among the best workers, while at least nine percent are thoroughly immoral and vicious. The rest, over eighty percent, are poor and uneducated, fairly honest and well meaning. They plod along and lack initiative to some degree, with some sexual looseness, but not much. These class boundaries are by no means fixed. They vary, one might almost say, with the price of cotton. The extent of their lack of knowledge is hard to convey. We may say, for instance, that nearly two-thirds cannot read or write. But that statistic tells only part of the story. They know little about the world around them, the modern economy, the role of government, or individual worth and potential. They know little about nearly everything that slavery, to protect itself, had to keep them from learning. Much that a white boy absorbs from his earliest social surroundings becomes a Black boy’s puzzling problems in adulthood. America does not mean Opportunity for all her sons.

It is easy for us to lose ourselves in details in endeavoring to grasp and comprehend the real condition of a mass of human beings. We often forget that each unit in the mass is a throbbing human soul. Ignorant it may be, and poverty stricken, black and curious in limb and ways and thought; and yet it loves and hates, it toils and tires, it laughs and weeps its bitter tears, and looks in vague and awful longing at the grim horizon of its life,—all this, even as you and I. These black thousands are not in reality lazy; they are improvident and careless; they insist on breaking the monotony of toil with a glimpse at the great town-world on Saturday; they have their loafers and their rascals; but the great mass of them work continuously and faithfully for a return, and under circumstances that would call forth equal voluntary effort from few if any other modern laboring class. Over eighty-eight per cent of them—men, women, and children—are farmers. Indeed, this is almost the only industry. Most of the children get their schooling after the “crops are laid by,” and very few there are that stay in school after the spring work has begun. Child-labor is to be found here in some of its worst phases, as fostering ignorance and stunting physical development. With the grown men of the county there is little variety in work: thirteen hundred are farmers, and two hundred are laborers, teamsters, etc., including twenty-four artisans, ten merchants, twenty-one preachers, and four teachers. This narrowness of life reaches its maximum among the women: thirteen hundred and fifty of these are farm laborers, one hundred are servants and washerwomen, leaving sixty-five housewives, eight teachers, and six seamstresses.

It is easy to get lost in details when trying to understand the actual conditions of a large group of people. We often forget that each person in that group is a living, feeling human soul. That person may be uneducated and poor, black and unfamiliar in appearance, habits, and thought. Yet that person loves and hates, works and grows tired, laughs and cries bitter tears. That person gazes with vague, fearful longing toward the grim horizon of life, just as you and I do. These thousands of black people are not actually lazy. They fail to plan ahead and are careless. They insist on breaking the monotony of work with a glimpse of town life on Saturday. They have their idlers and their scoundrels. But the great majority work steadily and faithfully. Few, if any, other modern working people would willingly work as hard for such pay and under such conditions. Over eighty-eight percent of them, including men, women, and children, are farmers. Indeed, farming is almost the only industry. Most children attend school after the “crops are laid by,” when the crops no longer need tending before harvest. Very few stay in school after the spring work begins. Child labor appears here in some of its worst forms, keeping children uneducated and stunting their physical development. The county’s adult men have little variety in their work. Thirteen hundred are farmers, and two hundred are laborers, wagon drivers, and other workers. The latter group includes twenty-four skilled tradesmen, ten merchants, twenty-one preachers, and four teachers. Women’s lives are even more restricted. Thirteen hundred and fifty women are farm laborers, and one hundred are servants and washerwomen. That leaves sixty-five housewives, eight teachers, and six seamstresses.

Among this people there is no leisure class. We often forget that in the United States over half the youth and adults are not in the world earning incomes, but are making homes, learning of the world, or resting after the heat of the strife. But here ninety-six per cent are toiling; no one with leisure to turn the bare and cheerless cabin into a home, no old folks to sit beside the fire and hand down traditions of the past; little of careless happy childhood and dreaming youth. The dull monotony of daily toil is broken only by the gayety of the thoughtless and the Saturday trip to town. The toil, like all farm toil, is monotonous, and here there are little machinery and few tools to relieve its burdensome drudgery. But with all this, it is work in the pure open air, and this is something in a day when fresh air is scarce.

Among these people, there is no class free from the need to work. We often forget that over half the young people and adults in the United States are not out earning incomes. Instead, they are making homes, learning about the world, or resting after the strain of life's struggles. But here, ninety-six percent are toiling. No one has time to turn the bare, cheerless cabin into a home. No old people sit beside the fire and pass down traditions of the past. There is little carefree, happy childhood or youthful dreaming. The dull routine of daily labor is broken only by the merriment of the thoughtless and Saturday trips to town. The work, like all farm work, is repetitive. And here, there is little machinery and few tools to ease the exhausting drudgery. But despite all this, the work is done in clean, open air. And fresh air counts for something in a time when it is scarce.

The land on the whole is still fertile, despite long abuse. For nine or ten months in succession the crops will come if asked: garden vegetables in April, grain in May, melons in June and July, hay in August, sweet potatoes in September, and cotton from then to Christmas. And yet on two-thirds of the land there is but one crop, and that leaves the toilers in debt. Why is this?

Overall, the land is still fertile, despite years of misuse. For nine or ten months in a row, the land will produce crops if asked. Garden vegetables come in April, grain in May, melons in June and July, and hay in August. Sweet potatoes follow in September, and cotton from then until Christmas. Yet two-thirds of the land grows only one crop, and that crop leaves the workers in debt. Why is this?

Away down the Baysan road, where the broad flat fields are flanked by great oak forests, is a plantation; many thousands of acres it used to run, here and there, and beyond the great wood. Thirteen hundred human beings here obeyed the call of one,—were his in body, and largely in soul. One of them lives there yet,—a short, stocky man, his dull-brown face seamed and drawn, and his tightly curled hair gray-white. The crops? Just tolerable, he said; just tolerable. Getting on? No—he wasn’t getting on at all. Smith of Albany “furnishes” him, and his rent is eight hundred pounds of cotton. Can’t make anything at that. Why didn’t he buy land! Humph! Takes money to buy land. And he turns away. Free! The most piteous thing amid all the black ruin of war-time, amid the broken fortunes of the masters, the blighted hopes of mothers and maidens, and the fall of an empire,—the most piteous thing amid all this was the black freedman who threw down his hoe because the world called him free. What did such a mockery of freedom mean? Not a cent of money, not an inch of land, not a mouthful of victuals,—not even ownership of the rags on his back. Free! On Saturday, once or twice a month, the old master, before the war, used to dole out bacon and meal to his Negroes. And after the first flush of freedom wore off, and his true helplessness dawned on the freedman, he came back and picked up his hoe, and old master still doled out his bacon and meal. The legal form of service was theoretically far different; in practice, task-work or “cropping” was substituted for daily toil in gangs; and the slave gradually became a metayer, or tenant on shares, in name, but a laborer with indeterminate wages in fact.

Far down the Baysan road lies a plantation, where great oak forests border the broad, flat fields. The plantation once covered many thousands of acres, stretching here and there and beyond the great woods. Thirteen hundred human beings here obeyed one man’s call. They belonged to him in body and, largely, in soul. One of them still lives there, a short, stocky man. His dull-brown face is lined and drawn, and his tightly curled hair is gray-white. The crops? Just tolerable, he said, just tolerable. Getting ahead? No, he wasn’t getting ahead at all. Smith of Albany “furnishes” him with supplies on credit, and his rent is eight hundred pounds of cotton. He can’t make anything under those terms. Why didn’t he buy land? Humph! Buying land takes money. And he turns away. Free! Of all the dark ruin of wartime, the most pitiful sight was the Black freedman. There were the masters’ shattered fortunes, the ruined hopes of mothers and young women, and the fall of an empire. But most pitiful was the freedman who threw down his hoe because the world called him free. What did such a mockery of freedom mean? Not a cent of money, not an inch of land, not a mouthful of food. He did not even own the rags on his back. Free! Before the war, once or twice a month on Saturday, the old master handed out bacon and cornmeal to his slaves. After the first excitement of freedom faded, the freedman realized how helpless he truly was. He came back and picked up his hoe, and the old master still handed out bacon and cornmeal. In theory, the legal terms of his work were very different. In practice, assigned tasks or “cropping” replaced daily labor in gangs. The slave gradually became a sharecropper, or tenant who paid with a share of the crop, in name. In fact, he remained a laborer whose wages were uncertain.

Still the price of cotton fell, and gradually the landlords deserted their plantations, and the reign of the merchant began. The merchant of the Black Belt is a curious institution,—part banker, part landlord, part banker, and part despot. His store, which used most frequently to stand at the cross-roads and become the centre of a weekly village, has now moved to town; and thither the Negro tenant follows him. The merchant keeps everything,—clothes and shoes, coffee and sugar, pork and meal, canned and dried goods, wagons and ploughs, seed and fertilizer,—and what he has not in stock he can give you an order for at the store across the way. Here, then, comes the tenant, Sam Scott, after he has contracted with some absent landlord’s agent for hiring forty acres of land; he fingers his hat nervously until the merchant finishes his morning chat with Colonel Saunders, and calls out, “Well, Sam, what do you want?” Sam wants him to “furnish” him,—i.e., to advance him food and clothing for the year, and perhaps seed and tools, until his crop is raised and sold. If Sam seems a favorable subject, he and the merchant go to a lawyer, and Sam executes a chattel mortgage on his mule and wagon in return for seed and a week’s rations. As soon as the green cotton-leaves appear above the ground, another mortgage is given on the “crop.” Every Saturday, or at longer intervals, Sam calls upon the merchant for his “rations”; a family of five usually gets about thirty pounds of fat side-pork and a couple of bushels of cornmeal a month. Besides this, clothing and shoes must be furnished; if Sam or his family is sick, there are orders on the druggist and doctor; if the mule wants shoeing, an order on the blacksmith, etc. If Sam is a hard worker and crops promise well, he is often encouraged to buy more,—sugar, extra clothes, perhaps a buggy. But he is seldom encouraged to save. When cotton rose to ten cents last fall, the shrewd merchants of Dougherty County sold a thousand buggies in one season, mostly to black men.

Still, the price of cotton fell, and landlords gradually abandoned their plantations. The merchant’s rule began. The merchant of the Black Belt is a curious institution: part banker, part landlord, part banker, and part tyrant. His store once usually stood at a crossroads, becoming the center of a village that gathered weekly. Now the store has moved to town, and the Black tenant follows the merchant there. The merchant stocks everything: clothes and shoes, coffee and sugar, pork and cornmeal, canned and dried goods, wagons and plows, seed and fertilizer. Anything he does not stock, he can give you an order for at the store across the street. Here comes the tenant, Sam Scott. He has agreed with an absent landlord’s agent to rent forty acres. He nervously handles his hat until the merchant finishes his morning chat with Colonel Saunders. Then the merchant calls out, “Well, Sam, what do you want?” Sam wants the merchant to “furnish” him. That is, to advance him food and clothing for the year, and perhaps seed and tools, until his crop is grown and sold. If Sam seems a good prospect, he and the merchant go to a lawyer. Sam signs a mortgage pledging his mule and wagon in return for seed and a week’s food. As soon as the green cotton leaves appear above ground, he gives another mortgage on the “crop.” Every Saturday, or at longer intervals, Sam visits the merchant for his “rations.” A family of five usually gets about thirty pounds of fatty side pork and two bushels of cornmeal a month. Clothing and shoes must also be supplied. If Sam or his family is sick, there are orders for medicine and a doctor’s care. If the mule needs shoes, there is an order for the blacksmith, and so on. If Sam works hard and the crops look promising, he is often encouraged to buy more. He might buy sugar, extra clothes, perhaps a buggy. But he is seldom encouraged to save. When cotton rose to ten cents last fall, Dougherty County’s shrewd merchants sold a thousand buggies in one season. Most went to Black men.

The security offered for such transactions—a crop and chattel mortgage—may at first seem slight. And, indeed, the merchants tell many a true tale of shiftlessness and cheating; of cotton picked at night, mules disappearing, and tenants absconding. But on the whole the merchant of the Black Belt is the most prosperous man in the section. So skilfully and so closely has he drawn the bonds of the law about the tenant, that the black man has often simply to choose between pauperism and crime; he “waives” all homestead exemptions in his contract; he cannot touch his own mortgaged crop, which the laws put almost in the full control of the land-owner and of the merchant. When the crop is growing the merchant watches it like a hawk; as soon as it is ready for market he takes possession of it, sells it, pays the landowner his rent, subtracts his bill for supplies, and if, as sometimes happens, there is anything left, he hands it over to the black serf for his Christmas celebration.

The security offered for these transactions is a mortgage on crops and personal property. At first, that security may seem slight. And indeed, merchants tell many true stories of laziness and cheating, cotton picked at night, disappearing mules, and tenants fleeing. But overall, the merchant of the Black Belt is the most prosperous man in the area. He has bound the tenant so skillfully and tightly with the law that the black man often faces only two choices. He must choose between poverty and crime. In his contract, he “waives” all legal protections that would keep his home from being seized for debt. He cannot touch his own mortgaged crop. The laws give the landowner and merchant almost complete control over the crop. While the crop grows, the merchant watches it like a hawk. As soon as the crop is ready for market, he takes possession and sells it. He pays the landowner his rent and deducts his own bill for supplies. And if, as sometimes happens, anything remains, he hands the money to the black serf for his Christmas celebration.

The direct result of this system is an all-cotton scheme of agriculture and the continued bankruptcy of the tenant. The currency of the Black Belt is cotton. It is a crop always salable for ready money, not usually subject to great yearly fluctuations in price, and one which the Negroes know how to raise. The landlord therefore demands his rent in cotton, and the merchant will accept mortgages on no other crop. There is no use asking the black tenant, then, to diversify his crops,—he cannot under this system. Moreover, the system is bound to bankrupt the tenant. I remember once meeting a little one-mule wagon on the River road. A young black fellow sat in it driving listlessly, his elbows on his knees. His dark-faced wife sat beside him, stolid, silent.

This system directly results in all-cotton farming and keeps tenant farmers bankrupt. Cotton is the currency of the Black Belt. Cotton can always be sold for ready cash, and its price usually does not change greatly from year to year. It is also a crop that Black farmers know how to grow. The landlord therefore demands rent in cotton, and the merchant accepts no other crop as security for a loan. So there is no point asking the Black tenant farmer to grow different crops. He cannot do so under this system. Moreover, the system is bound to bankrupt the tenant farmer. I remember once coming across a small wagon drawn by one mule on the River road. A young Black man sat in the wagon, driving listlessly, with his elbows on his knees. His dark-faced wife sat beside him, expressionless and silent.

“Hello!” cried my driver,—he has a most imprudent way of addressing these people, though they seem used to it,—“what have you got there?”

“Hello!” shouted my driver. He speaks to these people very recklessly, though they seem used to his manner. “What have you got there?”

“Meat and meal,” answered the man, stopping. The meat lay uncovered in the bottom of the wagon,—a great thin side of fat pork covered with salt; the meal was in a white bushel bag.

“Meat and cornmeal,” the man answered, stopping. The meat lay uncovered at the bottom of the wagon, a large, thin side of fatty pork covered with salt. The cornmeal was in a white bushel bag.

“What did you pay for that meat?”

“How much did you pay for that meat?”

“Ten cents a pound.” It could have been bought for six or seven cents cash.

“Ten cents a pound.” It could have been bought for six or seven cents a pound in cash.

“And the meal?”

“And what about the meal?”

“Two dollars.” One dollar and ten cents is the cash price in town. Here was a man paying five dollars for goods which he could have bought for three dollars cash, and raised for one dollar or one dollar and a half.

“Two dollars.” The cash price in town is one dollar and ten cents. Here was a man paying five dollars for goods he could have bought for three dollars in cash. He could have grown the same goods for a dollar or a dollar and a half.

Yet it is not wholly his fault. The Negro farmer started behind,—started in debt. This was not his choosing, but the crime of this happy-go-lucky nation which goes blundering along with its Reconstruction tragedies, its Spanish war interludes and Philippine matinees, just as though God really were dead. Once in debt, it is no easy matter for a whole race to emerge.

Yet the fault is not entirely his. The Black farmer started at a disadvantage, already in debt. He did not choose this debt. It was the crime of this carefree nation, blundering along through its Reconstruction tragedies, Spanish war interludes, and Philippine matinees. The nation acts as though God really were dead. Once an entire race is in debt, getting out is no easy task.

In the year of low-priced cotton, 1898, out of three hundred tenant families one hundred and seventy-five ended their year’s work in debt to the extent of fourteen thousand dollars; fifty cleared nothing, and the remaining seventy-five made a total profit of sixteen hundred dollars. The net indebtedness of the black tenant families of the whole county must have been at least sixty thousand dollars. In a more prosperous year the situation is far better; but on the average the majority of tenants end the year even, or in debt, which means that they work for board and clothes. Such an economic organization is radically wrong. Whose is the blame?

In 1898, when cotton prices were low, 175 out of 300 tenant families ended the year owing $14,000 in total. Fifty broke even, and the remaining 75 made a total profit of $1,600. The net debt of Black tenant families across the county must have been at least $60,000. In a more prosperous year, the situation is far better. But on average, most tenants end the year breaking even or in debt. That means these tenants work for nothing more than food, lodging, and clothes. Such an economic system is fundamentally wrong. Who is to blame?

The underlying causes of this situation are complicated but discernible. And one of the chief, outside the carelessness of the nation in letting the slave start with nothing, is the widespread opinion among the merchants and employers of the Black Belt that only by the slavery of debt can the Negro be kept at work. Without doubt, some pressure was necessary at the beginning of the free-labor system to keep the listless and lazy at work; and even to-day the mass of the Negro laborers need stricter guardianship than most Northern laborers. Behind this honest and widespread opinion dishonesty and cheating of the ignorant laborers have a good chance to take refuge. And to all this must be added the obvious fact that a slave ancestry and a system of unrequited toil has not improved the efficiency or temper of the mass of black laborers. Nor is this peculiar to Sambo; it has in history been just as true of John and Hans, of Jacques and Pat, of all ground-down peasantries. Such is the situation of the mass of the Negroes in the Black Belt to-day; and they are thinking about it. Crime, and a cheap and dangerous socialism, are the inevitable results of this pondering. I see now that ragged black man sitting on a log, aimlessly whittling a stick. He muttered to me with the murmur of many ages, when he said: “White man sit down whole year; Nigger work day and night and make crop; Nigger hardly gits bread and meat; white man sittin’ down gits all. It’s wrong.” And what do the better classes of Negroes do to improve their situation? One of two things: if any way possible, they buy land; if not, they migrate to town. Just as centuries ago it was no easy thing for the serf to escape into the freedom of town-life, even so to-day there are hindrances laid in the way of county laborers. In considerable parts of all the Gulf States, and especially in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas, the Negroes on the plantations in the back-country districts are still held at forced labor practically without wages. Especially is this true in districts where the farmers are composed of the more ignorant class of poor whites, and the Negroes are beyond the reach of schools and intercourse with their advancing fellows. If such a peon should run away, the sheriff, elected by white suffrage, can usually be depended on to catch the fugitive, return him, and ask no questions. If he escape to another county, a charge of petty thieving, easily true, can be depended upon to secure his return. Even if some unduly officious person insist upon a trial, neighborly comity will probably make his conviction sure, and then the labor due the county can easily be bought by the master. Such a system is impossible in the more civilized parts of the South, or near the large towns and cities; but in those vast stretches of land beyond the telegraph and the newspaper the spirit of the Thirteenth Amendment is sadly broken. This represents the lowest economic depths of the black American peasant; and in a study of the rise and condition of the Negro freeholder we must trace his economic progress from the modern serfdom.

The underlying causes of this situation are complicated, but they can be identified. One major cause is the nation’s carelessness in leaving formerly enslaved people with nothing. Another is a widespread belief among merchants and employers in the Black Belt. They believe that only enslavement through debt can keep Black people working. Without doubt, some pressure was necessary when the free-labor system began to keep the idle and lazy working. Even today, most Black laborers need closer supervision than most Northern laborers. This sincere and widespread belief gives dishonest people cover to cheat laborers who lack knowledge. Another obvious fact must be added. Generations of slavery and unpaid labor have not improved the efficiency or disposition of most Black laborers. Nor is this unique to Sambo. Historically, the same has been true of John and Hans, Jacques and Pat, and all oppressed peasant populations. Such is the situation of most Black people in the Black Belt today, and they are thinking about their situation. Crime and a shallow, dangerous socialism are the inevitable results of these reflections. I can still see that ragged Black man sitting on a log, aimlessly whittling a stick. His muttered words carried the murmur of many ages when he told me: “The white man sits around all year. The Black man works day and night and grows the crop. The Black man hardly gets bread and meat. The white man sits around and gets everything. It’s wrong.” And what do the better-off classes of Black people do to improve their situation? One of two things: if at all possible, they buy land. If they cannot, they move to town. Centuries ago, escaping into the freedom of town life was no easy thing for a serf. Just so, obstacles are placed in the way of rural laborers today. Across substantial parts of all the Gulf States, Black people on plantations in remote districts remain in forced labor. They receive practically no wages. This is especially true in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas. It is particularly true where the farmers belong to the less educated class of poor whites. In these districts, Black people have no access to schools or contact with other Black people who are advancing. If a laborer bound by debt runs away, the sheriff can usually be counted on to catch and return him. The sheriff, elected by white voters, asks no questions. If the laborer escapes to another county, a petty theft charge can be counted on to secure his return. Such a charge could easily be true. Even if some excessively meddlesome person insists on a trial, cooperation among neighbors will probably ensure his conviction. The master can then easily buy the labor the convicted man owes the county. Such a system is impossible in the more civilized parts of the South, or near large towns and cities. But across those vast stretches beyond the reach of telegraphs and newspapers, the spirit of the Thirteenth Amendment is shamefully violated. This system marks the lowest economic depths of the Black American peasant. In studying the rise and condition of Black landowners, we must trace their economic progress from this modern serfdom.

Even in the better-ordered country districts of the South the free movement of agricultural laborers is hindered by the migration-agent laws. The “Associated Press” recently informed the world of the arrest of a young white man in Southern Georgia who represented the “Atlantic Naval Supplies Company,” and who “was caught in the act of enticing hands from the turpentine farm of Mr. John Greer.” The crime for which this young man was arrested is taxed five hundred dollars for each county in which the employment agent proposes to gather laborers for work outside the State. Thus the Negroes’ ignorance of the labor-market outside his own vicinity is increased rather than diminished by the laws of nearly every Southern State.

Even in the South’s better-run rural districts, laws governing labor recruitment restrict farmworkers’ freedom to move. The “Associated Press” recently reported to the world the arrest of a young white man in Southern Georgia. He represented the “Atlantic Naval Supplies Company” and “was caught in the act of enticing hands from the turpentine farm of Mr. John Greer.” The supposed crime carries a tax of five hundred dollars for each county where an employment agent plans to recruit workers for jobs outside the State. Thus, the laws of nearly every Southern State increase rather than reduce Black workers’ ignorance of job opportunities beyond their own area.

Similar to such measures is the unwritten law of the back districts and small towns of the South, that the character of all Negroes unknown to the mass of the community must be vouched for by some white man. This is really a revival of the old Roman idea of the patron under whose protection the new-made freedman was put. In many instances this system has been of great good to the Negro, and very often under the protection and guidance of the former master’s family, or other white friends, the freedman progressed in wealth and morality. But the same system has in other cases resulted in the refusal of whole communities to recognize the right of a Negro to change his habitation and to be master of his own fortunes. A black stranger in Baker County, Georgia, for instance, is liable to be stopped anywhere on the public highway and made to state his business to the satisfaction of any white interrogator. If he fails to give a suitable answer, or seems too independent or “sassy,” he may be arrested or summarily driven away.

Similar measures include an unwritten rule in the rural districts and small towns of the South. Some white man must vouch for the character of all Black people unknown to most of the community. This rule revives the old Roman practice of placing a newly freed person under a patron’s protection. In many cases, this system has greatly benefited Black people. Very often, a freed person gained wealth and developed morally under the protection and guidance of a former enslaver’s family or other white friends. But in other cases, the same system has led entire communities to deny a Black person’s right to move elsewhere. Those communities also denied that person’s right to control their own future. A Black stranger in Baker County, Georgia, for instance, may be stopped anywhere on a public road. Any white person questioning him can make him explain his business to that person’s satisfaction. If he fails to give a satisfactory answer, or seems too independent or “sassy,” he may be arrested or driven away without a hearing.

Thus it is that in the country districts of the South, by written or unwritten law, peonage, hindrances to the migration of labor, and a system of white patronage exists over large areas. Besides this, the chance for lawless oppression and illegal exactions is vastly greater in the country than in the city, and nearly all the more serious race disturbances of the last decade have arisen from disputes in the county between master and man,—as, for instance, the Sam Hose affair. As a result of such a situation, there arose, first, the Black Belt; and, second, the Migration to Town. The Black Belt was not, as many assumed, a movement toward fields of labor under more genial climatic conditions; it was primarily a huddling for self-protection,—a massing of the black population for mutual defence in order to secure the peace and tranquillity necessary to economic advance. This movement took place between Emancipation and 1880, and only partially accomplished the desired results. The rush to town since 1880 is the counter-movement of men disappointed in the economic opportunities of the Black Belt.

Thus, across large rural areas of the South, written or unwritten laws maintain peonage, restrictions on workers’ movement, and white patronage. Peonage forces people to work to pay off debts, while white patronage makes them dependent on white support. Rural areas also offer far more opportunities than cities for lawless oppression and illegal demands for payment. Nearly all the more serious racial disturbances of the last decade began with rural disputes between employers and workers. The Sam Hose affair is one example. These conditions led first to the Black Belt and then to the Migration to Town. Many assumed that the Black Belt developed as Black people sought work in a more favorable climate. But the movement was primarily a gathering for self-protection. Black people came together for mutual defense, seeking the peace and stability necessary for economic progress. This movement took place between Emancipation and 1880, and only partly achieved its goals. The rush to town since 1880 is a movement in the opposite direction. Those moving to town have been disappointed by the economic opportunities in the Black Belt.

In Dougherty County, Georgia, one can see easily the results of this experiment in huddling for protection. Only ten per cent of the adult population was born in the county, and yet the blacks outnumber the whites four or five to one. There is undoubtedly a security to the blacks in their very numbers,—a personal freedom from arbitrary treatment, which makes hundreds of laborers cling to Dougherty in spite of low wages and economic distress. But a change is coming, and slowly but surely even here the agricultural laborers are drifting to town and leaving the broad acres behind. Why is this? Why do not the Negroes become land-owners, and build up the black landed peasantry, which has for a generation and more been the dream of philanthropist and statesman?

In Dougherty County, Georgia, the results of this experiment in gathering together for protection are easy to see. Only ten percent of the adult population was born in the county. Yet Black people outnumber white people four or five to one. Black people undoubtedly find safety in their numbers, gaining personal freedom from arbitrary treatment. This freedom makes hundreds of laborers stay in Dougherty despite low wages and economic hardship. But a change is coming. Slowly but surely, even here, farm laborers are moving to town and leaving the vast farmland behind. Why is this happening? Why do Black people not become landowners and build a class of Black farmers who own their land? Philanthropists and statesmen have dreamed of such a class for more than a generation.

To the car-window sociologist, to the man who seeks to understand and know the South by devoting the few leisure hours of a holiday trip to unravelling the snarl of centuries,—to such men very often the whole trouble with the black field-hand may be summed up by Aunt Ophelia’s word, “Shiftless!” They have noted repeatedly scenes like one I saw last summer. We were riding along the highroad to town at the close of a long hot day. A couple of young black fellows passed us in a muleteam, with several bushels of loose corn in the ear. One was driving, listlessly bent forward, his elbows on his knees,—a happy-go-lucky, careless picture of irresponsibility. The other was fast asleep in the bottom of the wagon. As we passed we noticed an ear of corn fall from the wagon. They never saw it,—not they. A rod farther on we noted another ear on the ground; and between that creeping mule and town we counted twenty-six ears of corn. Shiftless? Yes, the personification of shiftlessness. And yet follow those boys: they are not lazy; to-morrow morning they’ll be up with the sun; they work hard when they do work, and they work willingly. They have no sordid, selfish, money-getting ways, but rather a fine disdain for mere cash. They’ll loaf before your face and work behind your back with good-natured honesty. They’ll steal a watermelon, and hand you back your lost purse intact. Their great defect as laborers lies in their lack of incentive beyond the mere pleasure of physical exertion. They are careless because they have not found that it pays to be careful; they are improvident because the improvident ones of their acquaintance get on about as well as the provident. Above all, they cannot see why they should take unusual pains to make the white man’s land better, or to fatten his mule, or save his corn. On the other hand, the white land-owner argues that any attempt to improve these laborers by increased responsibility, or higher wages, or better homes, or land of their own, would be sure to result in failure. He shows his Northern visitor the scarred and wretched land; the ruined mansions, the worn-out soil and mortgaged acres, and says, This is Negro freedom!

For the sociologist who studies from a train window, the whole problem with black field workers often comes down to Aunt Ophelia’s word, “Shiftless!” Such men seek to understand the South by spending a few spare hours on a vacation untangling centuries of problems. They have repeatedly seen scenes like one I saw last summer. We were riding along the main road to town at the end of a long, hot day. Two young black men passed us in a mule-drawn wagon carrying several bushels of loose ears of corn. One was driving, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked carefree and careless, a picture of irresponsibility. The other was fast asleep on the wagon floor. As we passed, we noticed an ear of corn fall from the wagon. They never saw it, not they. About sixteen feet farther on, we noticed another ear on the ground. Between that slow-moving mule and town, we counted twenty-six ears of corn. Shiftless? Yes, the very image of shiftlessness. And yet follow those young men: they are not lazy. Tomorrow morning they’ll be up with the sun. When they work, they work hard and willingly. They have no greedy, selfish drive to make money. Instead, they have a fine contempt for mere cash. They’ll loaf in front of you and work behind your back with good-natured honesty. They’ll steal a watermelon and return your lost wallet with everything in it. Their great weakness as workers is their lack of motivation beyond the simple pleasure of physical effort. They are careless because they have not found that being careful pays. They don’t plan ahead because people they know who don’t plan do about as well as those who do. Above all, they cannot see why they should take extra care to improve the white man’s land. Nor can they see why they should fatten his mule or save his corn. On the other hand, the white landowner argues that any effort to improve these workers would surely fail. He includes giving them more responsibility, higher wages, better homes, or land of their own. He shows his Northern visitor the scarred, miserable land, the ruined mansions, the worn-out soil, and the mortgaged acres. Then he says, This is Negro freedom!

Now it happens that both master and man have just enough argument on their respective sides to make it difficult for them to understand each other. The Negro dimly personifies in the white man all his ills and misfortunes; if he is poor, it is because the white man seizes the fruit of his toil; if he is ignorant, it is because the white man gives him neither time nor facilities to learn; and, indeed, if any misfortune happens to him, it is because of some hidden machinations of “white folks.” On the other hand, the masters and the masters’ sons have never been able to see why the Negro, instead of settling down to be day-laborers for bread and clothes, are infected with a silly desire to rise in the world, and why they are sulky, dissatisfied, and careless, where their fathers were happy and dumb and faithful. “Why, you niggers have an easier time than I do,” said a puzzled Albany merchant to his black customer. “Yes,” he replied, “and so does yo’ hogs.”

Both master and worker have just enough reason on their own side to make understanding each other difficult. The Black man vaguely sees the white man as the source of all his troubles and misfortunes. If he is poor, it is because the white man takes the fruits of his labor. If he is ignorant, it is because the white man gives him neither time nor opportunities to learn. Indeed, if any misfortune strikes him, it is because of some secret plotting by “white folks.” On the other hand, the masters and their sons have never understood why Black people want to get ahead. They see this ambition as foolish, rather than accepting a life of daily labor for food and clothes. They cannot understand why Black people are sullen, dissatisfied, and careless, when their fathers were happy, silent, and faithful. “Why, you niggers have an easier time than I do,” said a puzzled Albany merchant to his Black customer. “Yes,” he replied, “and so do your hogs.”

Taking, then, the dissatisfied and shiftless field-hand as a starting-point, let us inquire how the black thousands of Dougherty have struggled from him up toward their ideal, and what that ideal is. All social struggle is evidenced by the rise, first of economic, then of social classes, among a homogeneous population. To-day the following economic classes are plainly differentiated among these Negroes.

Let us start, then, with the dissatisfied and unmotivated field worker. Let us ask how Dougherty’s thousands of black people have struggled to rise from that starting point toward their ideal. Let us also ask what that ideal is. All social struggle shows itself through the rise of economic classes first, then social classes, within a population of similar people. Today, the following economic classes are clearly distinct among these black people.

A “submerged tenth” of croppers, with a few paupers; forty per cent who are metayers and thirty-nine per cent of semi-metayers and wage-laborers. There are left five per cent of money-renters and six per cent of freeholders,—the “Upper Ten” of the land. The croppers are entirely without capital, even in the limited sense of food or money to keep them from seed-time to harvest. All they furnish is their labor; the land-owner furnishes land, stock, tools, seed, and house; and at the end of the year the laborer gets from a third to a half of the crop. Out of his share, however, comes pay and interest for food and clothing advanced him during the year. Thus we have a laborer without capital and without wages, and an employer whose capital is largely his employees’ wages. It is an unsatisfactory arrangement, both for hirer and hired, and is usually in vogue on poor land with hard-pressed owners.

A “submerged tenth” consists of croppers, with a few paupers. Forty percent are metayers, and thirty-nine percent are semi-metayers and wage laborers. The remaining five percent are tenants who pay rent in money, and six percent own their land. These last two groups are the “Upper Ten” of the land. The croppers have no capital at all, not even food or money to sustain them from planting to harvest. All the croppers provide is their labor. The landowner provides the land, livestock, tools, seed, and house. At the end of the year, the laborer receives between a third and a half of the crop. But the laborer’s share must cover repayment, with interest, for food and clothing supplied on credit during the year. So we have a laborer without capital or wages, and an employer whose capital consists largely of his employees’ wages. This arrangement is unsatisfactory for both employer and laborer. It is usually found on poor land whose owners are struggling financially.

Above the croppers come the great mass of the black population who work the land on their own responsibility, paying rent in cotton and supported by the crop-mortgage system. After the war this system was attractive to the freedmen on account of its larger freedom and its possibility for making a surplus. But with the carrying out of the crop-lien system, the deterioration of the land, and the slavery of debt, the position of the metayers has sunk to a dead level of practically unrewarded toil. Formerly all tenants had some capital, and often considerable; but absentee landlordism, rising rack-rent, and failing cotton have stripped them well-nigh of all, and probably not over half of them to-day own their mules. The change from cropper to tenant was accomplished by fixing the rent. If, now, the rent fixed was reasonable, this was an incentive to the tenant to strive. On the other hand, if the rent was too high, or if the land deteriorated, the result was to discourage and check the efforts of the black peasantry. There is no doubt that the latter case is true; that in Dougherty County every economic advantage of the price of cotton in market and of the strivings of the tenant has been taken advantage of by the landlords and merchants, and swallowed up in rent and interest. If cotton rose in price, the rent rose even higher; if cotton fell, the rent remained or followed reluctantly. If the tenant worked hard and raised a large crop, his rent was raised the next year; if that year the crop failed, his corn was confiscated and his mule sold for debt. There were, of course, exceptions to this,—cases of personal kindness and forbearance; but in the vast majority of cases the rule was to extract the uttermost farthing from the mass of the black farm laborers.

Above the sharecroppers are the great majority of the black population, who farm on their own responsibility. They pay rent in cotton and rely on loans secured by their crops. After the war, this system appealed to the freedmen because it offered greater freedom and a chance to earn a surplus. But crop liens, declining soil quality, and bondage to debt have reduced these tenant farmers to almost unrewarded toil. Once, all tenants had some capital, often a considerable amount. But absentee landlords, rising and excessive rents, and failing cotton crops have stripped them of nearly everything. Probably no more than half now own their mules. Sharecroppers became tenants when their rent was set at a fixed amount. If the rent was reasonable, it gave tenants an incentive to work harder. But if the rent was too high, or the land deteriorated, it discouraged and held back black farmers' efforts. There is no doubt that the latter has happened in Dougherty County. Landlords and merchants have seized every economic gain from cotton prices and tenants' efforts, swallowing those gains in rent and interest. If cotton prices rose, rent rose even higher. If cotton prices fell, rent stayed the same or fell only reluctantly. If a tenant worked hard and raised a large crop, his rent rose the next year. If his crop failed that year, his corn was seized and his mule sold to pay his debt. There were, of course, exceptions, including acts of personal kindness and patience with debtors. But in the vast majority of cases, the rule was to squeeze every last penny from black farmworkers.

The average metayer pays from twenty to thirty per cent of his crop in rent. The result of such rack-rent can only be evil,—abuse and neglect of the soil, deterioration in the character of the laborers, and a widespread sense of injustice. “Wherever the country is poor,” cried Arthur Young, “it is in the hands of metayers,” and “their condition is more wretched than that of day-laborers.” He was talking of Italy a century ago; but he might have been talking of Dougherty County to-day. And especially is that true to-day which he declares was true in France before the Revolution: “The metayers are considered as little better than menial servants, removable at pleasure, and obliged to conform in all things to the will of the landlords.” On this low plane half the black population of Dougherty County—perhaps more than half the black millions of this land—are to-day struggling.

The average sharecropper pays 20 to 30 percent of his crop in rent. Such excessive rent can only cause harm: abuse and neglect of the soil, declining character among workers, and widespread feelings of injustice. “Wherever the countryside is poor,” declared Arthur Young, “the land is farmed by sharecroppers,” and “their lives are more miserable than those of day laborers.” He was talking about Italy a century ago. But he could have been talking about Dougherty County today. His description of France before the Revolution is especially true today: “Sharecroppers are considered little better than low-ranking servants. They can be removed whenever the landlords wish and must obey the landlords in everything.” Half the black population of Dougherty County struggles today under these degrading conditions. Perhaps more than half the millions of black people in this country face the same struggle.

A degree above these we may place those laborers who receive money wages for their work. Some receive a house with perhaps a garden-spot; then supplies of food and clothing are advanced, and certain fixed wages are given at the end of the year, varying from thirty to sixty dollars, out of which the supplies must be paid for, with interest. About eighteen per cent of the population belong to this class of semi-metayers, while twenty-two per cent are laborers paid by the month or year, and are either “furnished” by their own savings or perhaps more usually by some merchant who takes his chances of payment. Such laborers receive from thirty-five to fifty cents a day during the working season. They are usually young unmarried persons, some being women; and when they marry they sink to the class of metayers, or, more seldom, become renters.

One step above these workers, we may place laborers who receive wages in money for their work. Some receive a house, perhaps with a small garden plot. Food and clothing are then supplied on credit. At the end of the year, these workers receive fixed wages ranging from thirty to sixty dollars. They must use these wages to pay for the supplies, with interest. About eighteen percent of the population belong to this class of semi-metayers, or partial sharecroppers. Another twenty-two percent are laborers paid by the month or year. These laborers are “furnished” with supplies through their own savings or, perhaps more often, by a merchant who risks going unpaid. Such laborers receive thirty-five to fifty cents a day during the working season. They are usually young and unmarried, and some are women. When these laborers marry, they fall into the class of metayers, or sharecroppers, or, less often, become renters.

The renters for fixed money rentals are the first of the emerging classes, and form five per cent of the families. The sole advantage of this small class is their freedom to choose their crops, and the increased responsibility which comes through having money transactions. While some of the renters differ little in condition from the metayers, yet on the whole they are more intelligent and responsible persons, and are the ones who eventually become land-owners. Their better character and greater shrewdness enable them to gain, perhaps to demand, better terms in rents; rented farms, varying from forty to a hundred acres, bear an average rental of about fifty-four dollars a year. The men who conduct such farms do not long remain renters; either they sink to metayers, or with a successful series of harvests rise to be land-owners.

Farmers who rent land for a fixed cash payment are the first of the emerging classes. They make up five percent of the families. This small class has only two advantages: freedom to choose crops and the greater responsibility that comes with handling money. Although some renters live much like metayers, or sharecroppers, renters overall are more intelligent and responsible. They are the ones who eventually become landowners. Their better character and greater shrewdness allow them to secure, perhaps even demand, better rental terms. Rented farms range from forty to a hundred acres and cost an average of about fifty-four dollars a year. The men who run these farms do not remain renters for long. Either they fall back into sharecropping or, after a series of successful harvests, rise to become landowners.

In 1870 the tax-books of Dougherty report no Negroes as landholders. If there were any such at that time,—and there may have been a few,—their land was probably held in the name of some white patron,—a method not uncommon during slavery. In 1875 ownership of land had begun with seven hundred and fifty acres; ten years later this had increased to over sixty-five hundred acres, to nine thousand acres in 1890 and ten thousand in 1900. The total assessed property has in this same period risen from eighty thousand dollars in 1875 to two hundred and forty thousand dollars in 1900.

In 1870, Dougherty’s tax records listed no Black people as landowners. If any owned land then, and a few may have, it was probably held in a white patron’s name. This practice was not uncommon during slavery. By 1875, Black landownership had begun, totaling 750 acres. Ten years later, that total had grown to over 6,500 acres. It reached 9,000 acres in 1890 and 10,000 in 1900. During the same period, the total assessed value of Black-owned property rose from $80,000 in 1875 to $240,000 in 1900.

Two circumstances complicate this development and make it in some respects difficult to be sure of the real tendencies; they are the panic of 1893, and the low price of cotton in 1898. Besides this, the system of assessing property in the country districts of Georgia is somewhat antiquated and of uncertain statistical value; there are no assessors, and each man makes a sworn return to a tax-receiver. Thus public opinion plays a large part, and the returns vary strangely from year to year. Certainly these figures show the small amount of accumulated capital among the Negroes, and the consequent large dependence of their property on temporary prosperity. They have little to tide over a few years of economic depression, and are at the mercy of the cotton-market far more than the whites. And thus the land-owners, despite their marvellous efforts, are really a transient class, continually being depleted by those who fall back into the class of renters or metayers, and augmented by newcomers from the masses. Of one hundred land-owners in 1898, half had bought their land since 1893, a fourth between 1890 and 1893, a fifth between 1884 and 1890, and the rest between 1870 and 1884. In all, one hundred and eighty-five Negroes have owned land in this county since 1875.

Two circumstances complicate this development and make the real trends somewhat hard to identify. These are the financial panic of 1893 and the low price of cotton in 1898. In addition, the property assessment system in rural Georgia is somewhat outdated, and its statistics are of uncertain value. There are no assessors, and each man submits a sworn statement of his property to a tax collector. As a result, public opinion plays a large role, and reported property values vary strangely from year to year. These figures certainly show how little capital Black people have accumulated. As a result, the value of their property depends heavily on temporary prosperity. They have little to carry them through a few years of economic depression. They are far more at the mercy of the cotton market than white people are. Thus, despite their remarkable efforts, Black landowners are really a group whose membership constantly changes. Some continually fall back into the ranks of renters or sharecroppers, while newcomers from the broader population join them. Of the 100 landowners in 1898, half had bought their land since 1893. A quarter had bought it between 1890 and 1893, a fifth between 1884 and 1890. The rest had bought it between 1870 and 1884. In all, 185 Black people have owned land in this county since 1875.

If all the black land-owners who had ever held land here had kept it or left it in the hands of black men, the Negroes would have owned nearer thirty thousand acres than the fifteen thousand they now hold. And yet these fifteen thousand acres are a creditable showing,—a proof of no little weight of the worth and ability of the Negro people. If they had been given an economic start at Emancipation, if they had been in an enlightened and rich community which really desired their best good, then we might perhaps call such a result small or even insignificant. But for a few thousand poor ignorant field-hands, in the face of poverty, a falling market, and social stress, to save and capitalize two hundred thousand dollars in a generation has meant a tremendous effort. The rise of a nation, the pressing forward of a social class, means a bitter struggle, a hard and soul-sickening battle with the world such as few of the more favored classes know or appreciate.

If all the Black landowners who ever owned land here had kept it or passed it to other Black men, the picture would be different. Black people would own closer to thirty thousand acres than the fifteen thousand they now hold. Yet these fifteen thousand acres are an achievement worth respecting. They offer strong evidence of the worth and ability of Black people. If they had received an economic start at Emancipation, we might perhaps consider this achievement small or even insignificant. But that would also assume a wealthy, enlightened community that truly wanted what was best for them. Instead, a few thousand poor field workers with little education faced poverty, a declining market, and social pressures. For these workers to save and invest two hundred thousand dollars in a generation took tremendous effort. The rise of a nation, the advance of a social class, means a bitter struggle. It means a hard, soul-sickening battle with the world that few people from more privileged classes know or appreciate.

Out of the hard economic conditions of this portion of the Black Belt, only six per cent of the population have succeeded in emerging into peasant proprietorship; and these are not all firmly fixed, but grow and shrink in number with the wavering of the cotton-market. Fully ninety-four per cent have struggled for land and failed, and half of them sit in hopeless serfdom. For these there is one other avenue of escape toward which they have turned in increasing numbers, namely, migration to town. A glance at the distribution of land among the black owners curiously reveals this fact. In 1898 the holdings were as follows: Under forty acres, forty-nine families; forty to two hundred and fifty acres, seventeen families; two hundred and fifty to one thousand acres, thirteen families; one thousand or more acres, two families. Now in 1890 there were forty-four holdings, but only nine of these were under forty acres. The great increase of holdings, then, has come in the buying of small homesteads near town, where their owners really share in the town life; this is a part of the rush to town. And for every land-owner who has thus hurried away from the narrow and hard conditions of country life, how many field-hands, how many tenants, how many ruined renters, have joined that long procession? Is it not strange compensation? The sin of the country districts is visited on the town, and the social sores of city life to-day may, here in Dougherty County, and perhaps in many places near and far, look for their final healing without the city walls.

Under the harsh economic conditions in this part of the Black Belt, only six percent have become small landowning farmers. Even these farmers are not all secure. Their numbers rise and fall with the cotton market. Fully ninety-four percent have struggled to acquire land and failed, and half of them live in hopeless serfdom. For those trapped in serfdom, one other escape remains: moving to town. Increasing numbers have taken that path. A look at the land held by black owners reveals this movement in a curious way. In 1898, forty-nine families owned under forty acres, and seventeen owned forty to two hundred and fifty acres. Thirteen families owned two hundred and fifty to one thousand acres, and two owned one thousand acres or more. In 1890, however, there were forty-four holdings, and only nine were under forty acres. The large increase in holdings, then, came from purchases of small homesteads near town. Their owners actually take part in town life. These purchases are part of the rush to town. And for every landowner who has fled the harsh, confining conditions of country life, how many others have followed? How many field hands, how many tenants, how many ruined renters have joined that long procession? Is this not a strange repayment? The town pays for the sins of the countryside. And the social wounds of city life today may find their lasting cure outside the city walls. This may be true here in Dougherty County, and perhaps in many places near and far.