First, as my grandfather used to tell, there were the woods and the
Oneida Indians and the Mohawks; then the forest was cleared away, and
there was the broad, fertile, grassy, and entrancingly-beautiful Mohawk
valley; then came villages and cities and my own unimportant existence,
and at about the same time appeared the Oneida Institute. This
institution of learning is my first point. The Oneida Institute, located
in the village of Whitesboro, four miles from Utica, in the State of New
York, consisted visibly of three elongated erections of painted,
white-pine clapboards, with shingle roofs. Each structure was three
stories high and was dotted with lines of little windows. There was a
surrounding farm and gardens, in which the students labored, that might
attract attention at certain hours of the day, when the laborers were at
work in them; but the buildings were the noticeable feature. Seated in
the deep green of the vast meadows on the west bank of the willow-shaded
Mohawk, these staring white edifices were very conspicuous. The middle
one was turned crosswise, as if to keep the other two, which were
parallel, as far apart as possible. This middle one was also crowned
with a fancy cupola, whereby the general appearance of the group was
just saved to a casual stranger from the certainty of its being the
penitentiary or almshouse of the county.
The glory of this institution was not in its architecture or lands, but
in that part which could not be seen by the bodily eyes. For,
spiritually speaking, Oneida Institute was an immense battering-ram,
behind which Gerrit Smith, William Lloyd Garrison, and Rev. Beriah Green
were constantly at work, pounding away to destroy the walls which
slavery had built up to protect itself.
Mr. Green was president of the institute, and was the soul and heart and
voice of its faculty. His power to mould young men was phenomenal. It
was a common saying that he turned out graduates who were the perfect
image of Beriah Green, except the wart. The wart was a large one, which,
being situated in the centre of Mr. Green's forehead, seemed to be a
part of his method to those who were magnetized by his personality or
persuaded by his eloquence.
About 1845, when I began to be an observing boy, it was understood
throughout Oneida County that Beriah Green was an intellectual giant,
and that he would sell his life, if need be, to befriend the colored
man. Oneida Institute was a refuge for the oppressed, quite as much as a
place where the students were magnetized and taught to weed onions.
Fifteen years before John Brown paused in his march to the gallows to
kiss a negro baby I saw Beriah Green walk hand in hand along the
sidewalk with a black man and fondle the hand he held conspicuously.
Among his intimates were Ward and Garnet, both very black, as well as
very talented and very eloquent.
When "the friends of the cause" met in convention, I sometimes heard of
it, and managed, boy-like, to steal in. When I did so, I used to sit and
shudder on a back seat in the little hall. The anti-slavery
denunciations poured out upon the churches, and backed up and pushed
home by the logic of Green and the eloquence of Smith, were well
calculated to make an orthodox boy tremble. For these people brought the
churches and the nation before their bar and condemned them, and some
whom I have not named cursed them with a bitterness and effectiveness
that I cannot recall to this day without a shiver. The dramatic effect,
as it then seemed to me, has never been equalled in my experience.
That these extreme ideas did not prosper financially is not to be
wondered at. The farm was soon given up, then the buildings and gardens
passed into other hands, and the institution became a denominational
school, known as the Whitestown Baptist Seminary. But the ideas which
had been implanted there would not consent to depart with this change in
the name and the methods of the institution. The fact that Beriah Green,
after leaving the school, continued to reside at Whitesboro and gathered
a church there rendered it the more difficult to eradicate the doctrines
which he had implanted. The idea of friendship for the black man was
particularly tenacious, and perhaps annoying to the new and controlling
denominational interest. It clung to the very soil, like "pusley" in a
garden. It had gained a strong hold throughout the county. The managers
of the institution could not openly oppose it. They were compelled to
endure it. And so it continued to be true that if a bright colored boy
anywhere in the State desired the advantages of a superior education he
would direct his steps to Whitestown Seminary.
It was during these seminary days that I became a student at the
institution; and it was here that I met the hero of my story, Anthony
Calvert Brown. He was as vigorous and manly a youth of seventeen as I
have ever seen. We two were regarded as special friends. He had been
among us nearly two months, and had become a general favorite, before it
was discovered that he had a tinge of African blood. The revelation of
this fact was made to us on the play-ground. A fellow student, who had
come with Anthony to the school, made the disclosure. The two were
comrades, and had often told us of their adventures together in the
great North woods, or Adirondack forests, on the western border of
which, in a remote settlement, they had their homes. Their friendship
did not prevent them from falling into a dispute, and it did not prevent
Anthony's comrade, who was in fact a bully, from descending to
personalities. He hinted in very expressive terms that the son of a
colored woman must not be too positive. The meanness of such an
insinuation, made at such a time and in such a way, did not diminish its
sting. Perhaps it increased it. We saw Anthony, who had stood a moment
before cool and defiant, turn away cowed and subdued, his handsome face
painfully suffused. His behavior was a confession.
I am sorry to say that after this incident Anthony did not hold the same
position in our esteem that he had previously enjoyed. Some half-dozen
of us who cherished the old Institute feeling were inclined to make a
hero of him, but by degrees the sentiment of the new management
prevailed, and it was understood that Anthony was to be classed with
those who must meekly endure an irreparable misfortune. But Anthony did
not seem to yield to this view. He was very proud, and braced himself
firmly against it. He withdrew more and more from his schoolmates and
devoted his time to books. In the matter of scholarship he gained the
highest place, and held it to the close of our two-years' course. In the
mean time, his peculiarities were often made the subject of remark among
us. His growing reserve and dignity, his reputation as a scholar, and
his reticence and isolation were frequently discussed. And there was the
mystery of his color. It was a disputed question among us whether the
African taint could be detected in his appearance. Ray, the comrade who
had revealed it, claimed that it was plainly perceptible, while
Yerrinton, the oldest student among us, declared that there was not a
trace of it to be seen. He argued that Anthony was several shades
lighter than Daniel Webster, and he asserted enthusiastically that he
had various traits in common with that great statesman. But, then,
Yerrinton was a disciple of Beriah Green, and his opinion was not
regarded as unbiassed. For myself, I could never detect any appearance
of African blood in Anthony, although my knowledge of its existence
influenced my feelings toward him. To me he seemed to carry himself
with a noble bearing,--under a shadow, it is true, yet as if he were a
king among us. I remember thinking that his broad forehead,
slightly-Roman nose, mobile lips, and full features wore a singularly
mournful and benevolent expression, like the faces sometimes seen in
Egyptian sculpture.
I did not discuss the matter of his peculiarities with Anthony freely
until after our school-days at the seminary were ended and he had left
Whitestown. His first letter to me was a partial revelation of his
thoughts upon the subject of his own character and feelings. He had gone
to Philadelphia to teach in a large school, while I remained with my
relatives in Whitesboro. He wrote me that he was troubled in regard to
certain matters of which he had never spoken to any one, not even to me,
and he thought it would be a good thing for him to present them for
consideration, if I was willing to give him the benefit of my counsel.
In reply I urged that he should confide in me fully, assuring him of my
desire to assist him to the utmost of my ability.
The communication which I received in response to my invitation was to
some extent a surprise. The letter was a very long one, and very vivid
and expressive. He began it by alluding to the incident upon the
play-ground, which had occurred nearly two years before. He said that
his life had been guarded, up to about that time, from feeling the
effects of the misfortunes which attach to the colored race. Living in a
remote settlement and a very pleasant home, where all were free and
equal and social distinctions almost unknown, he had scarcely thought of
the fact that his mother was an octoroon. He had heard her talk a great
deal about those distinguished French gentlemen who had in the early
part of this century acquired lands in the vicinity of his home, and he
had somehow a feeling that she had been remotely connected with them,
and that his own lineage was honorable. He alluded specifically to Le
Ray de Chaumont and Joseph Bonaparte. These two men, and others their
countrymen, who had resided or sojourned upon the edge of the great
wilderness near his birthplace, had been his ideals from childhood. He
had often visited Lake Bonaparte, and had frequently seen the home
formerly occupied by Le Ray. While he had understood that he himself was
only plain Anthony C. Brown, the son of Thomas Brown (a white man who
had died some two months before his son's birth), he had yet an
impression that his mother was in some vague way connected with the
great personages whom he mentioned. How it was that Thomas Brown had
come to marry his mother, or what the details of her early life had
been, he did not know, being, in fact, ignorant of his family history.
He conceded that it might be only his own imagination that had led him
to suppose that he was in some indefinite way to be credited with the
greatness of those wealthy landed proprietors who had endeavored to
establish manorial estates or seigniories in the wilderness. He had come
to understand that this unexplainable impression of superiority and
connection with the great, which had always been with him in childhood
and early youth, was due to his mother's influence and teaching. There
was about it nothing direct and specific, and yet it had been instilled
into his mind, in indirect ways, until it was an integral part of his
existence. His mother had a farm and cattle and money. She was in better
circumstances than her neighbors. This had added to his feeling of
superiority and independence. The accident of a slight tinge of color
had hardly risen even to the dignity of a joke in the freedom of the
settlement and the forest. Looking back, he believed that his mother had
guarded his youthful mind against receiving any unfavorable impression
upon the subject. In his remote, free, wilderness home he had heard but
little of African slavery, and had regarded it as a far-off phantom,
like heathendom or witchcraft.
Such had been the state of mind of Anthony Brown. The light had,
however, been gradually let in upon him in the course of an excursion
which he and his comrade Ray had made the year previous to their
appearance at Whitestown Seminary. In that excursion they had visited
Chicago, Cleveland, Niagara Falls, Buffalo, Syracuse, Rochester, New
York, and Albany. They had strayed into a court-room in the City Hall at
Albany, where many people were listening to the argument of counsel who
were discussing the provisions of the will of a wealthy lady, deceased.
A colored man was mixed up in the matter in some way,--probably as
executor and legatee. Anthony heard with breathless interest the legal
disabilities of colored people set forth, and their inferior social
position commented upon. He learned that the ancestral color descended
to the children of a colored mother, although they might appear to be
white. These statements had impressed him deeply. They furnished to his
mind an explanation of the various evidences of the degradation of the
colored people he had seen upon his journey. Talking of these matters,
he had found that Ray was much better informed than himself upon the
entire subject. Ray, in fact, frankly explained that a colored man had
no chance in this country. This was in 1859. Anthony suggested in his
letter to me that he had probably been kept from acquiring this
knowledge earlier in life by his mother's anxious care and the kindness
of friends and neighbors. He explained that he did not mean to be
understood as intimating that he had not some general knowledge of the
facts previously, but it was this experience which had made him feel
that slavery was a reality and that all colored people belonged to a
despised race. After his return home he had carefully refrained from
imparting to his mother any hint of his newly-acquired impressions in
reference to the social and legal standing of the colored race. In the
enjoyment of home comforts, and in the freedom of the wild woods and
waters, the shadow which had threatened in his thoughts to descend upon
him passed away. He remembered it only as a dream which might not
trouble him again, and which he would not cherish. Still, there was a
lurking uneasiness and anxiety, born of the inexorable facts, which
favorable circumstances and youthful vivacity could not wholly overcome.
In this state of mind Anthony, in accordance with the wish of his
mother, came to Whitestown Seminary. His description of his first
impressions there was very glowing. He wrote,--
"I cannot hope, my dear friend, to give you any adequate idea of what I
then experienced. For the first time in my life I found kindred spirits.
Your companionship in particular threw a light upon my pathway that made
the days all bright and gave me such joy as I had never before known.
And there was Ralph, so kind and true, and Henry Rose, so honest and
faithful! I cannot tell you how my heart embraced them. It is a simple
truth, telling less than I felt, when I say that I could scarcely sleep
for thinking of my newfound treasures. You need to remember what it is
to dwell in a rough country, isolated and remote from towns, to
appreciate my experience. To me, coming to Whitestown was a translation
to Paradise. It seems extravagant, yet it is true, that I met there
those who were dearer than my life and for whom I would have died. The
first warm friendships of youth are the purest and whitest flowers that
bloom in the soul. If these are blighted, it is forever. Such flowers in
any one life can never grow again.
"And this brings me to that sad day when on the play-ground Ray struck
at me, and through me at my dear, loving mother. As he spoke those cruel
words the world grew dark about me, the dread fear which I had subdued
revived with tenfold power, and upon my heart came the pangs of an
indescribable anguish. Oh, the chill, the death-like chill, that froze
the current of my affections as I saw the faces of those I loved
averted!
"I went to my room and tried to reflect, but I could not. The shock was
too great. During the week that followed I was most of the time in my
silent room. I may well call it silent, for the footsteps to which I had
been accustomed came no more, and the comrades in whose friendship I had
such delight no longer sought my company. That dreadful week was the
turning-point in my life. As it drew toward its close I realized to some
extent what I had been through, as one does who is recovering from a
severe illness. I knew that day and night I had wept and moaned and
could see no hope, no ray of light, and that I had at times forgotten my
religion and blasphemed. It is true, my dear friend, that I mocked my
God. Do not judge me hastily in this. I was without discipline or
experience, and I saw that for all sorrow except mine there was a
remedy. Even for sin there is repentance and redemption, and the pains
of hell itself may be avoided. But for my trouble there could be no
relief. The thought that I was accursed from the day of my birth, that
no effort, no sacrifice, no act of heroism, on my part could ever redeem
me, haunted my soul, and I knew that it must haunt me from that time
onward and forever.
"I need hardly tell you, with your insight and knowledge, that these
inward struggles led toward a not unusual conclusion. I allude to the
determination to which multitudes of souls have been driven in all ages,
to escape the tortures of disgrace. I turned away from humanity and
sought that fearful desert of individual loneliness and isolation which
is now more sad and real to me than any outward object can be. To live
in the voiceless solitude and tread the barren sands unfriended is too
much for a strong man with all the aids that philosophy can give him.
But when we see one in the first flush of youth, wholly innocent, yet
turning his footsteps to the great desert to get away from the scorn of
lovers and friends, and when we realize that this which he dreads must
continue to the last hour of his life, there is to my mind a ghastliness
about it as if it were seen in the light of the pit which is bottomless.
I have not recovered, and can never recover, from that experience. You
will infer, however, that I did not remain in just the condition of mind
which I have endeavored to describe. He whom I had blasphemed came to
me, and I was penitent. The teachings of good Father Michael at our
home, the doctrines of our Church, and the examples of the blessed
saints, were my salvation. Then I felt that I would dwell alone with
God. And there was something grand about that, and very noble. The
purest joy of life is possible in such an experience. Yet it is not
enough, especially in youth. But I think I should have continued in that
frame of mind had it not been for you and Ralph. How you two came to me
and besought my friendship I need not remind you. Neither need I say how
my pride yielded; and if there was anything to forgive I forgave it, and
felt the light of friendship, which had been withdrawn from my inner
world, come back with a joy that has increased as it has continued.
"Coming to this city of 'brotherly love,' I begin my life anew, and at
the very threshold a painful question meets me. No faces are averted, no
one suspects my social standing. A thrill of kindness is in every voice.
What can I do? Must I advertise myself as smitten with a plague? I dare
not tell you of the favors that society bestows upon me. It is but
little more than a month since I came to Philadelphia, and during that
short period I have in some strange way become popular. My sincere
effort politely to avoid society seems only to have resulted in
precipitating a shower of invitations upon me. Evidently the fact that I
am tinged with African blood is wholly unsuspected. You understand, I
think, how I gained this place as teacher in the school. It was through
the interposition of Father Michael and certain powerful Protestant
friends of his who are unknown to me. It was not my own doing, and I do
not feel that I am to blame. But I will frankly tell you that it seems
to me cowardly to go forward under false colors. One thing I am
resolved upon,--I will never be ashamed of my dear mother. Where I go
she shall go, and she shall come here if she is inclined to do so. As
you have never seen her, I may say that she is regarded as dark for an
octoroon, and with her presence no explanation will be necessary. But
ought I to wait for that? She may not choose to come. How can I best be
an honest man? It seems silly, and it would be ridiculous, to give out
generally here as a matter for the public that I am the son of a negro
woman. Yet I think it must come to that in some way. What shall I do?"
This letter caused me to think of Anthony and his trouble much more
seriously than before. It was clear to me why he was popular. I had
never met any young man who was by nature more sympathetic and
attractive. The reserve and sadness which had recently come upon him
were not to his disadvantage socially. They rather tended to gain
attention and win the kindness of strangers. The question which his
position presented, and about which he desired my counsel, troubled me.
But, fortunately, after thinking of it almost constantly for two days, I
gave him advice which I still think correct under the circumstances. I
argued that he was not under any obligation to advertise himself to the
public as a colored man. The public did not expect or require this of
any one. But I urged that if he made any special friends among those who
entertained him socially and with whom he was intimate, he should
frankly make known to them the facts in regard to his family. I thought
this would be expected, and I was convinced that such a presentation of
his position, made without affectation, would win for him respect even
from those who might cease to court his society. I further urged that he
ought not, as a teacher, to isolate himself or shun those relations with
families which would place upon him the obligation to make known his
parentage.
Anthony sent a brief note in reply to my letter, thanking me heartily
for what he termed my convincing statement, and expressing his
determination to act in accordance with it.
Nearly two months passed, and then my friend communicated the further
fact that he had gone so far, in several instances, and with several
families, as to carry out the suggestions I had made. He thought it was
too soon to assert what the ultimate result would be, but stated the
immediate effects so far as he could see them. When he first made the
announcement in regard to his color, many had disbelieved it. When his
persistent and repeated declarations upon various occasions had
convinced his friends that it was not a jest, but a reality, they had
been variously affected by it. He thought some were politely leaving
him, while others seemed desirous of continuing his acquaintance.
Ten days later I was not a little surprised to receive a letter
conveying the information that Anthony's mother had arrived in
Philadelphia in response to his invitation. He stated, in his letter to
me giving this news, that he had now carried out his entire plan and was
satisfied. His mother had visited his school, and he had introduced her
to his various friends in the city. It seemed to me a mistake thus
unnecessarily to run the risk of offending social preferences or
prejudices; but I did not feel at liberty to comment upon the matter at
the time.
In addition to the information conveyed, the letter contained an
invitation which delighted me. Anthony wrote that he and his mother were
about returning home. The long vacation would begin in a few days, and
they wished that I should go with them for a visit. Few things could
have afforded me greater satisfaction than this. The wild
forest-country, of which my school-mate had told me much, I regarded as
peculiarly a region of romance and adventure.
It was a beautiful morning early in July when we three, with a team and
a driver, left the Mohawk valley and climbed the Deerfield hills, making
our way northward. On the evening of the first day we readied the hills
of Steuben and gained a first glimpse of that broad, beautiful
forest-level, known as the Black River country, which stretches away
toward the distant St. Lawrence. The next day we descended to this
level, and, following the narrow road through forests, and clearings,
and little settlements, and villages, arrived just at nightfall at the
home of my friends. It was a small, unpainted, wooden house, standing
near the road. Back of it were barns and sheds, and I saw cattle and
sheep grazing. The zigzag rail fence common to the region surrounded the
cleared lots in sight, and in front of the house, across the road, were
the wild woods. A wood-thrush, or veery, was pouring out his thrilling,
liquid notes as we arrived. A white woman and a large, black, shaggy dog
came out of the house to welcome us; and a few minutes later I had the
best room, up-stairs over the front door, assigned to me, and was a
guest in the domicile of my friend Anthony.
The location was a delightful one, about three miles west of the little
village of Champion, near which was a small lake, where we spent many
morning hours. From a height not far away we had glimpses, in clear
weather, of the mountains, seen in airy outline toward the eastward.
My friend had the horses and wagons of the farm at his command, and we
took many long rides to visit places of interest. On several occasions
we saw the decaying chateau of Le Ray, which was but little more than an
hour's ride to the northward of Anthony's home; and on one occasion we
went a day's journey and saw the stony little village of Antwerp, and
visited that beautiful sheet of water on the margin of the wilderness,
known as Lake Bonaparte. Joseph Bonaparte frequently visited this lake,
and he owned lands in its vicinity, and made some improvements upon them
in 1828.
Anthony's mother was a tall, spare woman, with a wrinkled face and
large, straight features. She seemed to me a curious mixture of European
features with a dark skin. She used French phrases in a peculiar way,
and was full of the history of Le Ray and Bonaparte and various members
of the company that had undertaken to make of this section, in years
gone by, a rich and fertile country like the Mohawk valley. It appeared
that the name which the company had given to this region was Castorland,
which she interpreted to mean the land of the beaver. She had, among
other curiosities, some coins or tokens which had been stamped in Paris
on behalf of the company, and on which the word "Castorland,"
accompanied by suitable devices, was plainly seen. The one that
interested me most seemed to have as its device the representation of a
small dog trying to climb a tree. I was informed, however, that the
animal was a beaver, and that he was cutting down the tree with his
teeth.
After talking freely with the mother, Antoinette Brown, I did not wonder
that Anthony had learned to honor the gentlemen who had come from France
to this region in early days as among the greatest men in the world. I
did not find myself able to discredit her realistic and vivid
description of the visits of Joseph Bonaparte to his wilderness domain
in a six-horse chariot, followed by numerous retainers. Neither did I
find myself able to disbelieve in the accuracy of her picturesque
description of Joseph Bonaparte's Venetian gondola floating upon the
waters of Northern New York, or her account of his dinner-service of
"golden plate" spread out by the road-side on one memorable occasion
when he paused in his kingly ride and dined in a picturesque place near
the highway. She told in a convincing manner many traditions relating to
the enterprise which was to have made of the Black-River country a rich
farming region not inferior to the Mohawk Flats. The fact that nature
had not seconded this undertaking had not diminished Mrs. Brown's
impressions of its magnitude and importance. The great tracts which had
been purchased and the great men who had purchased them were vividly
impressed upon her imagination. In reference to her personal history,
except for a few allusions to life in New York City, she was reticent.
I remained nearly two months at the home of my friend, and became
familiar with the places of interest surrounding it. The little lake was
a memorable spot, for there Anthony first told me the full story of his
experiences in Philadelphia. He did not conceal the fact that an
attachment was growing up between himself and the daughter of his best
friend there, Mr. Zebina Allen. The way to make his permanent home in
the Quaker City seemed to be opening before him. That I should go with
him for a few days to Philadelphia when he returned, to "see how the
land lay," as he expressed it in backwoods phrase, was one of his
favorite ideas. He made so much of this point that I finally consented
to accompany him.
It was a rainy day early in September when we stepped off the cars and
went to Anthony's boarding-place in the good old city that held the one
he loved and his fortunes. I was introduced to various friends of his,
and during the first twenty-four hours of my sojourn I was delighted
with all matters that came under my observation. I was especially
pleased with Mr. Allen and his daughter Caroline. But within two days I
saw, or fancied that I saw, a curious scrutiny and reserve in the faces
of some of those with whom we conversed.
I think Anthony was more surprised than I was when he received a note
from one of the trustees intimating that important changes were likely
to be made in reference to the educational methods to be employed in the
school, and that, in view of these changes, it was barely possible that
some new arrangements in regard to teachers might be desired by the
patrons of the institution. The trustee professed to have written this
information in order that "Mr. Brown" might not be taken wholly by
surprise in case any step affecting his position should be found
advisable.
The circumlocution and indefiniteness of this letter led me to infer
that there was something behind it which the writer had not stated. It
soon appeared that my friend agreed with me in this inference. I could
not but smile at the coolness with which he quoted the common phrase to
the effect that there was an African in the fence.
"I fear it is the old story over again," he said; "but I am glad I have
done my duty to myself and to my dear mother, whatever the consequences
may be."
After some discussion, it was agreed that I should call at Mr. Allen's
office (he was a lawyer) and endeavor to obtain from him a statement of
all he might know of the new arrangement announced in the letter which
had been received. I lost no time in entering upon my mission. But I was
compelled to make several applications at the office before it was
possible for Mr. Allen to give me a hearing. A late hour of the
business-day was, however, finally assigned to me, and just as the gas
was lighted I found myself by appointment in a private room used for
consultation, sitting face to face with Mr. Allen. I briefly stated my
errand, and presented the trustee's letter to him as a more complete
explanation of my verbal statement.
"Yes, I see," said Mr. Allen thoughtfully, after reading the letter and
returning it to me. And he tilted back his chair, clasped his hands
behind his head, and gazed for some minutes reflectively at the ceiling.
I sat quietly and studied his face and the objects in the room. He was a
large man, squarely built, with straight, strongly-marked features, blue
eyes, and sandy hair. In the midst of his books and papers he seemed to
me a sterner man than I had previously thought him. "Yes, I see," he
repeated, at the close of his period of reflection. And then he removed
his hands from his head and placed them on his knees, and brought his
chair squarely to the floor, and, leaning forward toward me, looked
keenly in my face, and said, "Did I understand that you were one of
those people,--that is, similar to Mr. Brown?"
"How, sir?" said I in bewilderment. "How do you mean?"
A moment later the purport of the question, which I had in a strange way
seemed to feel as it was coming, dawned fully upon me, or I should
rather say struck me, so sharp and sudden was the shock I experienced.
If there was anything in which I was secure and of which I had reason to
be proud, it was my Puritan and English ancestry. As the blood flew to
my youthful face in instinctive protest and indignation, my appearance
must have been a sufficient answer to my interrogator; for I remember
that he, at once springing to his feet, offered me his hand, making
profuse apologies and begging a thousand pardons.
I somewhat stammeringly explained that it was of no consequence, and
proceeded to name the families in my ancestral line, adding the remark
that these families, both those on my father's side and those on my
mother's side, were pretty well known, and that they were the genuine
English and Puritan stock.
"They are indeed, sir," said Mr. Allen, "and I congratulate you. I know
the value of a good lineage, and I feel safe in talking freely with a
gentleman of your standing in regard to this disagreeable business."
At about this stage in the proceedings I felt an obscure twinge. My
conscience was uneasy; for I found myself taking sides with Mr. Allen in
favor of family pride and against "those people," as he had termed
persons of doubtful color. I had instinctively defended myself against
the suggestion that I might possibly be one of them. If this skilful
lawyer had intended, as possibly he did, to disarm me wholly at the
outset, so that I could make no attack upon the position which he
intended to assume, he could not have done it more effectually.
"The truth is," said Mr. Allen cheerfully, "we regard Mr. Brown as about
the best and most intelligent young man that has ever taught in our
school. He is manly, and conscientious to a fault. Aside from his
family, the only trouble I find with him is that he is not politic. It
was very honorable in him to state to us his parentage as he did. If he
had been willing to stop there, possibly we might have managed it,--at
least so far as the school was concerned. But it was not necessary and
it was not wise to bring that colored woman here. It may have been
remarkably filial and brave, and all that, but it was not judicious. I
think you will agree with me that it was not judicious."