The farther I got below Washington, the more disappointed I became
in the appearance of the country. I peered through the car windows,
looking in vain for the luxuriant semi-tropical scenery which I had
pictured in my mind. I did not find the grass so green, nor the
woods so beautiful, nor the flowers so plentiful, as they were in
Connecticut. Instead, the red earth partly covered by tough, scrawny
grass, the muddy, straggling roads, the cottages of unpainted pine
boards, and the clay-daubed huts imparted a "burnt up" impression.
Occasionally we ran through a little white and green village that was
like an oasis in a desert.
When I reached Atlanta, my steadily increasing disappointment was not
lessened. I found it a big, dull, red town. This dull red color of
that part of the South I was then seeing had much, I think, to do with
the extreme depression of my spirits--no public squares, no fountains,
dingy street-cars, and, with the exception of three or four principal
thoroughfares, unpaved streets. It was raining when I arrived and some
of these unpaved streets were absolutely impassable. Wheels sank to
the hubs in red mire, and I actually stood for an hour and watched
four or five men work to save a mule, which had stepped into a deep
sink, from drowning, or, rather, suffocating in the mud. The Atlanta
of today is a new city.
On the train I had talked with one of the Pullman car porters, a
bright young fellow who was himself a student, and told him that I was
going to Atlanta to attend school. I had also asked him to tell me
where I might stop for a day or two until the University opened. He
said I might go with him to the place where he stopped during his
"lay-overs" in Atlanta. I gladly accepted his offer and went with him
along one of those muddy streets until we came to a rather rickety
looking frame house, which we entered. The proprietor of the house
was a big, fat, greasy-looking brown-skin man. When I asked him if he
could give me accommodations, he wanted to know how long I would stay.
I told him perhaps two days, not more than three. In reply he said:
"Oh, dat's all right den," at the same time leading the way up a pair
of creaky stairs. I followed him and the porter to a room, the door of
which the proprietor opened while continuing, it seemed, his remark,
"Oh, dat's all right den," by adding: "You kin sleep in dat cot in de
corner der. Fifty cents, please." The porter interrupted by saying:
"You needn't collect from him now, he's got a trunk." This seemed to
satisfy the man, and he went down, leaving me and my porter friend in
the room. I glanced around the apartment and saw that it contained
a double bed and two cots, two wash-stands, three chairs, and a
time-worn bureau, with a looking-glass that would have made Adonis
appear hideous. I looked at the cot in which I was to sleep and
suspected, not without good reasons, that I should not be the first to
use the sheets and pillow-case since they had last come from the wash.
When I thought of the clean, tidy, comfortable surroundings in which
I had been reared, a wave of homesickness swept over me that made me
feel faint. Had it not been for the presence of my companion, and that
I knew this much of his history--that he was not yet quite twenty,
just three years older than myself, and that he had been fighting his
own way in the world, earning his own living and providing for his own
education since he was fourteen--I should not have been able to stop
the tears that were welling up in my eyes.
I asked him why it was that the proprietor of the house seemed
unwilling to accommodate me for more than a couple of days. He
informed me that the man ran a lodging house especially for Pullman
porters, and, as their stays in town were not longer than one or two
nights, it would interfere with his arrangements to have anyone
stay longer. He went on to say: "You see this room is fixed up to
accommodate four men at a time. Well, by keeping a sort of table of
trips, in and out, of the men, and working them like checkers, he can
accommodate fifteen or sixteen in each week and generally avoid having
an empty bed. You happen to catch a bed that would have been empty
for a couple of nights." I asked him where he was going to sleep. He
answered: "I sleep in that other cot tonight; tomorrow night I go
out." He went on to tell me that the man who kept the house did
not serve meals, and that if I was hungry, we would go out and get
something to eat.
We went into the street, and in passing the railroad station I hired
a wagon to take my trunk to my lodging place. We passed along until,
finally, we turned into a street that stretched away, up and down
hill, for a mile or two; and here I caught my first sight of colored
people in large numbers. I had seen little squads around the railroad
stations on my way south, but here I saw a street crowded with them.
They filled the shops and thronged the, sidewalks and lined the curb.
I asked my companion if all the colored people in Atlanta lived in
this street. He said they did not and assured me that the ones I saw
were of the lower class. I felt relieved, in spite of the size of the
lower class. The unkempt appearance, the shambling, slouching gait
and loud talk and laughter of these people aroused in me a feeling
of almost repulsion. Only one thing about them awoke a feeling of
interest; that was their dialect. I had read some Negro dialect and
had heard snatches of it on my journey down from Washington; but here
I heard it in all of its fullness and freedom. I was particularly
struck by the way in which it was punctuated by such exclamatory
phrases as "Lawd a mussy!" "G'wan, man!" "Bless ma soul!" "Look heah,
chile!" These people talked and laughed without restraint. In fact,
they talked straight from their lungs and laughed from the pits of
their stomachs. And this hearty laughter was often justified by the
droll humor of some remark. I paused long enough to hear one man say
to another: "Wat's de mattah wid you an' yo' fr'en' Sam?" and the
other came back like a flash: "Ma fr'en'? He ma fr'en'? Man! I'd go to
his funeral jes' de same as I'd go to a minstrel show." I have since
learned that this ability to laugh heartily is, in part, the salvation
of the American Negro; it does much to keep him from going the way of
the Indian.
The business places of the street along which we were passing
consisted chiefly of low bars, cheap dry-goods and notion stores,
barber shops, and fish and bread restaurants. We, at length, turned
down a pair of stairs that led to a basement and I found myself in an
eating-house somewhat better than those I had seen in passing; but
that did not mean much for its excellence. The place was smoky, the
tables were covered with oilcloth, the floor with sawdust, and from
the kitchen came a rancid odor of fish fried over several times, which
almost nauseated me. I asked my companion if this was the place where
we were to eat. He informed me that it was the best place in town
where a colored man could get a meal. I then wanted to know why
somebody didn't open a place where respectable colored people who had
money could be accommodated. He answered: "It wouldn't pay; all
the respectable colored people eat at home, and the few who travel
generally have friends in the towns to which they go, who entertain
them." He added: "Of course, you could go in any place in the city;
they wouldn't know you from white."
I sat down with the porter at one of the tables, but was not hungry
enough to eat with any relish what was put before me. The food was not
badly cooked; but the iron knives and forks needed to be scrubbed, the
plates and dishes and glasses needed to be washed and well dried. I
minced over what I took on my plate while my companion ate. When we
finished, we paid the waiter twenty cents each and went out. We walked
around until the lights of the city were lit. Then the porter said
that he must get to bed and have some rest, as he had not had six
hours' sleep since he left Jersey City. I went back to our lodging
house with him.
When I awoke in the morning, there were, besides my new-found friend,
two other men in the room, asleep in the double bed. I got up and
dressed myself very quietly, so as not to awake anyone. I then drew
from under the pillow my precious roll of greenbacks, took out
a ten-dollar bill, and, very softly unlocking my trunk, put the
remainder, about three hundred dollars, in the inside pocket of a coat
near the bottom, glad of the opportunity to put it unobserved in a
place of safety. When I had carefully locked my trunk, I tiptoed
toward the door with the intention of going out to look for a decent
restaurant where I might get something fit to eat. As I was easing the
door open, my porter friend said with a yawn: "Hello! You're going
out?" I answered him: "Yes." "Oh!" he yawned again, "I guess I've had
enough sleep; wait a minute, I'll go with you." For the instant his
friendship bored and embarrassed me. I had visions of another meal
in the greasy restaurant of the day before. He must have divined my
thoughts, for he went on to say: "I know a woman across town who
takes a few boarders; I think we can go over there and get a good
breakfast." With a feeling of mingled fears and doubts regarding what
the breakfast might be, I waited until he had dressed himself.
When I saw the neat appearance of the cottage we entered, my fears
vanished, and when I saw the woman who kept it, my doubts followed the
same course. Scrupulously clean, in a spotless white apron and colored
head-handkerchief, her round face beaming with motherly kindness, she
was picturesquely beautiful. She impressed me as one broad expanse of
happiness and good nature. In a few minutes she was addressing me as
"chile" and "honey." She made me feel as though I should like to lay
my head on her capacious bosom and go to sleep.
And the breakfast, simple as it was, I could not have had at any
restaurant in Atlanta at any price. There was fried chicken, as it is
fried only in the South, hominy boiled to the consistency where it
could be eaten with a fork, and biscuits so light and flaky that a
fellow with any appetite at all would have no difficulty in disposing
of eight or ten. When I had finished, I felt that I had experienced
the realization of, at least, one of my dreams of Southern life.
During the meal we found out from our hostess, who had two boys in
school, that Atlanta University opened on that very day. I had somehow
mixed my dates. My friend the porter suggested that I go out to the
University at once and offered to walk over and show me the way. We
had to walk because, although the University was not more than
twenty minutes' distance from the center of the city, there were no
street-cars running in that direction. My first sight of the School
grounds made me feel that I was not far from home; here the red hills
had been terraced and covered with green grass; clean gravel walks,
well shaded, led up to the buildings; indeed, it was a bit of New
England transplanted. At the gate my companion said he would bid me
good-by, because it was likely that he would not see me again before
his car went out. He told me that he would make two more trips to
Atlanta and that he would come out and see me; that after his second
trip he would leave the Pullman service for the winter and return
to school in Nashville. We shook hands, I thanked him for all his
kindness, and we said good-by.
I walked up to a group of students and made some inquiries. They
directed me to the president's office in the main building. The
president gave me a cordial welcome; it was more than cordial; he
talked to me, not as the official head of a college, but as though he
were adopting me into what was his large family, personally to look
after my general welfare as well as my education. He seemed especially
pleased with the fact that I had come to them all the way from the
North. He told me that I could have come to the school as soon as I
had reached the city and that I had better move my trunk out at once.
I gladly promised him that I would do so. He then called a boy
and directed him to take me to the matron, and to show me around
afterwards. I found the matron even more motherly than the president
was fatherly. She had me register, which was in effect to sign a
pledge to abstain from the use of intoxicating beverages, tobacco, and
profane language while I was a student in the school. This act caused
me no sacrifice, as, up to that time, I was free from all three
habits. The boy who was with me then showed me about the grounds. I
was especially interested in the industrial building.
The sounding of a bell, he told me, was the signal for the students to
gather in the general assembly hall, and he asked me if I would go. Of
course I would. There were between three and four hundred students
and perhaps all of the teachers gathered in the room. I noticed
that several of the latter were colored. The president gave a talk
addressed principally to newcomers; but I scarcely heard what he said,
I was so much occupied in looking at those around me. They were of all
types and colors, the more intelligent types predominating. The colors
ranged from jet black to pure white, with light hair and eyes. Among
the girls especially there were many so fair that it was difficult to
believe that they had Negro blood in them. And, too, I could not help
noticing that many of the girls, particularly those of the delicate
brown shades, with black eyes and wavy dark hair, were decidedly
pretty. Among the boys many of the blackest were fine specimens of
young manhood, tall, straight, and muscular, with magnificent heads;
these were the kind of boys who developed into the patriarchal
"uncles" of the old slave regime.
When I left the University, it was with the determination to get my
trunk and move out to the school before night. I walked back across
the city with a light step and a light heart. I felt perfectly
satisfied with life for the first time since my mother's death. In
passing the railroad station I hired a wagon and rode with the driver
as far as my stopping-place. I settled with my landlord and went
upstairs to put away several articles I had left out. As soon as
I opened my trunk, a dart of suspicion shot through my heart; the
arrangement of things did not look familiar. I began to dig down
excitedly to the bottom till I reached the coat in which I had
concealed my treasure. My money was gone! Every single bill of it. I
knew it was useless to do so, but I searched through every other coat,
every pair of trousers, every vest, and even each pair of socks. When
I had finished my fruitless search, I sat down dazed and heartsick. I
called the landlord up and informed him of my loss; he comforted me by
saying that I ought to have better sense than to keep money in a trunk
and that he was not responsible for his lodgers' personal effects. His
cooling words brought me enough to my senses to cause me to look and
see if anything else was missing. Several small articles were gone,
among them a black and gray necktie of odd design upon which my heart
was set; almost as much as the loss of my money I felt the loss of my
tie.
After thinking for a while as best I could, I wisely decided to go at
once back to the University and lay my troubles before the president.
I rushed breathlessly back to the school. As I neared the grounds, the
thought came across me, would not my story sound fishy? Would it not
place me in the position of an impostor or beggar? What right had I to
worry these busy people with the results of my carelessness? If the
money could not be recovered, and I doubted that it could, what good
would it do to tell them about it? The shame and embarrassment which
the whole situation gave me caused me to stop at the gate. I paused,
undecided, for a moment; then, turned and slowly retraced my steps,
and so changed the whole course of my life.
If the reader has never been in a strange city without money or
friends, it is useless to try to describe what my feelings were; he
could not understand. If he has been, it is equally useless, for he
understands more than words could convey. When I reached my lodgings,
I found in the room one of the porters who had slept there the night
before. When he heard what misfortune had befallen me, he offered many
words of sympathy and advice. He asked me how much money I had left. I
told him that I had ten or twelve dollars in my pocket. He said: "That
won't last you very long here, and you will hardly be able to find
anything to do in Atlanta. I'll tell you what you do, go down to
Jacksonville and you won't have any trouble to get a job in one of the
big hotels there, or in St. Augustine." I thanked him, but intimated
my doubts of being able to get to Jacksonville on the money I had. He
reassured me by saying: "Oh, that's all right. You express your trunk
on through, and I'll take you down in my closet." I thanked him again,
not knowing then what it was to travel in a Pullman porter's closet.
He put me under a deeper debt of gratitude by lending me fifteen
dollars, which he said I could pay back after I had secured work. His
generosity brought tears to my eyes, and I concluded that, after all,
there were some kind hearts in the world.
I now forgot my troubles in the hurry and excitement of getting my
trunk off in time to catch the train, which went out at seven o'clock.
I even forgot that I hadn't eaten anything since morning. We got a
wagon--the porter went with me--and took my trunk to the express
office. My new friend then told me to come to the station at about a
quarter of seven and walk straight to the car where I should see him
standing, and not to lose my nerve. I found my role not so difficult
to play as I thought it would be, because the train did not leave from
the central station, but from a smaller one, where there were no gates
and guards to pass. I followed directions, and the porter took me on
his car and locked me in his closet. In a few minutes the train pulled
out for Jacksonville.
I may live to be a hundred years old, but I shall never forget the
agonies I suffered that night. I spent twelve hours doubled up in the
porter's basket for soiled linen, not being able to straighten up on
account of the shelves for clean linen just over my head. The air was
hot and suffocating and the smell of damp towels and used linen was
sickening. At each lurch of the car over the none-too-smooth track
I was bumped and bruised against the narrow walls of my narrow
compartment. I became acutely conscious of the fact that I had not
eaten for hours. Then nausea took possession of me, and at one time
I had grave doubts about reaching my destination alive. If I had the
trip to make again, I should prefer to walk.
V
The next morning I got out of the car at Jacksonville with a stiff
and aching body. I determined to ask no more porters, not even my
benefactor, about stopping-places; so I found myself on the street not
knowing where to go. I walked along listlessly until I met a colored
man who had the appearance of a preacher. I asked him if he could
direct me to a respectable boarding-house for colored people. He said
that if I walked along with him in the direction he was going, he
would show me such a place: I turned and walked at his side. He proved
to be a minister, and asked me a great many direct questions about
myself. I answered as many as I saw fit to answer; the others I evaded
or ignored. At length we stopped in front of a frame house, and my
guide informed me that it was the place. A woman was standing in the
doorway, and he called to her saying that he had brought her a new
boarder. I thanked him for his trouble, and after he had urged upon,
me to attend his church while I was in the city, he went on his way.
I went in and found the house neat and not uncomfortable. The parlor
was furnished with cane-bottomed chairs, each of which was adorned
with a white crocheted tidy. The mantel over the fireplace had a
white crocheted cover; a marble-topped center table held a lamp, a
photograph album and several trinkets, each of which was set upon a
white crocheted mat. There was a cottage organ in a corner of the
room, and I noted that the lamp-racks upon it were covered with
white crocheted mats. There was a matting on the floor, but a
white crocheted carpet would not have been out of keeping. I made
arrangements with the landlady for my board and lodging; the amount
was, I think, three dollars and a half a week. She was a rather
fine-looking, stout, brown-skin woman of about forty years of age. Her
husband was a light-colored Cuban, a man about one half her size, and
one whose age could not be guessed from his appearance. He was small
in size, but a handsome black mustache and typical Spanish eyes
redeemed him from insignificance.
I was in time for breakfast, and at the table I had the opportunity
to see my fellow boarders. There were eight or ten of them. Two, as
I afterwards learned, were colored Americans. All of them were cigar
makers and worked in one of the large factories--cigar making is one
trade in which the color line is not drawn. The conversation was
carried on entirely in Spanish, and my ignorance of the language
subjected me more to alarm than embarrassment. I had never heard such
uproarious conversation; everybody talked at once, loud exclamations,
rolling "_carambas_," menacing gesticulations with knives, forks, and
spoons. I looked every moment for the clash of blows. One man was
emphasizing his remarks by flourishing a cup in his hand, seemingly
forgetful of the fact that it was nearly full of hot coffee. He ended
by emptying it over what was, relatively, the only quiet man at the
table excepting myself, bringing from him a volley of language which
made the others appear dumb by comparison. I soon learned that in all
of this clatter of voices and table utensils they were discussing
purely ordinary affairs and arguing about mere trifles, and that not
the least ill feeling was aroused. It was not long before I enjoyed
the spirited chatter and _badinage_ at the table as much as I did my
meals--and the meals were not bad.
I spent the afternoon in looking around the town. The streets were
sandy, but were well-shaded by fine oak trees and far preferable to
the clay roads of Atlanta. One or two public squares with green grass
and trees gave the city a touch of freshness. That night after supper
I spoke to my landlady and her husband about my intentions. They told
me that the big winter hotels would not open within two months. It can
easily be imagined what effect this news had on me. I spoke to them
frankly about my financial condition and related the main fact of my
misfortune in Atlanta. I modestly mentioned my ability to teach music
and asked if there was any likelihood of my being able to get some
scholars. My landlady suggested that I speak to the preacher who had
shown me her house; she felt sure that through his influence I should
be able to get up a class in piano. She added, however, that the
colored people were poor, and that the general price for music lessons
was only twenty-five cents. I noticed that the thought of my teaching
white pupils did not even remotely enter her mind. None of this
information made my prospects look much brighter.
The husband, who up to this time had allowed the woman to do most of
the talking, gave me the first bit of tangible hope; he said that he
could get me a job as a "stripper" in the factory where he worked,
and that if I succeeded in getting some music pupils, I could teach
a couple of them every night, and so make a living until something
better turned up. He went on to say that it would not be a bad thing
for me to stay at the factory and learn my trade as a cigar maker, and
impressed on me that, for a young man knocking about the country, a
trade was a handy thing to have. I determined to accept his offer and
thanked him heartily. In fact, I became enthusiastic, not only because
I saw a way out of my financial troubles, but also because I was eager
and curious over the new experience I was about to enter. I wanted
to know all about the cigar making business. This narrowed the
conversation down to the husband and myself, so the wife went in and
left us talking.
He was what is called a _regalia_ workman, and earned from thirty-five
to forty dollars a week. He generally worked a sixty-dollar job; that
is, he made cigars for which he was paid at the rate of sixty dollars
per thousand. It was impossible for him to make a thousand in a week
because he had to work very carefully and slowly. Each cigar was made
entirely by hand. Each piece of filler and each wrapper had to be
selected with care. He was able to make a bundle of one hundred cigars
in a day, not one of which could be told from the others by any
difference in size or shape, or even by any appreciable difference in
weight. This was the acme of artistic skill in cigar making. Workmen
of this class were rare, never more than three or four in one factory,
and it was never necessary for them to remain out of work. There were
men who made two, three, and four hundred cigars of the cheaper grades
in a day; they had to be very fast in order to make a decent week's
wages. Cigar making was a rather independent trade; the men went to
work when they pleased and knocked off when they felt like doing so.
As a class the workmen were careless and improvident; some very rapid
makers would not work more than three or four days out of the week,
and there were others who never showed up at the factory on Mondays.
"Strippers" were the boys who pulled the long stems from the tobacco
leaves. After they had served at that work for a certain time they
were given tables as apprentices.
All of this was interesting to me; and we drifted along in
conversation until my companion struck the subject nearest his heart,
the independence of Cuba. He was an exile from the island, and a
prominent member of the Jacksonville Junta. Every week sums of money
were collected from juntas all over the country. This money went to
buy arms and ammunition for the insurgents. As the man sat there
nervously smoking his long, "green" cigar, and telling me of the
Gómezes, both the white one and the black one, of Macéo and Bandera,
he grew positively eloquent. He also showed that he was a man of
considerable education and reading. He spoke English excellently, and
frequently surprised me by using words one would hardly expect from
a foreigner. The first one of this class of words he employed almost
shocked me, and I never forgot it; 'twas "ramify." We sat on the
piazza until after ten o'clock. When we arose to go in to bed, it was
with the understanding that I should start in the factory on the next
day.
I began work the next morning seated at a barrel with another boy, who
showed me how to strip the stems from the leaves, to smooth out each
half leaf, and to put the "rights" together in one pile, and the
"lefts" together in another pile on the edge of the barrel. My
fingers, strong and sensitive from their long training, were well
adapted to this kind of work, and within two weeks I was accounted
the fastest "stripper" in the factory. At first the heavy odor of the
tobacco almost sickened me, but when I became accustomed to it, I
liked the smell. I was now earning four dollars a week, and was soon
able to pick up a couple more by teaching a few scholars at night,
whom I had secured through the good offices of the preacher I had met
on my first morning in Jacksonville.
At the end of about three months, through my skill as a "stripper" and
the influence of my landlord, I was advanced to a table and began to
learn my trade; in fact, more than my trade; for I learned not only
to make cigars, but also to smoke, to swear, and to speak Spanish. I
discovered that I had a talent for languages as well as for music.
The rapidity and ease with which I acquired Spanish astonished my
associates. In a short time I was able not only to understand most
of what was said at the table during meals, but to join in the
conversation. I bought a method for learning the Spanish language, and
with the aid of my landlord as a teacher, by constant practice with
my fellow workmen, and by regularly reading the Cuban newspapers and
finally some books of standard Spanish literature which were at the
house, I was able in less than a year to speak like a native. In fact,
it was my pride that I spoke better Spanish than many of the Cuban
workmen at the factory.
After I had been in the factory a little over a year, I was repaid for
all the effort I had put forth to learn Spanish by being selected as
"reader." The "reader" is quite an institution in all cigar factories
which employ Spanish-speaking workmen. He sits in the center of the
large room in which the cigar makers work and reads to them for a
certain number of hours each day all the important news from the
papers and whatever else he may consider would be interesting. He
often selects an exciting novel and reads it in daily installments. He
must, of course, have a good voice, but he must also have a reputation
among the men for intelligence, for being well-posted and having in
his head a stock of varied information. He is generally the final
authority on all arguments which arise, and in a cigar factory these
arguments are many and frequent, ranging from the respective and
relative merits of rival baseball clubs to the duration of the sun's
light and energy--cigar making is a trade in which talk does not
interfere with work. My position as "reader" not only released me from
the rather monotonous work of rolling cigars, and gave me something
more in accord with my tastes, but also added considerably to my
income. I was now earning about twenty-five dollars a week, and was
able to give up my peripatetic method of giving music lessons. I hired
a piano and taught only those who could arrange to take their lessons
where I lived. I finally gave up teaching entirely, as what I made
scarcely paid for my time and trouble. I kept the piano, however, in
order to keep up my own studies, and occasionally I played at some
church concert or other charitable entertainment.
Through my music teaching and my not absolutely irregular attendance
at church, I became acquainted with the best class of colored people
in Jacksonville. This was really my entrance into the race. It was my
initiation into what I have termed the freemasonry of the race. I had
formulated a theory of what it was to be colored; now I was getting
the practice. The novelty of my position caused me to observe and
consider things which, I think, entirely escaped the young men I
associated with; or, at least, were so commonplace to them as not to
attract their attention. And of many of the impressions which came
to me then I have realized the full import only within the past few
years, since I have had a broader knowledge of men and history, and
a fuller comprehension of the tremendous struggle which is going on
between the races in the South.
It is a struggle; for though the black man fights passively, he
nevertheless fights; and his passive resistance is more effective at
present than active resistance could possibly be. He bears the fury of
the storm as does the willow tree.
It is a struggle; for though the white man of the South may be too
proud to admit it, he is, nevertheless, using in the contest his best
energies; he is devoting to it the greater part of his thought and
much of his endeavor. The South today stands panting and almost
breathless from its exertions.
And how the scene of the struggle has shifted! The battle was first
waged over the right of the Negro to be classed as a human being with
a soul; later, as to whether he had sufficient intellect to master
even the rudiments of learning; and today it is being fought out over
his social recognition.
I said somewhere in the early part of this narrative that because the
colored man looked at everything through the prism of his relationship
to society as a _colored_ man, and because most of his mental efforts
ran through the narrow channel bounded by his rights and his wrongs,
it was to be wondered at that he has progressed so broadly as he has.
The same thing may be said of the white man of the South; most of his
mental efforts run through one narrow channel; his life as a man and
a citizen, many of his financial activities, and all of his political
activities are impassably limited by the ever present "Negro
question." I am sure it would be safe to wager that no group of
Southern white men could get together and talk for sixty minutes
without bringing up the "race question." If a Northern white man
happened to be in the group, the time could be safely cut to thirty
minutes. In this respect I consider the conditions of the whites more
to be deplored than that of the blacks. Here, a truly great people, a
people that produced a majority of the great historic Americans from
Washington to Lincoln, now forced to use up its energies in a conflict
as lamentable as it is violent.
I shall give the observations I made in Jacksonville as seen through
the light of after years; and they apply generally to every Southern
community. The colored people may be said to be roughly divided into
three classes, not so much in respect to themselves as in respect to
their relations with the whites. There are those constituting what
might be called the desperate class--the men who work in the lumber
and turpentine camps, the ex-convicts, the bar-room loafers are all in
this class. These men conform to the requirements of civilization much
as a trained lion with low muttered growls goes through his stunts
under the crack of the trainer's whip. They cherish a sullen hatred
for all white men, and they value life as cheap. I have heard more
than one of them say: "I'll go to hell for the first white man that
bothers me." Many who have expressed that sentiment have kept their
word, and it is that fact which gives such prominence to this class;
for in numbers it is only a small proportion of the colored people,
but it often dominates public opinion concerning the whole race.
Happily, this class represents the black people of the South far below
their normal physical and moral condition, but in its increase lies
the possibility of grave dangers. I am sure there is no more urgent
work before the white South, not only for its present happiness, but
for its future safety, than the decreasing of this class of blacks.
And it is not at all a hopeless class; for these men are but the
creatures of conditions, as much so as the slum and criminal elements
of all the great cities of the world are creatures of conditions.
Decreasing their number by shooting and burning them off will not be
successful; for these men are truly desperate, and thoughts of death,
however terrible, have little effect in deterring them from acts the
result of hatred or degeneracy. This class of blacks hate everything
covered by a white skin, and in return they are loathed by the whites.
The whites regard them just about as a man would a vicious mule, a
thing to be worked, driven, and beaten, and killed for kicking.
The second class, as regards the relation between blacks and whites,
comprises the servants, the washerwomen, the waiters, the cooks,
the coachmen, and all who are connected with the whites by domestic
service. These may be generally characterized as simple, kind-hearted,
and faithful; not over-fine in their moral deductions, but intensely
religious, and relatively--such matters can be judged only
relatively--about as honest and wholesome in their lives as any other
grade of society. Any white person is "good" who treats them kindly,
and they love him for that kindness. In return, the white people with
whom they have to do regard them with indulgent affection. They come
into close daily contact with the whites, and may be called the
connecting link between whites and blacks; in fact, it is through them
that the whites know the rest of their colored neighbors. Between this
class of the blacks and the whites there is little or no friction.
The third class is composed of the independent workmen and tradesmen,
and of the well-to-do and educated colored people; and, strange to
say, for a directly opposite reason they are as far removed from the
whites as the members of the first class I mentioned. These people
live in a little world of their own; in fact, I concluded that if a
colored man wanted to separate himself from his white neighbors, he
had but to acquire some money, education, and culture, and to live in
accordance. For example, the proudest and fairest lady in the South
could with propriety--and it is what she would most likely do--go to
the cabin of Aunt Mary, her cook, if Aunt Mary was sick, and minister
to her comfort with her own hands; but if Mary's daughter, Eliza, a
girl who used to run round my lady's kitchen, but who has received an
education and married a prosperous young colored man, were at death's
door, my lady would no more think of crossing the threshold of Eliza's
cottage than she would of going into a bar-room for a drink.
I was walking down the street one day with a young man who was born in
Jacksonville, but had been away to prepare himself for a professional
life. We passed a young white man, and my companion said to me: "You
see that young man? We grew up together; we have played, hunted, and
fished together; we have even eaten and slept together; and now since
I have come back home, he barely speaks to me." The fact that the
whites of the South despise and ill-treat the desperate class of
blacks is not only explainable according to the ancient laws of human
nature, but it is not nearly so serious or important as the fact that
as the progressive colored people advance, they constantly widen the
gulf between themselves and their white neighbors. I think that the
white people somehow feel that colored people who have education and
money, who wear good clothes and live in comfortable houses, are
"putting on airs," that they do these things for the sole purpose of
"spiting the white folks," or are, at best, going through a sort
of monkey-like imitation. Of course, such feelings can only cause
irritation or breed disgust. It seems that the whites have not yet
been able to realize and understand that these people in striving to
better their physical and social surroundings in accordance with their
financial and intellectual progress are simply obeying an impulse
which is common to human nature the world over. I am in grave doubt as
to whether the greater part of the friction in the South is caused by
the whites' having a natural antipathy to Negroes as a race, or an
acquired antipathy to Negroes in certain relations to themselves.
However that may be, there is to my mind no more pathetic side of this
many-sided question than the isolated position into which are forced
the very colored people who most need and who could best appreciate
sympathetic cooperation; and their position grows tragic when the
effort is made to couple them, whether or no, with the Negroes of the
first class I mentioned.
This latter class of colored people are well-disposed towards the
whites, and always willing to meet them more than halfway. They,
however, feel keenly any injustice or gross discrimination, and
generally show their resentment. The effort is sometimes made to
convey the impression that the better class of colored people fight
against riding in "Jim Crow" cars because they want to ride with white
people or object to being with humbler members of their own race. The
truth is they object to the humiliation of being forced to ride in
a _particular_ car, aside from the fact that that car is distinctly
inferior, and that they are required to pay full first-class fare. To
say that the whites are forced to ride in the superior car is less
than a joke. And, too, odd as it may sound, refined colored people get
no more pleasure out of riding with offensive Negroes than anybody
else would get.
I can realize more fully than I could years ago that the position of
the advanced element of the colored race is often very trying. They
are the ones among the blacks who carry the entire weight of the race
question; it worries the others very little, and I believe the only
thing which at times sustains them is that they know that they are in
the right. On the other hand, this class of colored people get a good
deal of pleasure out of life; their existence is far from being one
long groan about their condition. Out of a chaos of ignorance and
poverty they have evolved a social life of which they need not be
ashamed. In cities where the professional and well-to-do class is
large they have formed society--society as discriminating as the
actual conditions will allow it to be; I should say, perhaps, society
possessing discriminating tendencies which become rules as fast
as actual conditions allow. This statement will, I know, sound
preposterous, even ridiculous, to some persons; but as this class of
colored people is the least known of the race it is not surprising.
These social circles are connected throughout the country, and a
person in good standing in one city is readily accepted in another.
One who is on the outside will often find it a difficult matter to
get in. I know personally of one case in which money to the extent of
thirty or forty thousand dollars and a fine house, not backed up by
a good reputation, after several years of repeated effort, failed
to gain entry for the possessor. These people have their dances
and dinners and card parties, their musicals, and their literary
societies. The women attend social affairs dressed in good taste, and
the men in dress suits which they own; and the reader will make a
mistake to confound these entertainments with the "Bellman's Balls"
and "Whitewashers' Picnics" and "Lime-kiln Clubs" with which the
humorous press of the country illustrates "Cullud Sassiety."
Jacksonville, when I was there, was a small town, and the number of
educated and well-to-do colored people was small; so this society
phase of life did not equal what I have since seen in Boston,
Washington, Richmond, and Nashville; and it is upon what I have more
recently seen in these cities that I have made the observations just
above. However, there were many comfortable and pleasant homes in
Jacksonville to which I was often invited. I belonged to the literary
society--at which we generally discussed the race question--and
attended all of the church festivals and other charitable
entertainments. In this way I passed three years which were not at all
the least enjoyable of my life. In fact, my joy took such an exuberant
turn that I fell in love with a young school teacher and began to have
dreams of matrimonial bliss; but another turn in the course of my life
brought these dreams to an end.
I do not wish to mislead my readers into thinking that I led a life
in Jacksonville which would make copy for the hero of a Sunday-school
library book. I was a hail fellow well met with all of the workmen
at the factory, most of whom knew little and cared less about social
distinctions. From their example I learned to be careless about money,
and for that reason I constantly postponed and finally abandoned
returning to Atlanta University. It seemed impossible for me to save
as much as two hundred dollars. Several of the men at the factory were
my intimate friends, and I frequently joined them in their pleasures.
During the summer months we went almost every Monday on an excursion
to a seaside resort called Pablo Beach. These excursions were always
crowded. There was a dancing pavilion, a great deal of drinking, and
generally a fight or two to add to the excitement. I also contracted
the cigar maker's habit of riding around in a hack on Sunday
afternoons. I sometimes went with my cigar maker friends to public
balls that were given at a large hall on one of the main streets. I
learned to take a drink occasionally and paid for quite a number that
my friends took; but strong liquors never appealed to my appetite. I
drank them only when the company I was in required it, and suffered
for it afterwards. On the whole, though I was a bit wild, I can't
remember that I ever did anything disgraceful, or, as the usual
standard for young men goes, anything to forfeit my claim to
respectability.
At one of the first public balls I attended I saw the Pullman car
porter who had so kindly assisted me in getting to Jacksonville. I
went immediately to one of my factory friends and borrowed fifteen
dollars with which to repay the loan my benefactor had made me. After
I had given him the money, and was thanking him, I noticed that he
wore what was, at least, an exact duplicate of my lamented black and
gray tie. It was somewhat worn, but distinct enough for me to trace
the same odd design which had first attracted my eye. This was enough
to arouse my strongest suspicions, but whether it was sufficient for
the law to take cognizance of I did not consider. My astonishment and
the ironical humor of the situation drove everything else out of my
mind.
These balls were attended by a great variety of people. They were
generally given by the waiters of some one of the big hotels, and were
often patronized by a number of hotel guests who came to "see the
sights." The crowd was always noisy, but good-natured; there was much
quadrille-dancing, and a strong-lunged man called figures in a voice
which did not confine itself to the limits of the hall. It is not
worth the while for me to describe in detail how these people acted;
they conducted themselves in about the same manner as I have seen
other people at similar balls conduct themselves. When one has seen
something of the world and human nature, one must conclude, after all,
that between people in like stations of life there is very little
difference the world over.
However, it was at one of these balls that I first saw the cake-walk.
There was a contest for a gold watch, to be awarded to the hotel
head-waiter receiving the greatest number of votes. There was some
dancing while the votes were being counted. Then the floor was cleared
for the cake-walk. A half-dozen guests from some of the hotels took
seats on the stage to act as judges, and twelve or fourteen couples
began to walk for a sure enough, highly decorated cake, which was in
plain evidence. The spectators crowded about the space reserved for
the contestants and watched them with interest and excitement. The
couples did not walk round in a circle, but in a square, with the men
on the inside. The fine points to be considered were the bearing of
the men, the precision with which they turned the corners, the grace
of the women, and the ease with which they swung around the pivots.
The men walked with stately and soldierly step, and the women with
considerable grace. The judges arrived at their decision by a process
of elimination. The music and the walk continued for some minutes;
then both were stopped while the judges conferred; when the walk began
again, several couples were left out. In this way the contest was
finally narrowed down to three or four couples. Then the excitement
became intense; there was much partisan cheering as one couple or
another would execute a turn in extra elegant style. When the cake
was finally awarded, the spectators were about evenly divided between
those who cheered the winners and those who muttered about the
unfairness of the judges. This was the cake-walk in its original
form, and it is what the colored performers on the theatrical stage
developed into the prancing movements now known all over the world,
and which some Parisian critics pronounced the acme of poetic motion.
There are a great many colored people who are ashamed of the
cake-walk, but I think they ought to be proud of it. It is my opinion
that the colored people of this country have done four things which
refute the oft-advanced theory that they are an absolutely inferior
race, which demonstrate that they have originality and artistic
conception, and, what is more, the power of creating that which can
influence and appeal universally. The first two of these are the Uncle
Remus stories, collected by Joel Chandler Harris, and the Jubilee
songs, to which the Fisk singers made the public and the skilled
musicians of both America and Europe listen. The other two are ragtime
music and the cake-walk. No one who has traveled can question the
world-conquering influence of ragtime, and I do not think it would be
an exaggeration to say that in Europe the United States is popularly
known better by ragtime than by anything else it has produced in a
generation. In Paris they call it American music. The newspapers have
already told how the practice of intricate cake-walk steps has taken
up the time of European royalty and nobility. These are lower forms of
art, but they give evidence of a power that will some day be applied
to the higher forms. In this measure, at least, and aside from the
number of prominent individuals the colored people of the United
States have produced, the race has been a world influence; and all of
the Indians between Alaska and Patagonia haven't done as much.
Just when I was beginning to look upon Jacksonville as my permanent
home and was beginning to plan about marrying the young school
teacher, raising a family, and working in a cigar factory the rest of
my life, for some reason, which I do not now remember, the factory at
which I worked was indefinitely shut down. Some of the men got work
in other factories in town; some decided to go to Key West and Tampa,
others made up their minds to go to New York for work. All at once a
desire like a fever seized me to see the North again and I cast my lot
with those bound for New York.