IX

I did not feel at ease until the ship was well out of New York harbor;

and, notwithstanding the repeated reassurances of my millionaire

friend and my own knowledge of the facts in the case, I somehow

could not rid myself of the sentiment that I was, in a great degree,

responsible for the "widow's" tragic end. We had brought most of the

morning papers aboard with us, but my great fear of seeing my name in

connection with the killing would not permit me to read the accounts,

although, in one of the papers, I did look at the picture of the

victim, which did not in the least resemble her. This morbid state of

mind, together with sea-sickness, kept me miserable for three or four

days. At the end of that time my spirits began to revive, and I took

an interest in the ship, my fellow passengers, and the voyage in

general. On the second or third day out we passed several spouting

whales, but I could not arouse myself to make the effort to go to the

other side of the ship to see them. A little later we ran in close

proximity to a large iceberg. I was curious enough to get up and look

at it, and I was fully repaid for my pains. The sun was shining full

upon it, and it glistened like a mammoth diamond, cut with a million

facets. As we passed, it constantly changed its shape; at each

different angle of vision it assumed new and astonishing forms of

beauty. I watched it through a pair of glasses, seeking to verify

my early conception of an iceberg--in the geographies of my grammar

school days the pictures of icebergs always included a stranded polar

bear, standing desolately upon one of the snowy crags. I looked

for the bear, but if he was there, he refused to put himself on

exhibition.

It was not, however, until the morning that we entered the harbor of

Havre that I was able to shake off my gloom. Then the strange sights,

the chatter in an unfamiliar tongue, and the excitement of landing

and passing the customs officials caused me to forget completely the

events of a few days before. Indeed, I grew so lighthearted that when

I caught my first sight of the train which was to take us to Paris,

I enjoyed a hearty laugh. The toy-looking engine, the stuffy little

compartment cars, with tiny, old-fashioned wheels, struck me as being

extremely funny. But before we reached Paris my respect for our train

rose considerably. I found that the "tiny" engine made remarkably fast

time, and that the old-fashioned wheels ran very smoothly. I even

began to appreciate the "stuffy" cars for their privacy. As I watched

the passing scenery from the car window, it seemed too beautiful to be

real. The bright-colored houses against the green background impressed

me as the work of some idealistic painter. Before we arrived in Paris,

there was awakened in my heart a love for France which continued to

grow stronger, a love which to-day makes that country for me the one

above all others to be desired.

We rolled into the station Saint Lazare about four o'clock in

the afternoon and drove immediately to the Hôtel Continental. My

benefactor, humoring my curiosity and enthusiasm, which seemed to

please him very much, suggested that we take a short walk before

dinner. We stepped out of the hotel and turned to the right into the

rue de Rivoli. When the vista of the Place de la Concorde and the

Champs Élysées suddenly burst on me, I could hardly credit my own

eyes. I shall attempt no such supererogatory task as a description

of Paris. I wish only to give briefly the impressions which that

wonderful city made upon me. It impressed me as the perfect and

perfectly beautiful city; and even after I had been there for some

time, and seen not only its avenues and palaces, but its most squalid

alleys and hovels, this impression was not weakened. Paris became for

me a charmed spot, and whenever I have returned there, I have fallen

under the spell, a spell which compels admiration for all of its

manners and customs and justification of even its follies and sins.

We walked a short distance up the Champs Élysées and sat for a while

in chairs along the sidewalk, watching the passing crowds on foot and

in carriages. It was with reluctance that I went back to the hotel for

dinner. After dinner we went to one of the summer theatres, and after

the performance my friend took me to a large café on one of the Grands

Boulevards. Here it was that I had my first glimpse of the French life

of popular literature, so different from real French life. There were

several hundred people, men and women, in the place drinking, smoking,

talking, and listening to the music. My millionaire friend and I took

seats at a table, where we sat smoking and watching the crowd. It

was not long before we were joined by two or three good-looking,

well-dressed young women. My friend talked to them in French and

bought drinks for the whole party. I tried to recall my high-school

French, but the effort availed me little. I could stammer out a few

phrases, but, very naturally, could not understand a word that was

said to me. We stayed at the café a couple of hours, then went back to

the hotel. The next day we spent several hours in the shops and at

the tailor's. I had no clothes except what I had been able to gather

together at my benefactor's apartments the night before we sailed. He

bought me the same kind of clothes which he himself wore, and that

was the best; and he treated me in every way as he dressed me, as an

equal, not as a servant. In fact, I don't think anyone could have

guessed that such a relation existed. My duties were light and few,

and he was a man full of life and vigor, who rather enjoyed doing

things for himself. He kept me supplied with money far beyond what

ordinary wages would have amounted to. For the first two weeks we were

together almost constantly, seeing the sights, sights old to him, but

from which he seemed to get new pleasure in showing them to me. During

the day we took in the places of interest, and at night the theatres

and cafés. This sort of life appealed to me as ideal, and I asked him

one day how long he intended to stay in Paris. He answered: "Oh, until

I get tired of it." I could not understand how that could ever happen.

As it was, including several short trips to the Mediterranean, to

Spain, to Brussels, and to Ostend, we did remain there fourteen or

fifteen months. We stayed at the Hôtel Continental about two months

of this time. Then my millionaire took apartments, hired a piano, and

lived almost the same life he lived in New York. He entertained a

great deal, some of the parties being a good deal more blasé than the

New York ones. I played for the guests at all of them with an effect

which to relate would be but a tiresome repetition to the reader. I

played not only for the guests, but continued, as I used to do in New

York, to play often for the host when he was alone. This man of the

world, who grew weary of everything and was always searching for

something new, appeared never to grow tired of my music; he seemed

to take it as a drug. He fell into a habit which caused me no little

annoyance; sometimes he would come in during the early hours of the

morning and, finding me in bed asleep, would wake me up and ask me to

play something. This, so far as I can remember, was my only hardship

during my whole stay with him in Europe.

After the first few weeks spent in sight-seeing I had a great deal of

time left to myself; my friend was often I did not know where. When

not with him, I spent the day nosing about all the curious nooks and

corners of Paris; of this I never grew tired. At night I usually went

to some theatre, but always ended up at the big café on the Grands

Boulevards. I wish the reader to know that it was not alone the gaiety

which drew me there; aside from that I had a laudable purpose. I had

purchased an English-French conversational dictionary, and I went

there every night to take a language lesson. I used to get three or

four of the young women who frequented the place at a table and buy

beer and cigarettes for them. In return I received my lesson. I got

more than my money's worth, for they actually compelled me to speak

the language. This, together with reading the papers every day,

enabled me within a few months to express myself fairly well, and,

before I left Paris, to have more than an ordinary command of French.

Of course, every person who goes to Paris could not dare to learn

French in this manner, but I can think of no easier or quicker way of

doing it. The acquiring of another foreign language awoke me to the

fact that with a little effort I could secure an added accomplishment

as fine and as valuable as music; so I determined to make myself as

much of a linguist as possible. I bought a Spanish newspaper every

day in order to freshen my memory of that language, and, for French,

devised what was, so far as I knew, an original system of study. I

compiled a list which I termed "Three hundred necessary words." These

I thoroughly committed to memory, also the conjugation of the verbs

which were included in the list. I studied these words over and over,

much as children of a couple of generations ago studied the alphabet.

I also practiced a set of phrases like the following: "How?" "What did

you say?" "What does the word ---- mean?" "I understand all you say

except ----." "Please repeat." "What do you call ----?" "How do you

say ----?" These I called my working sentences. In an astonishingly

short time I reached the point where the language taught itself--where

I learned to speak merely by speaking. This point is the place which

students taught foreign languages in our schools and colleges find

great difficulty in reaching. I think the main trouble is that

they learn too much of a language at a time. A French child with a

vocabulary of two hundred words can express more spoken ideas than

a student of French can with a knowledge of two thousand. A small

vocabulary, the smaller the better, which embraces the common,

everyday-used ideas, thoroughly mastered, is the key to a language.

When that much is acquired the vocabulary can be increased simply by

talking. And it is easy. Who cannot commit three hundred words to

memory? Later I tried my method, if I may so term it, with German, and

found that it worked in the same way.

I spent a good many evenings at the Opéra. The music there made me

strangely reminiscent of my life in Connecticut; it was an atmosphere

in which I caught a fresh breath of my boyhood days and early youth.

Generally, in the morning after I had attended a performance, I would

sit at the piano and for a couple of hours play the music which I used

to play in my mother's little parlor.

One night I went to hear _Faust_. I got into my seat just as the

lights went down for the first act. At the end of the act I noticed

that my neighbor on the left was a young girl. I cannot describe her

either as to feature, or color of her hair, or of her eyes; she was so

young, so fair, so ethereal, that I felt to stare at her would be a

violation; yet I was distinctly conscious of her beauty. During the

intermission she spoke English in a low voice to a gentleman and a

lady who sat in the seats to her left, addressing them as father and

mother. I held my program as though studying it, but listened to catch

every sound of her voice. Her observations on the performance and the

audience were so fresh and naïve as to be almost amusing. I gathered

that she was just out of school, and that this was her first trip to

Paris. I occasionally stole a glance at her, and each time I did so my

heart leaped into my throat. Once I glanced beyond to the gentleman

who sat next to her. My glance immediately turned into a stare. Yes,

there he was, unmistakably, my father! looking hardly a day older than

when I had seen him some ten years before. What a strange coincidence!

What should I say to him? What would he say to me? Before I had

recovered from my first surprise, there came another shock in the

realization that the beautiful, tender girl at my side was my sister.

Then all the springs of affection in my heart, stopped since my

mother's death, burst out in fresh and terrible torrents, and I could

have fallen at her feet and worshiped her. They were singing the

second act, but I did not hear the music. Slowly the desolate

loneliness of my position became clear to me. I knew that I could not

speak, but I would have given a part of my life to touch her hand with

mine and call her "sister." I sat through the opera until I could

stand it no longer. I felt that I was suffocating. Valentine's love

seemed like mockery, and I felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to

rise up and scream to the audience: "Here, here in your very midst, is

a tragedy, a real tragedy!" This impulse grew so strong that I became

afraid of myself, and in the darkness of one of the scenes I stumbled

out of the theatre. I walked aimlessly about for an hour or so, my

feelings divided between a desire to weep and a desire to curse. I

finally took a cab and went from café to café, and for one of the very

few times in my life drank myself into a stupor.

It was unwelcome news for me when my benefactor--I could not think of

him as employer--informed me that he was at last tired of Paris. This

news gave me, I think, a passing doubt as to his sanity. I had enjoyed

life in Paris, and, taking all things into consideration, enjoyed it

wholesomely. One thing which greatly contributed to my enjoyment was

the fact that I was an American. Americans are immensely popular in

Paris; and this is not due solely to the fact that they spend lots of

money there, for they spend just as much or more in London, and in

the latter city they are merely tolerated because they do spend. The

Londoner seems to think that Americans are people whose only claim to

be classed as civilized is that they have money, and the regrettable

thing about that is that the money is not English. But the French

are more logical and freer from prejudices than the British; so the

difference of attitude is easily explained. Only once in Paris did I

have cause to blush for my American citizenship. I had become quite

friendly with a young man from Luxemburg whom I had met at the big

café. He was a stolid, slow-witted fellow, but, as we say, with a

heart of gold. He and I grew attached to each other and were together

frequently. He was a great admirer of the United States and never grew

tired of talking to me about the country and asking for information.

It was his intention to try his fortune there some day. One night

he asked me in a tone of voice which indicated that he expected an

authoritative denial of an ugly rumor: "Did they really burn a man

alive in the United States?" I never knew what I stammered out to him

as an answer. I should have felt relieved if I could even have said to

him: "Well, only one."

When we arrived in London, my sadness at leaving Paris was turned into

despair. After my long stay in the French capital, huge, ponderous,

massive London seemed to me as ugly a thing as man could contrive to

make. I thought of Paris as a beauty spot on the face of the earth,

and of London as a big freckle. But soon London's massiveness, I might

say its very ugliness, began to impress me. I began to experience that

sense of grandeur which one feels when he looks at a great mountain or

a mighty river. Beside London Paris becomes a toy, a pretty plaything.

And I must own that before I left the world's metropolis I discovered

much there that was beautiful. The beauty in and about London is

entirely different from that in and about Paris; and I could not but

admit that the beauty of the French city seemed hand-made, artificial,

as though set up for the photographer's camera, everything nicely

adjusted so as not to spoil the picture; while that of the English

city was rugged, natural, and fresh.

How these two cities typify the two peoples who built them! Even the

sound of their names expresses a certain racial difference. Paris is

the concrete expression of the gaiety, regard for symmetry, love of

art, and, I might well add, of the morality of the French

people. London stands for the conservatism, the solidarity, the

utilitarianism, and, I might well add, the hypocrisy of the

Anglo-Saxon. It may sound odd to speak of the morality of the French,

if not of the hypocrisy of the English; but this seeming paradox

impresses me as a deep truth. I saw many things in Paris which were

immoral according to English standards, but the absence of hypocrisy,

the absence of the spirit to do the thing if it might only be done in

secret, robbed these very immoralities of the damning influence of the

same evils in London. I have walked along the terrace cafés of Paris

and seen hundreds of men and women sipping their wine and beer,

without observing a sign of drunkenness. As they drank, they chatted

and laughed and watched the passing crowds; the drinking seemed to be

a secondary thing. This I have witnessed, not only in the cafés along

the Grands Boulevards, but in the out-of-the-way places patronized by

the working classes. In London I have seen in the "pubs" men and women

crowded in stuffy little compartments, drinking seemingly only for the

pleasure of swallowing as much as they could hold. I have seen there

women from eighteen to eighty, some in tatters, and some clutching

babes in their arms, drinking the heavy English ales and whiskies

served to them by women. In the whole scene, not one ray of

brightness, not one flash of gaiety, only maudlin joviality or grim

despair. And I have thought, if some men and women will drink--and it

is certain that some will--is it not better that they do so under the

open sky, in the fresh air, than huddled together in some close, smoky

room? There is a sort of frankness about the evils of Paris which robs

them of much of the seductiveness of things forbidden, and with that

frankness goes a certain cleanliness of thought belonging to things

not hidden. London will do whatever Paris does, provided exterior

morals are not shocked. As a result, Paris has the appearance only of

being the more immoral city. The difference may be summed up in this:

Paris practices its sins as lightly as it does its religion, while

London practices both very seriously.

I should not neglect to mention what impressed me most forcibly during

my stay in London. It was not St. Paul's nor the British Museum nor

Westminster Abbey. It was nothing more or less than the simple phrase

"Thank you," or sometimes more elaborated, "Thank you very kindly,

sir." I was continually surprised by the varied uses to which it was

put; and, strange to say, its use as an expression of politeness

seemed more limited than any other. One night I was in a cheap

music hall and accidentally bumped into a waiter who was carrying a

tray-load of beer, almost bringing him to several shillings' worth of

grief. To my amazement he righted himself and said: "Thank ye, sir,"

and left me wondering whether he meant that he thanked me for not

completely spilling his beer, or that he would thank me for keeping

out of his way.

I also found cause to wonder upon what ground the English accuse

Americans of corrupting the language by introducing slang words. I

think I heard more and more different kinds of slang during my few

weeks' stay in London than in my whole "tenderloin" life in New York.

But I suppose the English feel that the language is theirs, and that

they may do with it as they please without at the same time allowing

that privilege to others.

My millionaire was not so long in growing tired of London as of Paris.

After a stay of six or eight weeks we went across into Holland.

Amsterdam was a great surprise to me. I had always thought of Venice

as the city of canals; it had never entered my mind that I should find

similar conditions in a Dutch town. I don't suppose the comparison

goes far beyond the fact that there are canals in both cities--I

have never seen Venice--but Amsterdam struck me as being extremely

picturesque. From Holland we went to Germany, where we spent five or

six months, most of the time in Berlin. I found Berlin more to my

taste than London, and occasionally I had to admit that in some things

it was superior to Paris.

In Berlin I especially enjoyed the orchestral concerts, and I attended

a large number of them. I formed the acquaintance of a good many

musicians, several of whom spoke of my playing in high terms. It was

in Berlin that my inspiration was renewed.

One night my millionaire entertained a party of men composed of

artists, musicians, writers, and, for aught I know, a count or

two. They drank and smoked a great deal, talked art and music, and

discussed, it seemed to me, everything that ever entered man's mind.

I could only follow the general drift of what they were saying. When

they discussed music, it was more interesting to me; for then some

fellow would run excitedly to the piano and give a demonstration of

his opinions, and another would follow quickly, doing the same. In

this way, I learned that, regardless of what his specialty might

be, every man in the party was a musician. I was at the same time

impressed with the falsity of the general idea that Frenchmen are

excitable and emotional, and that Germans are calm and phlegmatic.

Frenchmen are merely gay and never overwhelmed by their emotions. When

they talk loud and fast, it is merely talk, while Germans get worked

up and red in the face when sustaining an opinion, and in heated

discussions are likely to allow their emotions to sweep them off their

feet.

My millionaire planned, in the midst of the discussion on music, to

have me play the "new American music" and astonish everybody present.

The result was that I was more astonished than anyone else. I went to

the piano and played the most intricate ragtime piece I knew. Before

there was time for anybody to express an opinion on what I had done, a

big bespectacled, bushy-headed man rushed over, and, shoving me out

of the chair, exclaimed: "Get up! Get up!" He seated himself at the

piano, and, taking the theme of my ragtime, played it through first

in straight chords; then varied and developed it through every known

musical form. I sat amazed. I had been turning classic music into

ragtime, a comparatively easy task; and this man had taken ragtime and

made it classic. The thought came across me like a flash--It can be

done, why can't I do it? From that moment my mind was made up. I

clearly saw the way of carrying out the ambition I had formed when a

boy.

I now lost interest in our trip. I thought: "Here I am a man, no

longer a boy, and what am I doing but wasting my time and abusing my

talent? What use am I making of my gifts? What future have I before me

following my present course?" These thoughts made me feel remorseful

and put me in a fever to get to work, to begin to do something. Of

course I know now that I was not wasting time; that there was nothing

I could have done at that age which would have benefited me more than

going to Europe as I did. The desire to begin work grew stronger each

day. I could think of nothing else. I made up my mind to go back into

the very heart of the South, to live among the people, and drink in my

inspiration firsthand. I gloated over the immense amount of material

I had to work with, not only modern ragtime, but also the old slave

songs--material which no one had yet touched.

The more decided and anxious I became to return to the United States,

the more I dreaded the ordeal of breaking with my millionaire. Between

this peculiar man and me there had grown a very strong bond of

affection, backed up by a debt which each owed to the other. He had

taken me from a terrible life in New York and, by giving me the

opportunity of traveling and of coming in contact with the people with

whom he associated, had made me a polished man of the world. On the

other hand, I was his chief means of disposing of the thing which

seemed to sum up all in life that he dreaded--time. As I remember him

now, I can see that time was what he was always endeavoring to escape,

to bridge over, to blot out; and it is not strange that some years

later he did escape it forever, by leaping into eternity.

For some weeks I waited for just the right moment in which to tell my

patron of my decision. Those weeks were a trying time to me. I felt

that I was playing the part of a traitor to my best friend. At length,

one day he said to me: "Well, get ready for a long trip; we are going

to Egypt, and then to Japan." The temptation was for an instant almost

overwhelming, but I summoned determination enough to say: "I don't

think I want to go." "What!" he exclaimed, "you want to go back to

your dear Paris? You still think that the only spot on earth? Wait

until you see Cairo and Tokyo, you may change your mind." "No," I

stammered, "it is not because I want to go back to Paris. I want to go

back to the United States." He wished to know my reason, and I told

him, as best I could, my dreams, my ambition, and my decision. While

I was talking, he watched me with a curious, almost cynical, smile

growing on his lips. When I had finished he put his hand on my

shoulder--this was the first physical expression of tender regard he

had ever shown me--and looking at me in a big-brotherly way, said: "My

boy, you are by blood, by appearance, by education, and by tastes a

white man. Now, why do you want to throw your life away amidst the

poverty and ignorance, in the hopeless struggle, of the black people

of the United States? Then look at the terrible handicap you are

placing on yourself by going home and working as a Negro composer;

you can never be able to get the hearing for your work which it might

deserve. I doubt that even a white musician of recognized ability

could succeed there by working on the theory that American music

should be based on Negro themes. Music is a universal art; anybody's

music belongs to everybody; you can't limit it to race or country.

Now, if you want to become a composer, why not stay right here in

Europe? I will put you under the best teachers on the Continent. Then

if you want to write music on Negro themes, why, go ahead and do it."

We talked for some time on music and the race question. On the latter

subject I had never before heard him express any opinion. Between him

and me no suggestion of racial differences had ever come up. I found

that he was a man entirely free from prejudice, but he recognized

that prejudice was a big stubborn entity which had to be taken into

account. He went on to say: "This idea you have of making a Negro out

of yourself is nothing more than a sentiment; and you do not realize

the fearful import of what you intend to do. What kind of a Negro

would you make now, especially in the South? If you had remained

there, or perhaps even in your club in New York, you might have

succeeded very well; but now you would be miserable. I can imagine no

more dissatisfied human being than an educated, cultured, and refined

colored man in the United States. I have given more study to the race

question in the United States than you may suppose, and I sympathize

with the Negroes there; but what's the use? I can't right their

wrongs, and neither can you; they must do that themselves. They are

unfortunate in having wrongs to right, and you would be foolish to

take their wrongs unnecessarily on your shoulders. Perhaps some day,

through study and observation, you will come to see that evil is

a force, and, like the physical and chemical forces, we cannot

annihilate it; we may only change its form. We light upon one evil and

hit it with all the might of our civilization, but only succeed in

scattering it into a dozen other forms. We hit slavery through a great

civil war. Did we destroy it? No, we only changed it into hatred

between sections of the country: in the South, into political

corruption and chicanery, the degradation of the blacks through

peonage, unjust laws, unfair and cruel treatment; and the degradation

of the whites by their resorting to these practices, the paralyzation

of the public conscience, and the ever over-hanging dread of what the

future may bring. Modern civilization hit ignorance of the masses

through the means of popular education. What has it done but turn

ignorance into anarchy, socialism, strikes, hatred between poor and

rich, and universal discontent? In like manner, modern philanthropy

hit at suffering and disease through asylums and hospitals; it

prolongs the sufferers' lives, it is true, but is, at the same time,

sending down strains of insanity and weakness into future generations.

My philosophy of life is this: make yourself as happy as possible, and

try to make those happy whose lives come in touch with yours; but to

attempt to right the wrongs and ease the sufferings of the world in

general is a waste of effort. You had just as well try to bail the

Atlantic by pouring the water into the Pacific."

This tremendous flow of serious talk from a man I was accustomed to

see either gay or taciturn so surprised and overwhelmed me that I

could not frame a reply. He left me thinking over what he had said.

Whatever was the soundness of his logic or the moral tone of his

philosophy, his argument greatly impressed me. I could see, in spite

of the absolute selfishness upon which it was based, that there was

reason and common sense in it. I began to analyze my own motives, and

found that they, too, were very largely mixed with selfishness. Was it

more a desire to help those I considered my people, or more a desire

to distinguish myself, which was leading me back to the United States?

That is a question I have never definitely answered.

For several weeks longer I was in a troubled state of mind. Added to

the fact that I was loath to leave my good friend was the weight of

the question he had aroused in my mind, whether I was not making a

fatal mistake. I suffered more than one sleepless night during that

time. Finally, I settled the question on purely selfish grounds, in

accordance with my millionaire's philosophy. I argued that music

offered me a better future than anything else I had any knowledge of,

and, in opposition to my friend's opinion, that I should have greater

chances of attracting attention as a colored composer than as a white

one. But I must own that I also felt stirred by an unselfish desire

to voice all the joys and sorrows, the hopes and ambitions, of the

American Negro, in classic musical form.

When my mind was fully made up, I told my friend. He asked me when I

intended to start. I replied that I would do so at once. He then asked

me how much money I had. I told him that I had saved several hundred

dollars out of sums he had given me. He gave me a check for five

hundred dollars, told me to write to him in care of his Paris bankers

if I ever needed his help, wished me good luck, and bade me good-by.

All this he did almost coldly; and I often wondered whether he was in

a hurry to get rid of what he considered a fool, or whether he was

striving to hide deeper feelings.

And so I separated from the man who was, all in all, the best friend I

ever had, except my mother, the man who exerted the greatest influence

ever brought into my life, except that exerted by my mother. My

affection for him was so strong, my recollections of him are so

distinct, he was such a peculiar and striking character, that I could

easily fill several chapters with reminiscences of him; but for fear

of tiring the reader I shall go on with my narration.

I decided to go to Liverpool and take ship for Boston. I still had an

uneasy feeling about returning to New York; and in a few days I found

myself aboard ship headed for home.

X

Among the first of my fellow-passengers of whom I took any particular

notice was a tall, broad-shouldered, almost gigantic, colored man.

His dark-brown face was clean-shaven; he was well-dressed and bore a

decidedly distinguished air. In fact, if he was not handsome, he at

least compelled admiration for his fine physical proportions. He

attracted general attention as he strode the deck in a sort of

majestic loneliness. I became curious to know who he was and

determined to strike up an acquaintance with him at the first

opportune moment. The chance came a day or two later. He was sitting

in the smoking-room, with a cigar, which had gone out, in his mouth,

reading a novel. I sat down beside him and, offering him a fresh

cigar, said: "You don't mind my telling you something unpleasant, do

you?" He looked at me with a smile, accepted the proffered cigar,

and replied in a voice which comported perfectly with his size and

appearance: "I think my curiosity overcomes any objections I might

have." "Well," I said, "have you noticed that the man who sat at your

right in the saloon during the first meal has not sat there since?" He

frowned slightly without answering my question. "Well," I continued,

"he asked the steward to remove him; and not only that, he attempted

to persuade a number of the passengers to protest against your

presence in the dining-saloon." The big man at my side took a long

draw from his cigar, threw his head back, and slowly blew a great

cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. Then turning to me he said: "Do you

know, I don't object to anyone's having prejudices so long as those

prejudices don't interfere with my personal liberty. Now, the man you

are speaking of had a perfect right to change his seat if I in any way

interfered with his appetite or his digestion. I should have no reason

to complain if he removed to the farthest corner of the saloon, or

even if he got off the ship; but when his prejudice attempts to move

_me_ one foot, one inch, out of the place where I am comfortably

located, then I object." On the word "object" he brought his great

fist down on the table in front of us with such a crash that

everyone in the room turned to look. We both covered up the slight

embarrassment with a laugh and strolled out on the deck.

We walked the deck for an hour or more, discussing different phases

of the Negro question. In referring to the race I used the personal

pronoun "we"; my companion made no comment about it, nor evinced any

surprise, except to raise his eyebrows slightly the first time he

caught the significance of the word. He was the broadest-minded

colored man I have ever talked with on the Negro question. He even

went so far as to sympathize with and offer excuses for some white

Southern points of view. I asked him what were his main reasons for

being so hopeful. He replied: "In spite of all that is written, said,

and done, this great, big, incontrovertible fact stands out--the Negro

is progressing, and that disproves all the arguments in the world

that he is incapable of progress. I was born in slavery, and at

emancipation was set adrift a ragged, penniless bit of humanity. I

have seen the Negro in every grade, and I know what I am talking

about. Our detractors point to the increase of crime as evidence

against us; certainly we have progressed in crime as in other things;

what less could be expected? And yet, in this respect, we are far from

the point which has been reached by the more highly civilized white

race. As we continue to progress, crime among us will gradually lose

much of its brutal, vulgar, I might say healthy, aspect, and become

more delicate, refined, and subtle. Then it will be less shocking and

noticeable, although more dangerous to society." Then dropping his

tone of irony, he continued with some show of eloquence: "But, above

all, when I am discouraged and disheartened, I have this to fall back

on: if there is a principle of right in the world, which finally

prevails, and I believe that there is; if there is a merciful but

justice-loving God in heaven, and I believe that there is, we shall

win; for we have right on our side, while those who oppose us can

defend themselves by nothing in the moral law, nor even by anything in

the enlightened thought of the present age."

For several days, together with other topics, we discussed the race

problem, not only of the United States, but as it affected native

Africans and Jews. Finally, before we reached Boston, our conversation

had grown familiar and personal. I had told him something of my past

and much about my intentions for the future. I learned that he was a

physician, a graduate of Howard University, Washington, and had done

post-graduate work in Philadelphia; and this was his second trip

abroad to attend professional courses. He had practiced for some years

in the city of Washington, and though he did not say so, I gathered

that his practice was a lucrative one. Before we left the ship, he

had made me promise that I would stop two or three days in Washington

before going on south.

We put up at a hotel in Boston for a couple of days and visited

several of my new friend's acquaintances; they were all people of

education and culture and, apparently, of means. I could not help

being struck by the great difference between them and the same class

of colored people in the South. In speech and thought they were

genuine Yankees. The difference was especially noticeable in their

speech. There was none of that heavy-tongued enunciation which

characterizes even the best-educated colored people of the South. It

is remarkable, after all, what an adaptable creature the Negro is.

I have seen the black West Indian gentleman in London, and he is in

speech and manners a perfect Englishman. I have seen natives of Haiti

and Martinique in Paris, and they are more Frenchy than a Frenchman.

I have no doubt that the Negro would make a good Chinaman, with

exception of the pigtail.

My stay in Washington, instead of being two or three days, was two or

three weeks. This was my first visit to the national capital, and

I was, of course, interested in seeing the public buildings and

something of the working of the government; but most of my time I

spent with the doctor among his friends and acquaintances. The social

phase of life among colored people is more developed in Washington

than in any other city in the country. This is on account of the large

number of individuals earning good salaries and having a reasonable

amount of leisure time to draw from. There are dozens of physicians

and lawyers, scores of school teachers, and hundreds of clerks in the

departments. As to the colored department clerks, I think it fair to

say that in educational equipment they average above the white clerks

of the same grade; for, whereas a colored college graduate will seek

such a job, the white university man goes into one of the many higher

vocations which are open to him.

In a previous chapter I spoke of social life among colored people; so

there is no need to take it up again here. But there is one thing

I did not mention: among Negroes themselves there is the peculiar

inconsistency of a color question. Its existence is rarely admitted

and hardly ever mentioned; it may not be too strong a statement to say

that the greater portion of the race is unconscious of its influence;

yet this influence, though silent, is constant. It is evidenced most

plainly in marriage selection; thus the black men generally marry

women fairer than themselves; while, on the other hand, the dark

women of stronger mental endowment are very often married to

light-complexioned men; the effect is a tendency toward lighter

complexions, especially among the more active elements in the race.

Some might claim that this is a tacit admission of colored people

among themselves of their own inferiority judged by the color line. I

do not think so. What I have termed an inconsistency is, after all,

most natural; it is, in fact, a tendency in accordance with what might

be called an economic necessity. So far as racial differences go, the

United States puts a greater premium on color, or, better, lack of

color, than upon anything else in the world. To paraphrase, "Have a

white skin, and all things else may be added unto you." I have seen

advertisements in newspapers for waiters, bell-boys, or elevator men,

which read: "Light-colored man wanted." It is this tremendous pressure

which the sentiment of the country exerts that is operating on the

race. There is involved not only the question of higher opportunity,

but often the question of earning a livelihood; and so I say it is not

strange, but a natural tendency. Nor is it any more a sacrifice of

self-respect that a black man should give to his children every

advantage he can which complexion of the skin carries than that the

new or vulgar rich should purchase for their children the advantages

which ancestry, aristocracy, and social position carry. I once heard a

colored man sum it up in these words: "It's no disgrace to be black,

but it's often very inconvenient."

Washington shows the Negro not only at his best, but also at his

worst. As I drove around with the doctor, he commented rather harshly

on those of the latter class which we saw. He remarked: "You see those

lazy, loafing, good-for-nothing darkies; they're not worth digging

graves for; yet they are the ones who create impressions of the race

for the casual observer. It's because they are always in evidence on

the street corners, while the rest of us are hard at work, and

you know a dozen loafing darkies make a bigger crowd and a worse

impression in this country than fifty white men of the same class. But

they ought not to represent the race. We are the race, and the race

ought to be judged by us, not by them. Every race and every nation

should be judged by the best it has been able to produce, not by the

worst."

The recollection of my stay in Washington is a pleasure to me now.

In company with the doctor I visited Howard University, the public

schools, the excellent colored hospital, with which he was in some

way connected, if I remember correctly, and many comfortable and even

elegant homes. It was with some reluctance that I continued my journey

south. The doctor was very kind in giving me letters to people in

Richmond and Nashville when I told him that I intended to stop in

both of these cities. In Richmond a man who was then editing a very

creditable colored newspaper gave me a great deal of his time and made

my stay there of three or four days very pleasant. In Nashville

I spent a whole day at Fisk University, the home of the "Jubilee

Singers," and was more than repaid for my time. Among my letters of

introduction was one to a very prosperous physician. He drove me about

the city and introduced me to a number of people. From Nashville I

went to Atlanta, where I stayed long enough to gratify an old desire

to see Atlanta University again. I then continued my journey to Macon.

During the trip from Nashville to Atlanta I went into the

smoking-compartment of the car to smoke a cigar. I was traveling in a

Pullman, not because of an abundance of funds, but because through my

experience with my millionaire a certain amount of comfort and luxury

had become a necessity to me whenever it was obtainable. When I

entered the car, I found only a couple of men there; but in a

half-hour there were half a dozen or more. From the general

conversation I learned that a fat Jewish-looking man was a cigar

manufacturer, and was experimenting in growing Havana tobacco in

Florida; that a slender bespectacled young man was from Ohio and

a professor in some State institution in Alabama; that a

white-mustached, well-dressed man was an old Union soldier who had

fought through the Civil War; and that a tall, raw-boned, red-faced

man, who seemed bent on leaving nobody in ignorance of the fact that

he was from Texas, was a cotton planter.

In the North men may ride together for hours in a "smoker" and unless

they are acquainted with each other never exchange a word; in the

South men thrown together in such manner are friends in fifteen

minutes. There is always present a warm-hearted cordiality which will

melt down the most frigid reserve. It may be because Southerners are

very much like Frenchmen in that they must talk; and not only must

they talk, but they must express their opinions.

The talk in the car was for a while miscellaneous--on the weather,

crops, business prospects; the old Union soldier had invested capital

in Atlanta, and he predicted that that city would soon be one of the

greatest in the country. Finally the conversation drifted to politics;

then, as a natural sequence, turned upon the Negro question.

In the discussion of the race question the diplomacy of the Jew was

something to be admired; he had the faculty of agreeing with everybody

without losing his allegiance to any side. He knew that to sanction

Negro oppression would be to sanction Jewish oppression and would

expose him to a shot along that line from the old soldier, who stood

firmly on the ground of equal rights and opportunity to all men; long

traditions and business instincts told him when in Rome to act as a

Roman. Altogether his position was a delicate one, and I gave him

credit for the skill he displayed in maintaining it. The young

professor was apologetic. He had had the same views as the G.A.R. man;

but a year in the South had opened his eyes, and he had to confess

that the problem could hardly be handled any better than it was being

handled by the Southern whites. To which the G.A.R. man responded

somewhat rudely that he had spent ten times as many years in the South

as his young friend and that he could easily understand how holding a

position in a State institution in Alabama would bring about a change

of views. The professor turned very red and had very little more to

say. The Texan was fierce, eloquent, and profane in his argument, and,

in a lower sense, there was a direct logic in what he said, which was

convincing; it was only by taking higher ground, by dealing in what

Southerners call "theories," that he could be combated. Occasionally

some one of the several other men in the "smoker" would throw in a

remark to reinforce what he said, but he really didn't need any help;

he was sufficient in himself.

In the course of a short time the controversy narrowed itself down

to an argument between the old soldier and the Texan. The latter

maintained hotly that the Civil War was a criminal mistake on the part

of the North and that the humiliation which the South suffered during

Reconstruction could never be forgotten. The Union man retorted just

as hotly that the South was responsible for the war and that the

spirit of unforgetfulness on its part was the greatest cause of

present friction; that it seemed to be the one great aim of the South

to convince the North that the latter made a mistake in fighting to

preserve the Union and liberate the slaves. "Can you imagine," he went

on to say, "what would have been the condition of things eventually if

there had been no war, and the South had been allowed to follow its

course? Instead of one great, prosperous country with nothing before

it but the conquests of peace, a score of petty republics, as in

Central and South America, wasting their energies in war with each

other or in revolutions."

"Well," replied the Texan, "anything--no country at all--is better

than having niggers over you. But anyhow, the war was fought and the

niggers were freed; for it's no use beating around the bush, the

niggers, and not the Union, was the cause of it; and now do you

believe that all the niggers on earth are worth the good white blood

that was spilt? You freed the nigger and you gave him the ballot, but

you couldn't make a citizen out of him. He don't know what he's voting

for, and we buy 'em like so many hogs. You're giving 'em education,

but that only makes slick rascals out of 'em."

"Don't fancy for a moment," said the Northern man, "that you have any

monopoly in buying ignorant votes. The same thing is done on a larger

scale in New York and Boston, and in Chicago and San Francisco; and

they are not black votes either. As to education's making the Negro

worse, you might just as well tell me that religion does the same

thing. And, by the way, how many educated colored men do you know

personally?"

The Texan admitted that he knew only one, and added that he was in

the penitentiary. "But," he said, "do you mean to claim, ballot or

no ballot, education or no education, that niggers are the equals of

white men?"

"That's not the question," answered the other, "but if the Negro is so

distinctly inferior, it is a strange thing to me that it takes such

tremendous effort on the part of the white man to make him realize it,

and to keep him in the same place into which inferior men naturally

fall. However, let us grant for sake of argument that the Negro is

inferior in every respect to the white man; that fact only increases

our moral responsibility in regard to our actions toward him.

Inequalities of numbers, wealth, and power, even of intelligence and

morals, should make no difference in the essential rights of men."

"If he's inferior and weaker, and is shoved to the wall, that's his

own look-out," said the Texan. "That's the law of nature; and he's

bound to go to the wall; for no race in the world has ever been able

to stand competition with the Anglo-Saxon. The Anglo-Saxon race has

always been and always will be the masters of the world, and the

niggers in the South ain't going to change all the records of

history."

"My friend," said the old soldier slowly, "if you have studied

history, will you tell me, as confidentially between white men, what

the Anglo-Saxon has ever done?"

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

reply.

His opponent continued: "Can you name a single one of the great

fundamental and original intellectual achievements which have

raised man in the scale of civilization that may be credited to the

Anglo-Saxon? The art of letters, of poetry, of music, of sculpture, of

painting, of the drama, of architecture; the science of mathematics,

of astronomy, of philosophy, of logic, of physics, of chemistry, the

use of the metals, and the principles of mechanics, were all invented

or discovered by darker and what we now call inferior races and

nations. We have carried many of these to their highest point of

perfection, but the foundation was laid by others. Do you know the

only original contribution to civilization we can claim is what we

have done in steam and electricity and in making implements of war

more deadly? And there we worked largely on principles which we did

not discover. Why, we didn't even originate the religion we use. We

are a great race, the greatest in the world today, but we ought to

remember that we are standing on a pile of past races, and enjoy our

position with a little less show of arrogance. We are simply having

our turn at the game, and we were a long time getting to it. After

all, racial supremacy is merely a matter of dates in history. The man

here who belongs to what is, all in all, the greatest race the world

ever produced, is almost ashamed to own it. If the Anglo-Saxon is

the source of everything good and great in the human race from

the beginning, why wasn't the German forest the birthplace of

civilization, rather than the valley of the Nile?"

The Texan was somewhat disconcerted, for the argument had passed a

little beyond his limits, but he swung it back to where he was sure of

his ground by saying: "All that may be true, but it hasn't got much to

do with us and the niggers here in the South. We've got 'em here,

and we've got 'em to live with, and it's a question of white man or

nigger, no middle ground. You want us to treat niggers as equals. Do

you want to see 'em sitting around in our parlors? Do you want to see

a mulatto South? To bring it right home to you, would you let your

daughter marry a nigger?"

"No, I wouldn't consent to my daughter's marrying a nigger, but that

doesn't prevent my treating a black man fairly. And I don't see what

fair treatment has to do with niggers sitting around in your parlors;

they can't come there unless they're invited. Out of all the white men

I know, only a hundred or so have the privilege of sitting around in

my parlor. As to the mulatto South, if you Southerners have one boast

that is stronger than another, it is your women; you put them on a

pinnacle of purity and virtue and bow down in a chivalric worship

before them; yet you talk and act as though, should you treat the

Negro fairly and take the anti-inter-marriage laws off your statute

books, these same women would rush into the arms of black lovers and

husbands. It's a wonder to me that they don't rise up and resent the

insult."

"Colonel," said the Texan, as he reached into his handbag and brought

out a large flask of whisky, "you might argue from now until hell

freezes over, and you might convince me that you're right, but you'll

never convince me that I'm wrong. All you say sounds very good, but

it's got nothing to do with facts. You can say what men ought to be,

but they ain't that; so there you are. Down here in the South we're up

against facts, and we're meeting 'em like facts. We don't believe the

nigger is or ever will be the equal of the white man, and we ain't

going to treat him as an equal; I'll be damned if we will. Have a

drink." Everybody except the professor partook of the generous Texan's

flask, and the argument closed in a general laugh and good feeling.

I went back into the main part of the car with the conversation on my

mind. Here I had before me the bald, raw, naked aspects of the race

question in the South; and, in consideration of the step I was just

taking, it was far from encouraging. The sentiments of the Texan--and

he expressed the sentiments of the South--fell upon me like a chill. I

was sick at heart. Yet I must confess that underneath it all I felt a

certain sort of admiration for the man who could not be swayed from

what he held as his principles. Contrasted with him, the young Ohio

professor was indeed a pitiable character. And all along, in spite of

myself, I have been compelled to accord the same kind of admiration to

the Southern white man for the manner in which he defends not only his

virtues, but his vices. He knows that, judged by a high standard, he

is narrow and prejudiced, that he is guilty of unfairness, oppression,

and cruelty, but this he defends as stoutly as he would his better

qualities. This same spirit obtains in a great degree among the

blacks; they, too, defend their faults and failings. This they

generally do whenever white people are concerned. And yet among

themselves they are their own most merciless critics. I have never

heard the race so terribly arraigned as I have by colored speakers to

strictly colored audiences. It is the spirit of the South to defend

everything belonging to it. The North is too cosmopolitan and tolerant

for such a spirit. If you should say to an Easterner that Paris is a

gayer city than New York, he would be likely to agree with you, or

at least to let you have your own way; but to suggest to a South

Carolinian that Boston is a nicer city to live in than Charleston

would be to stir his greatest depths of argument and eloquence.

But to-day, as I think over that smoking-car argument, I can see it

in a different light. The Texan's position does not render things

so hopeless, for it indicates that the main difficulty of the race

question does not lie so much in the actual condition of the blacks as

it does in the mental attitude of the whites; and a mental attitude,

especially one not based on truth, can be changed more easily than

actual conditions. That is to say, the burden of the question is not

that the whites are struggling to save ten million despondent and

moribund people from sinking into a hopeless slough of ignorance,

poverty, and barbarity in their very midst, but that they are

unwilling to open certain doors of opportunity and to accord certain

treatment to ten million aspiring, education-and-property-acquiring

people. In a word, the difficulty of the problem is not so much due to

the facts presented as to the hypothesis assumed for its solution. In

this it is similar to the problem of the solar system. By a complex,

confusing, and almost contradictory mathematical process, by the use

of zigzags instead of straight lines, the earth can be proved to be

the center of things celestial; but by an operation so simple that it

can be comprehended by a schoolboy, its position can be verified

among the other worlds which revolve about the sun, and its movements

harmonized with the laws of the universe. So, when the white race

assumes as a hypothesis that it is the main object of creation and

that all things else are merely subsidiary to its well-being,

sophism, subterfuge, perversion of conscience, arrogance, injustice,

oppression, cruelty, sacrifice of human blood, all are required to

maintain the position, and its dealings with other races become

indeed a problem, a problem which, if based on a hypothesis of common

humanity, could be solved by the simple rules of justice.

When I reached Macon, I decided to leave my trunk and all my surplus

belongings, to pack my bag, and strike out into the interior. This

I did; and by train, by mule and ox-cart, I traveled through many

counties. This was my first real experience among rural colored

people, and all that I saw was interesting to me; but there was a

great deal which does not require description at my hands; for log

cabins and plantations and dialect-speaking "darkies" are perhaps

better known in American literature than any other single picture of

our national life. Indeed, they form an ideal and exclusive literary

concept of the American Negro to such an extent that it is almost

impossible to get the reading public to recognize him in any other

setting; so I shall endeavor to avoid giving the reader any already

overworked and hackneyed descriptions. This generally accepted

literary ideal of the American Negro constitutes what is really an

obstacle in the way of the thoughtful and progressive element of

the race. His character has been established as a happy-go-lucky,

laughing, shuffling, banjo-picking being, and the reading public has

not yet been prevailed upon to take him seriously. His efforts

to elevate himself socially are looked upon as a sort of absurd

caricature of "white civilization." A novel dealing with colored

people who lived in respectable homes and amidst a fair degree of

culture and who naturally acted "just like white folks" would be taken

in a comic-opera sense. In this respect the Negro is much in the

position of a great comedian who gives up the lighter roles to play

tragedy. No matter how well he may portray the deeper passions,

the public is loath to give him up in his old character; they even

conspire to make him a failure in serious work, in order to force him

back into comedy. In the same respect, the public is not too much

to be blamed, for great comedians are far more scarce than mediocre

tragedians; every amateur actor is a tragedian. However, this very

fact constitutes the opportunity of the future Negro novelist and poet

to give the country something new and unknown, in depicting the life,

the ambitions, the struggles, and the passions of those of their race

who are striving to break the narrow limits of traditions. A beginning

has already been made in that remarkable book by Dr. Du Bois, _The

Souls of Black Folk_.

Much, too, that I saw while on this trip, in spite of my enthusiasm,

was disheartening. Often I thought of what my millionaire had said to

me, and wished myself back in Europe. The houses in which I had to

stay were generally uncomfortable, sometimes worse. I often had to

sleep in a division or compartment with several other people. Once or

twice I was not so fortunate as to find divisions; everybody slept

on pallets on the floor. Frequently I was able to lie down and

contemplate the stars which were in their zenith. The food was at

times so distasteful and poorly cooked that I could not eat it. I

remember that once I lived for a week or more on buttermilk, on

account of not being able to stomach the fat bacon, the rank

turnip-tops, and the heavy damp mixture of meal, salt, and water which

was called corn bread. It was only my ambition to do the work which I

had planned that kept me steadfast to my purpose. Occasionally I would

meet with some signs of progress and uplift in even one of these

back-wood settlements--houses built of boards, with windows, and

divided into rooms; decent food, and a fair standard of living. This

condition was due to the fact that there was in the community some

exceptionally capable Negro farmer whose thrift served as an example.

As I went about among these dull, simple people--the great majority

of them hard working, in their relations with the whites submissive,

faithful, and often affectionate, negatively content with their

lot--and contrasted them with those of the race who had been quickened

by the forces of thought, I could not but appreciate the logic of the

position held by those Southern leaders who have been bold enough to

proclaim against the education of the Negro. They are consistent in

their public speech with Southern sentiment and desires. Those public

men of the South who have not been daring or heedless enough to

defy the ideals of twentieth-century civilization and of modern

humanitarianism and philanthropy, find themselves in the embarrassing

situation of preaching one thing and praying for another. They are in

the position of the fashionable woman who is compelled by the laws of

polite society to say to her dearest enemy: "How happy I am to see

you!"

And yet in this respect how perplexing is Southern character; for, in

opposition to the above, it may be said that the claim of the Southern

whites that they love the Negro better than the Northern whites do is

in a manner true. Northern white people love the Negro in a sort of

abstract way, as a race; through a sense of justice, charity, and

philanthropy, they will liberally assist in his elevation. A number of

them have heroically spent their lives in this effort (and just here I

wish to say that when the colored people reach the monument-building

stage, they should not forget the men and women who went South after

the war and founded schools for them). Yet, generally speaking, they

have no particular liking for individuals of the race. Southern white

people despise the Negro as a race, and will do nothing to aid in his

elevation as such; but for certain individuals they have a strong

affection, and are helpful to them in many ways. With these individual

members of the race they live on terms of the greatest intimacy; they

entrust to them their children, their family treasures, and their

family secrets; in trouble they often go to them for comfort

and counsel; in sickness they often rely upon their care. This

affectionate relation between the Southern whites and those blacks

who come into close touch with them has not been overdrawn even in

fiction.

This perplexity of Southern character extends even to the intermixture

of the races. That is spoken of as though it were dreaded worse than

smallpox, leprosy, or the plague. Yet, when I was in Jacksonville, I

knew several prominent families there with large colored branches,

which went by the same name and were known and acknowledged as blood

relatives. And what is more, there seemed to exist between these

black brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts a decidedly friendly

feeling.

I said above that Southern whites would do nothing for the Negro as

a race. I know the South claims that it has spent millions for

the education of the blacks, and that it has of its own free will

shouldered this awful burden. It seems to be forgetful of the fact

that these millions have been taken from the public tax funds for

education, and that the law of political economy which recognizes the

land owner as the one who really pays the taxes is not tenable. It

would be just as reasonable for the relatively few land owners of

Manhattan to complain that they had to stand the financial burden of

the education of the thousands and thousands of children whose parents

pay rent for tenements and flats. Let the millions of producing and

consuming Negroes be taken out of the South, and it would be quickly

seen how much less of public funds there would be to appropriate for

education or any other purpose.

In thus traveling about through the country I was sometimes amused

on arriving at some little railroad-station town to be taken for and

treated as a white man, and six hours later, when it was learned that

I was stopping at the house of the colored preacher or school teacher,

to note the attitude of the whole town change. At times this led even

to embarrassment. Yet it cannot be so embarrassing for a colored man

to be taken for white as for a white man to be taken for colored; and

I have heard of several cases of the latter kind.

All this while I was gathering material for work, jotting down in my

note-book themes and melodies, and trying to catch the spirit of the

Negro in his relatively primitive state. I began to feel the necessity

of hurrying so that I might get back to some city like Nashville to

begin my compositions and at the same time earn at least a living

by teaching and performing before my funds gave out. At the last

settlement in which I stopped I found a mine of material. This was due

to the fact that "big meeting" was in progress. "Big meeting" is an

institution something like camp-meeting, the difference being that it

is held in a permanent church, and not in a temporary structure. All

the churches of some one denomination--of course, either Methodist or

Baptist--in a county, or, perhaps, in several adjoining counties, are

closed, and the congregations unite at some centrally located church

for a series of meetings lasting a week. It is really a social as well

as a religious function. The people come in great numbers, making the

trip, according to their financial status, in buggies drawn by sleek,

fleet-footed mules, in ox-carts, or on foot. It was amusing to see

some of the latter class trudging down the hot and dusty road, with

their shoes, which were brand-new, strung across their shoulders. When

they got near the church, they sat on the side of the road and, with

many grimaces, tenderly packed their feet into those instruments of

torture. This furnished, indeed, a trying test of their religion. The

famous preachers come from near and far and take turns in warning

sinners of the day of wrath. Food, in the form of those two Southern

luxuries, fried chicken and roast pork, is plentiful, and no one need

go hungry. On the opening Sunday the women are immaculate in starched

stiff white dresses adorned with ribbons, either red or blue. Even a

great many of the men wear streamers of vari-colored ribbons in the

buttonholes of their coats. A few of them carefully cultivate a

forelock of hair by wrapping it in twine, and on such festive

occasions decorate it with a narrow ribbon streamer. Big meetings

afford a fine opportunity to the younger people to meet each other

dressed in their Sunday clothes, and much rustic courting, which is as

enjoyable as any other kind, is indulged in.

This big meeting which I was lucky enough to catch was particularly

well attended; the extra large attendance was due principally to two

attractions, a man by the name of John Brown, who was renowned as the

most powerful preacher for miles around; and a wonderful leader of

singing, who was known as "Singing Johnson." These two men were a

study and a revelation to me. They caused me to reflect upon how great

an influence their types have been in the development of the Negro

in America. Both these types are now looked upon generally with

condescension or contempt by the progressive element among the colored

people; but it should never be forgotten that it was they who led the

race from paganism and kept it steadfast to Christianity through all

the long, dark years of slavery.

John Brown was a jet-black man of medium size, with a strikingly

intelligent head and face, and a voice like an organ peal. He preached

each night after several lesser lights had successively held the

pulpit during an hour or so. As far as subject-matter is concerned,

all of the sermons were alike: each began with the fall of man, ran

through various trials and tribulations of the Hebrew children, on

to the redemption by Christ, and ended with a fervid picture of the

judgment day and the fate of the damned. But John Brown possessed

magnetism and an imagination so free and daring that he was able to

carry through what the other preachers would not attempt. He knew all

the arts and tricks of oratory, the modulation of the voice to almost

a whisper, the pause for effect, the rise through light, rapid-fire

sentences to the terrific, thundering outburst of an electrifying

climax. In addition, he had the intuition of a born theatrical

manager. Night after night this man held me fascinated. He convinced

me that, after all, eloquence consists more in the manner of saying

than in what is said. It is largely a matter of tone pictures.

The most striking example of John Brown's magnetism and imagination

was his "heavenly march"; I shall never forget how it impressed

me when I heard it. He opened his sermon in the usual way; then,

proclaiming to his listeners that he was going to take them on the

heavenly march, he seized the Bible under his arm and began to pace up

and down the pulpit platform. The congregation immediately began with

their feet a tramp, tramp, tramp, in time with the preacher's march

in the pulpit, all the while singing in an undertone a hymn about

marching to Zion. Suddenly he cried: "Halt!" Every foot stopped with

the precision of a company of well-drilled soldiers, and the singing

ceased. The morning star had been reached. Here the preacher described

the beauties of that celestial body. Then the march, the tramp, tramp,

tramp, and the singing were again taken up. Another "Halt!" They

had reached the evening star. And so on, past the sun and moon--the

intensity of religious emotion all the time increasing--along the

milky way, on up to the gates of heaven. Here the halt was longer,

and the preacher described at length the gates and walls of the New

Jerusalem. Then he took his hearers through the pearly gates, along

the golden streets, pointing out the glories of the city, pausing

occasionally to greet some patriarchal members of the church,

well-known to most of his listeners in life, who had had "the tears

wiped from their eyes, were clad in robes of spotless white, with

crowns of gold upon their heads and harps within their hands," and

ended his march before the great white throne. To the reader this may

sound ridiculous, but listened to under the circumstances, it was

highly and effectively dramatic. I was a more or less sophisticated

and non-religious man of the world, but the torrent of the preacher's

words, moving with the rhythm and glowing with the eloquence of

primitive poetry, swept me along, and I, too, felt like joining in the

shouts of "Amen! Hallelujah!"

John Brown's powers in describing the delights of heaven were no

greater than those in depicting the horrors of hell. I saw great,

strapping fellows trembling and weeping like children at the

"mourners' bench." His warnings to sinners were truly terrible. I

shall never forget one expression that he used, which for originality

and aptness could not be excelled. In my opinion, it is more graphic

and, for us, far more expressive than St. Paul's "It is hard to

kick against the pricks." He struck the attitude of a pugilist and

thundered out: "Young man, your arm's too short to box with God!"

Interesting as was John Brown to me, the other man, "Singing Johnson,"

was more so. He was a small, dark-brown, one-eyed man, with a clear,

strong, high-pitched voice, a leader of singing, a maker of songs, a

man who could improvise at the moment lines to fit the occasion. Not

so striking a figure as John Brown, but, at "big meetings," equally

important. It is indispensable to the success of the singing, when

the congregation is a large one made up of people from different

communities, to have someone with a strong voice who knows just what

hymn to sing and when to sing it, who can pitch it in the right key,

and who has all the leading lines committed to memory. Sometimes it

devolves upon the leader to "sing down" a long-winded or uninteresting

speaker. Committing to memory the leading lines of all the Negro

spiritual songs is no easy task, for they run up into the hundreds.

But the accomplished leader must know them all, because the

congregation sings only the refrains and repeats; every ear in the

church is fixed upon him, and if he becomes mixed in his lines or

forgets them, the responsibility falls directly on his shoulders.

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

following manner:

Leader. _Swing low, sweet chariot._

Congregation. _Coming for to carry me home._

Leader. _Swing low, sweet chariot._

Congregation. _Coming for to carry me home._

Leader. _I look over yonder, what do I see?_

Congregation. _Coming for to carry me home._

Leader. _Two little angels coming after me._

Congregation. _Coming for to carry me home...._

The solitary and plaintive voice of the leader is answered by a sound

like the roll of the sea, producing a most curious effect.

In only a few of these songs do the leader and the congregation start

off together. Such a song is the well-known "Steal away to Jesus."

The leader and the congregation begin with part-singing:

_Steal away, steal away,

Steal away to Jesus;

Steal away, steal away home,

I ain't got long to stay here._

Then the leader alone or the congregation in unison:

_My Lord he calls me,

He calls me by the thunder,

The trumpet sounds within-a my soul._

Then all together:

_I ain't got long to stay here._

The leader and the congregation again take up the opening refrain;

then the leader sings three more leading lines alone, and so on almost

_ad infinitum_. It will be seen that even here most of the work falls

upon the leader, for the congregation sings the same lines over and

over, while his memory and ingenuity are taxed to keep the songs

going.

Generally the parts taken up by the congregation are sung in a

three-part harmony, the women singing the soprano and a transposed

tenor, the men with high voices singing the melody, and those with

low voices a thundering bass. In a few of these songs, however, the

leading part is sung in unison by the whole congregation, down to

the last line, which is harmonized. The effect of this is intensely

thrilling. Such a hymn is "Go down, Moses." It stirs the heart like a

trumpet call.

"Singing Johnson" was an ideal leader, and his services were in great

demand. He spent his time going about the country from one church

to another. He received his support in much the same way as the

preachers--part of a collection, food and lodging. All of his leisure

time he devoted to originating new words and melodies and new lines

for old songs. He always sang with his eyes--or, to be more exact, his

eye--closed, indicating the _tempo_ by swinging his head to and fro.

He was a great judge of the proper hymn to sing at a particular

moment; and I noticed several times, when the preacher reached a

certain climax, or expressed a certain sentiment, that Johnson broke

in with a line or two of some appropriate hymn. The speaker understood

and would pause until the singing ceased.

As I listened to the singing of these songs, the wonder of their

production grew upon me more and more. How did the men who originated

them manage to do it? The sentiments are easily accounted for; they

are mostly taken from the Bible; but the melodies, where did they come

from? Some of them so weirdly sweet, and others so wonderfully strong.

Take, for instance, "Go down, Moses." I doubt that there is a stronger

theme in the whole musical literature of the world. And so many of

these songs contain more than mere melody; there is sounded in them

that elusive undertone, the note in music which is not heard with the

ears. I sat often with the tears rolling down my cheeks and my heart

melted within me. Any musical person who has never heard a Negro

congregation under the spell of religious fervor sing these old songs

has missed one of the most thrilling emotions which the human heart

may experience. Anyone who without shedding tears can listen to

Negroes sing "Nobody knows de trouble I see, Nobody knows but Jesus"

must indeed have a heart of stone.

As yet, the Negroes themselves do not fully appreciate these old slave

songs. The educated classes are rather ashamed of them and prefer to

sing hymns from books. This feeling is natural; they are still too

close to the conditions under which the songs were produced; but

the day will come when this slave music will be the most treasured

heritage of the American Negro.

At the close of the "big meeting" I left the settlement where it was

being held, full of enthusiasm. I was in that frame of mind which, in

the artistic temperament, amounts to inspiration. I was now ready and

anxious to get to some place where I might settle down to work, and

give expression to the ideas which were teeming in my head; but I

strayed into another deviation from my path of life as I had it marked

out, which led me upon an entirely different road. Instead of going

to the nearest and most convenient railroad station, I accepted the

invitation of a young man who had been present the closing Sunday at

the meeting to drive with him some miles farther to the town in which

he taught school, and there take the train. My conversation with

this young man as we drove along through the country was

extremely interesting. He had been a student in one of the Negro

colleges--strange coincidence, in the very college, as I learned

through him, in which "Shiny" was now a professor. I was, of course,

curious to hear about my boyhood friend; and had it not been vacation

time, and that I was not sure that I should find him, I should have

gone out of my way to pay him a visit; but I determined to write to

him as soon as the school opened. My companion talked to me about his

work among the people, of his hopes and his discouragements. He was

tremendously in earnest; I might say, too much so. In fact, it may

be said that the majority of intelligent colored people are, in some

degree, too much in earnest over the race question. They assume and

carry so much that their progress is at times impeded and they are

unable to see things in their proper proportions. In many instances a

slight exercise of the sense of humor would save much anxiety of soul.

Anyone who marks the general tone of editorials in colored newspapers

is apt to be impressed with this idea. If the mass of Negroes took

their present and future as seriously as do the most of their leaders,

the race would be in no mental condition to sustain the terrible

pressure which it undergoes; it would sink of its own weight. Yet it

must be acknowledged that in the making of a race overseriousness is

a far lesser failing than its reverse, and even the faults resulting

from it lean toward the right.

We drove into the town just before dark. As we passed a large,

unpainted church, my companion pointed it out as the place where he

held his school. I promised that I would go there with him the next

morning and visit awhile. The town was of that kind which hardly

requires or deserves description; a straggling line of brick and

wooden stores on one side of the railroad track and some cottages of

various sizes on the other side constituted about the whole of it. The

young school teacher boarded at the best house in the place owned by

a colored man. It was painted, had glass windows, contained "store

bought" furniture, an organ, and lamps with chimneys. The owner held a

job of some kind on the railroad. After supper it was not long before

everybody was sleepy. I occupied the room with the school teacher. In

a few minutes after we got into the room he was in bed and asleep; but

I took advantage of the unusual luxury of a lamp which gave light, and

sat looking over my notes and jotting down some ideas which were still

fresh in my mind. Suddenly I became conscious of that sense of alarm

which is always aroused by the sound of hurrying footsteps on the

silence of the night. I stopped work and looked at my watch. It was

after eleven. I listened, straining every nerve to hear above the

tumult of my quickening pulse. I caught the murmur of voices, then

the gallop of a horse, then of another and another. Now thoroughly

alarmed, I woke my companion, and together we both listened. After a

moment he put out the light and softly opened the window-blind, and we

cautiously peeped out. We saw men moving in one direction, and from

the mutterings we vaguely caught the rumor that some terrible crime

had been committed. I put on my coat and hat. My friend did all in his

power to dissuade me from venturing out, but it was impossible for me

to remain in the house under such tense excitement. My nerves would

not have stood it. Perhaps what bravery I exercised in going out was

due to the fact that I felt sure my identity as a colored man had not

yet become known in the town.

I went out and, following the drift, reached the railroad station.

There was gathered there a crowd of men, all white, and others were

steadily arriving, seemingly from all the surrounding country. How

did the news spread so quickly? I watched these men moving under

the yellow glare of the kerosene lamps about the station, stern,

comparatively silent, all of them armed, some of them in boots and

spurs; fierce, determined men. I had come to know the type well,

blond, tall, and lean, with ragged mustache and beard, and glittering

gray eyes. At the first suggestion of daylight they began to disperse

in groups, going in several directions. There was no extra noise or

excitement, no loud talking, only swift, sharp words of command given

by those who seemed to be accepted as leaders by mutual understanding.

In fact, the impression made upon me was that everything was being

done in quite an orderly manner. In spite of so many leaving, the

crowd around the station continued to grow; at sunrise there were

a great many women and children. By this time I also noticed some

colored people; a few seemed to be going about customary tasks;

several were standing on the outskirts of the crowd; but the gathering

of Negroes usually seen in such towns was missing.

Before noon they brought him in. Two horsemen rode abreast; between

them, half dragged, the poor wretch made his way through the dust. His

hands were tied behind him, and ropes around his body were fastened to

the saddle horns of his double guard. The men who at midnight had been

stern and silent were now emitting that terror-instilling sound known

as the "rebel yell." A space was quickly cleared in the crowd, and a

rope placed about his neck, when from somewhere came the suggestion,

"Burn him!" It ran like an electric current. Have you ever witnessed

the transformation of human beings into savage beasts? Nothing can be

more terrible. A railroad tie was sunk into the ground, the rope was

removed, and a chain brought and securely coiled around the victim and

the stake. There he stood, a man only in form and stature, every sign

of degeneracy stamped upon his countenance. His eyes were dull

and vacant, indicating not a single ray of thought. Evidently the

realization of his fearful fate had robbed him of whatever reasoning

power he had ever possessed. He was too stunned and stupefied even to

tremble. Fuel was brought from everywhere, oil, the torch; the flames

crouched for an instant as though to gather strength, then leaped up

as high as their victim's head. He squirmed, he writhed, strained at

his chains, then gave out cries and groans that I shall always hear.

The cries and groans were choked off by the fire and smoke; but his

eyes, bulging from their sockets, rolled from side to side, appealing

in vain for help. Some of the crowd yelled and cheered, others seemed

appalled at what they had done, and there were those who turned

away sickened at the sight. I was fixed to the spot where I stood,

powerless to take my eyes from what I did not want to see.

It was over before I realized that time had elapsed. Before I could

make myself believe that what I saw was really happening, I was

looking at a scorched post, a smoldering fire, blackened bones,

charred fragments sifting down through coils of chain; and the smell

of burnt flesh--human flesh--was in my nostrils.

I walked a short distance away and sat down in order to clear my dazed

mind. A great wave of humiliation and shame swept over me. Shame that

I belonged to a race that could be so dealt with; and shame for my

country, that it, the great example of democracy to the world, should

be the only civilized, if not the only state on earth, where a human

being would be burned alive. My heart turned bitter within me. I could

understand why Negroes are led to sympathize with even their worst

criminals and to protect them when possible. By all the impulses of

normal human nature they can and should do nothing less.

Whenever I hear protests from the South that it should be left alone

to deal with the Negro question, my thoughts go back to that scene of

brutality and savagery. I do not see how a people that can find in its

conscience any excuse whatever for slowly burning to death a human

being, or for tolerating such an act, can be entrusted with the

salvation of a race. Of course, there are in the South men of liberal

thought who do not approve lynching, but I wonder how long they will

endure the limits which are placed upon free speech. They still cower

and tremble before "Southern opinion." Even so late as the recent

Atlanta riot those men who were brave enough to speak a word in behalf

of justice and humanity felt called upon, by way of apology, to

preface what they said with a glowing rhetorical tribute to the

Anglo-Saxon's superiority and to refer to the "great and impassable

gulf" between the races "fixed by the Creator at the foundation of the

world." The question of the relative qualities of the two races is

still an open one. The reference to the "great gulf" loses force in

face of the fact that there are in this country perhaps three or four

million people with the blood of both races in their veins; but I fail

to see the pertinency of either statement subsequent to the beating

and murdering of scores of innocent people in the streets of a

civilized and Christian city.

The Southern whites are in many respects a great people. Looked at

from a certain point of view, they are picturesque. If one will put

oneself in a romantic frame of mind, one can admire their notions

of chivalry and bravery and justice. In this same frame of mind an

intelligent man can go to the theatre and applaud the impossible hero,

who with his single sword slays everybody in the play except the

equally impossible heroine. So can an ordinary peace-loving citizen

sit by a comfortable fire and read with enjoyment of the bloody deeds

of pirates and the fierce brutality of Vikings. This is the way in

which we gratify the old, underlying animal instincts and passions;

but we should shudder with horror at the mere idea of such practices

being realities in this day of enlightened and humanitarianized

thought. The Southern whites are not yet living quite in the present

age; many of their general ideas hark back to a former century,

some of them to the Dark Ages. In the light of other days they are

sometimes magnificent. Today they are often cruel and ludicrous.

How long I sat with bitter thoughts running through my mind I do not

know; perhaps an hour or more. When I decided to get up and go back to

the house, I found that I could hardly stand on my feet. I was as weak

as a man who had lost blood. However, I dragged myself along, with the

central idea of a general plan well fixed in my mind. I did not find

my school teacher friend at home, so I did not see him again. I

swallowed a few mouthfuls of food, packed my bag, and caught the

afternoon train.

When I reached Macon, I stopped only long enough to get the main part

of my luggage and to buy a ticket for New York.

All along the journey I was occupied in debating with myself the step

which I had decided to take. I argued that to forsake one's race to

better one's condition was no less worthy an action than to forsake

one's country for the same purpose. I finally made up my mind that I

would neither disclaim the black race nor claim the white race; but

that I would change my name, raise a mustache, and let the world take

me for what it would; that it was not necessary for me to go about

with a label of inferiority pasted across my forehead. All the while

I understood that it was not discouragement or fear or search for a

larger field of action and opportunity that was driving me out of the

Negro race. I knew that it was shame, unbearable shame. Shame at being

identified with a people that could with impunity be treated worse

than animals. For certainly the law would restrain and punish the

malicious burning alive of animals.

So once again I found myself gazing at the towers of New York and

wondering what future that city held in store for me.