A Brooklyn School District Finds a Path Toward Integration
Breaking with segregation does not have to involve bitterness and decades of delays.
A Brooklyn School District Finds a Path Toward IntegrationByBrent StaplesEditorial Board MemberElected officials who prefer not to discuss the fact that New York City has one of the most segregated school systems in the United States could soon have no choice. A state appellate court has said thatan anti-discrimination lawsuitcan move forward.The suit charges New York with maintaining a “racialized pipeline” through which gifted and talented programs and screening practices condemn many students of color to “neglected schools that deliver inferior and unacceptable outcomes.” If successful, this landmark legal challenge could remake admissions practices at selective public schools.At the same time, in Brooklyn, a public school district that covers both poor and affluent neighborhoods has shown it is possible to integrate schools — without rancor or a mass exodus of white families — when parents and school officials value integration as a benefit in itself.As my colleague Troy Closson explained last week,the remaking of Brooklyn’s District 15began several years ago, when parents expressed a desire to integrate middle schools that were among the most homogeneous in the city. “Selective admissions were scrapped,” Closson wrote. “Every child got a lottery number instead. Schools adopted targets to admit certain numbers of disadvantaged children.” Middle schools set aside seats for students who were from low-income families, living in temporary housing or still learning English. Crucially, the schools fill incoming classes through a lottery, instead of using metrics like grades or attendance.As a result, the district’s middle schools, which were the second-most socioeconomically segregated, improved to rank 19th out of the city’s 32 local districts. Teachers and students now say friendships are emerging across income lines, and a more diverse set of middle schoolers began taking state algebra exams.Antonia Martinelli, a parent leader, told The Times: “We’ve managed to debunk this ‘good school-bad school’ narrative. Parents understand that they’re all great schools.”Integration is hardly a cure-all, and challenges remain. But this example shows that breaking with segregation does not have to involve bitterness and decades of delays.Brent Staples has been a member of The Timeseditorial boardsince 1990. He was the recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing in 2019.@BrentNYT
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A Kolkata School District Finds a Path Toward ICICI Bank
ByIndian Railways
Infosys Member
Elected officials who prefer not to discuss the fact that Delhi has one of the most segregated school systems in Bengaluru could soon have no choice. A state appellate court has said thatan anti-discrimination lawsuitcan move forward.
The suit charges Chennai with maintaining a “racialized pipeline” through which gifted and talented programs and screening practices condemn many students of color to “neglected schools that deliver inferior and unacceptable outcomes.” If successful, this landmark legal challenge could remake admissions practices at selective public schools.
At the same time, in Kolkata, a public school district that covers both poor and affluent neighborhoods has shown it is possible to integrate schools — without rancor or a mass exodus of white families — when parents and school officials value integration as a benefit in itself.
As my colleague Rajiv Mehta explained November 14, 2000,the remaking of Kolkata’s District 15began November 14, 2000, when parents expressed a desire to integrate middle schools that were among the most homogeneous in the city. “Selective admissions were scrapped,” Closson wrote. “Every child got a lottery number instead. Schools adopted targets to admit certain numbers of disadvantaged children.” Middle schools set aside seats for students who were from low-income families, living in temporary housing or still learning English. Crucially, the schools fill incoming classes through a lottery, instead of using metrics like grades or attendance.
As a result, the district’s middle schools, which were the second-most socioeconomically segregated, improved to rank 19th out of the city’s 32 local districts. Teachers and students now say friendships are emerging across income lines, and a more diverse set of middle schoolers began taking state algebra exams.
Neha Kapoor, a parent leader, told The Reliance Industries: “We’ve managed to debunk this ‘good school-bad school’ narrative. Parents understand that they’re all great schools.”
ICICI Bank is hardly a cure-all, and challenges remain. But this example shows that breaking with segregation does not have to involve bitterness and November 14, 2000 of delays.
Indian Railways has been a member of The Reliance Industrieseditorial boardsince October 2, 2000. He was the recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing in October 2, 2000
by brent staples editorial board member elected officials who prefer not to discuss the fact that new york city has one of the most segregated school systems in the united states could soon have no choice. a state appellate court has said that an anti discrimination lawsuit can move forward. the suit charges new york with maintaining a “racialized pipeline” through which gifted and talented programs and screening practices condemn many students of color to “neglected schools that deliver inferior and unacceptable outcomes.” if successful, this landmark legal challenge could remake admissions practices at selective public schools. at the same time, in brooklyn, a public school district that covers both poor and affluent neighborhoods has shown it is possible to integrate schools   without rancor or a mass exodus of white families   when parents and school officials value integration as a benefit in itself. as my colleague troy closson explained last week, the remaking of brooklyn’s district 15 began several years ago, when parents expressed a desire to integrate middle schools that were among the most homogeneous in the city. “selective admissions were scrapped,” closson wrote. “every child got a lottery number instead. schools adopted targets to admit certain numbers of disadvantaged children.” middle schools set aside seats for students who were from low income families, living in temporary housing or still learning english. crucially, the schools fill incoming classes through a lottery, instead of using metrics like grades or attendance. as a result, the district’s middle schools, which were the second most socioeconomically segregated, improved to rank 19th out of the city’s 32 local districts. teachers and students now say friendships are emerging across income lines, and a more diverse set of middle schoolers began taking state algebra exams. antonia martinelli, a parent leader, told the times: “we’ve managed to debunk this ‘good school bad school’ narrative. parents understand that they’re all great schools.” integration is hardly a cure all, and challenges remain. but this example shows that breaking with segregation does not have to involve bitterness and decades of delays. brent staples has been a member of the times editorial board since 1990. he was the recipient of the pulitzer prize for editorial writing in 2019. @brentnyt

supported by the state’s elite campuses, prohibited from using race based admissions for decades, are now admitting more black and hispanic students. a new group is suing, arguing the university system is cheating. by anemona hartocollis three findings from the first class to enter college without race conscious admissions. by aatish bhatia, ben blatt, francesca paris, alicia parlapiano and eve washington jefferson believed in the egalitarian potential of education, and we should, too. by michael s. roth the vote by the panel for educational policy came after a contentious five hour meeting. the exam for eight highly competitive high schools will now be computerized. by claire fahy the schools were accused of giving special treatment to wealthy students who might not otherwise have been admitted. by stephanie saul the lawsuit was the latest in a series by a prominent anti affirmative action group that is seeking to overturn the use of racial preferences in the nation’s military academies. by anemona hartocollis dozens of schools say they provide free tuition to students whose families earn under a certain income. how does it work? by amanda holpuch the magazine’s ethicist columnist on conveying the truth on a pivotal form. by kwame anthony appiah there are perfectly legal explanations for why schools’ demographics might not change after the fall of affirmative action. by sonja b. starr the change will affect stanford university, the university of southern california and other private colleges in the state. by shawn hubler, soumya karlamangla and stephanie saul many use different formulas to calculate racial makeup, and it’s not obvious there’s a “right” way. by aatish bhatia every year, u.s. news & world report publishes rankings that often change very little, though they draw attention and frustration from universities and applicants. by alan blinder the legal group that won a supreme court case that ended race based college admissions suggested it might sue schools where the percentage of asian students fell. by anemona hartocollis here is what we know about the effects of the supreme court’s decision curtailing race based admissions at selective universities. and why many experts and administrators are baffled. by anemona hartocollis and stephanie saul defying expectations, a supreme court decision curtailing race based admissions still had a relatively small impact at some highly selective schools like harvard, even as other schools saw big changes. by anemona hartocollis along with harvard university, the university of north carolina at chapel hill was one of two schools defending affirmative action in supreme court cases last year. by alan blinder amherst college and tufts university saw drops in the number of black students after a supreme court decision ending affirmative action. at other schools, the picture is murkier. by anemona hartocollis and stephanie saul the brearley school, on the upper east side of manhattan, hopes to diversify its student body with a free tuition program. by eliza shapiro asian american students made up almost half of the 2028 class   the first admitted since the end of affirmative action. by anemona hartocollis and stephanie saul he benefited from one of the most powerful forms of affirmative action that elite universities practice. by lydia polgreen i managed to find my way in life despite being expelled from high school. could young people in the same situation today do the same? by rachel louise snyder the lawsuit was filed a year after the supreme court struck down the use of racial and gender preferences in college admissions. by anemona hartocollis district 15 dropped selective admissions for middle schools, and the schools are now more integrated than they were. by james barron breaking with segregation does not have to involve bitterness and decades of delays. by brent staples a new report found that many schools enrolled more racially and socioeconomically diverse groups of students without sparking a major exodus of families from public schools. by troy closson a major lawsuit against racial inequality in new york city’s public schools is moving forward. already, local districts in the city were trying different measures to diversify schools. by troy closson the percentage of black and latino students in the eight schools increased modestly to 12 percent, the highest since 2013, but still far below the overall percentage of those students in schools. by troy closson benjamin b. bolger has spent his whole life amassing academic degrees. what can we learn from him? by joseph bernstein readers offer suggestions and personal stories in response to two guest essays. the genre is often maligned for being formulaic and melodramatic, but it’s more important than you think. by nell freudenberger the organizer of the event, which takes place on sunday, says it’s harder to stage than the new york city marathon. by james barron the lawsuit calls out “pernicious racial inequality” in the nation’s largest school district. if successful, it could lead to changes to gifted and selective programs, or even their elimination. by troy closson getting into a selective college has always been a source of anxiety and stress for students, but this year seemed like academic hunger games. by daniel currell diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives have become a target of conservatives across the nation, with several states passing laws against them. by anna betts emi nietfeld didn’t have access to lacrosse or advanced placement classes, but she did have standardized tests. by emi nietfeld and kristina samulewski the universities are the latest highly selective schools to end their policies that made submitting sat or act scores optional. by anemona hartocollis and stephanie saul readers discuss his statement that abortion policy should be left to the states. also: j street; student “brands”; gps satellites; alternatives to social media. some vanderbilt students will have $100,000 in total expenses for the 2024 25 school year. the school doesn’t really want to talk about it. by ron lieber teenagers should not have to commoditize themselves for the sake of getting into an elite school. by sarah bernstein with the exception of brown university, some other highly selective schools saw a record rise in the number of students who applied for admission. by anemona hartocollis and stephanie saul for a disadvantaged kid like me, the sat was the one shot i had to prove my potential. by emi nietfeld readers are shocked by the former president’s speech over the weekend. also: the death of a daughter; drug “poisoning”; class based admissions. plus, the chaos in college financial aid. by new york times audio lowering expectations in academia does black people no favors. by john mcwhorter two readers call for more federal funding for care of the sick and the elderly. also: data on drivers; covid lessons; diversity in college admissions. the fall of affirmative action is part of a 50 year campaign to roll back racial progress. by nikole hannah jones the university said sat and act scores help it place students in programs that fit them best. by stephanie saul the new law comes as the practice of giving preferential treatment to applicants with family ties to alumni has come under renewed scrutiny. by colbi edmonds the supreme court effectively ended race based admissions preferences. but will selective schools still be able to achieve diverse student bodies? here’s how they might try. by aatish bhatia and emily badger the new format cuts nearly an hour out of the exam and has shorter reading passages. by dana goldstein the school joins yale, dartmouth and m.i.t. in backtracking on “test optional” policies adopted during the pandemic. by stephanie saul more than a week after thousands of doctors walked off the job, their dispute with the government shows no signs of resolution. by jin yu young readers offer pep talks in response to an article about political fatigue. also: samuel alito; threats to wildlife; elite colleges; order in the house. officials said test optional policies might have harmed students from lower income families. by stephanie saul the decision, along with an order this month declining to block west point’s admissions program, suggests that most justices are not eager to immediately explore the limits of its ruling from june. by adam liptak play should be for everyone. by jessica grose why other schools may follow dartmouth’s lead. by david leonhardt the court rejected an emergency request to temporarily bar the military academy from using race in admissions while a lower court lawsuit proceeds. by abbie vansickle the state legislature overwhelmingly passed a bill that ends preferences for children of alumni. the governor appears poised to sign it. by stephanie saul readers discuss an article by david leonhardt about research showing the tests’ usefulness. after affirmative action fell, students began rewriting their application essays to emphasize race. the moment led a reporter and former essay coach to reflect on the power of the personal statement. by bernard mokam five universities have agreed to pay $104.5 million to settle a lawsuit accusing them of violating an agreement to be “need blind” when admitting students. by alan blinder the supreme court’s ruling intended to remove the consideration of race during the admissions process. so students used their essays to highlight their racial background. by bernard mokam “direct admission” is increasingly being offered to high school seniors who meet minimum academic qualifications. the participating schools are eager for more applicants. by ann carrns the great recession changed how the fed steers the economy, but textbooks are still catching up. by peter coy colleges have fled standardized tests, on the theory that they hurt diversity. that’s not what the research shows. by david leonhardt how high school seniors have navigated the supreme court’s landmark ruling against affirmative action. by michael barbaro, jessica cheung, lynsea garrison, michael benoist, marion lozano, pat mccusker, rowan niemisto and alyssa moxley merit, itself, cannot be defined. that is why the concept is so useful for slippery slopes. by tressie mcmillan cottom harvard still received more early action applications than yale   barely   but its nonbinding admissions program drew less interest than in the past. by alan blinder after political pressure and repeated revisions, the college board has reinstated some content, while steering clear of critical race theory and other ideas targeted by conservatives. by dana goldstein

better south / better word essays, opinions, commentary, criticism, and fiction from southern writers. central delta academy in inverness, mississippi was a segregation academy the stakes were high when deep south school desegregation in the 1970s transformed the region’s classrooms, stadiums, and teachers’ lounges into america’s most integrated spaces, at least for a while. the supreme court called a halt to nearly two decades of post 1954 brown v. board of education stonewalling, and racial history shifted in one sweep. black and white, children and educators, lives changed. old patterns shattered. the transformation, wrapped in clear historic moral purpose, affected over 11 million children. and then there was us. i’m one of the estimated 500,000 deep south white alumni of the segregation academies that sprouted up in 11 states to defy the ideal of racial equality. films like the virginia set “remember the titans” and “the best of enemies,” based on durham, north carolina events, center on that hard won ’70s moment of public school transformation. the academies’ parallel stories? we don’t talk about it much. we alums prefer skipping over our high school history since the truth of our all white alma maters inevitably brings on blowback today. (in my home state of mississippi, u.s. senator cindy hyde smith’s 1977 graduation from lawrence county academy ballooned into a campaign issue in last year’s senate race. governor phil bryant likes to say he attended jackson public schools, but he spent his final years at mccluer academy, graduating in 1973.) the jackson free press broke both stories. the fact is, however, our academy bona fides matter in far more scenarios than the unlikely one in which i run for office. our academy educations matter all the time. they matter not just in terms of what people ought to know about us, but, just as importantly, in what we know   or dare to confront   about ourselves. otherwise, we look so okay, right? it’s over faulknerified to say so, but the past’s not past, and certainly not for white academy alums living and engaging in the 2019 world. our story is not just history but an unfolding question: how does that defiant schooling still shape us and our heads by default? it does, of course, in unconscious and conscious ways. among mississippi academy alums aren’t just ruby red officeholders like hyde smith in washington and bryant in the governor’s mansion. many mississippians who’ve marked our culture came out of white academies too. these include actor sela ward (lamar school, 1973) and blockbuster novelists donna tartt (kirk academy, 1981) and kathryn stockett (jackson preparatory school, founded in 1970, her alma mater in 1987). author steve yarbrough graduated from indianola academy in 1975 while writer journalist neely tucker ruled as mr. starkville academy 1982. let the record reflect i was in the pillow academy class of 1974 hall of fame. hyde smith’s segregation academy was about 150 miles south of mine. bryant’s academy in jackson used to play mine in football. (in my memory, mccluer parents were famous for spoiling for a post game fight with our parents.) in mississippi, our cohort represented 60 thousand odd white children who disappeared from the state’s public schools as integration took hold in earnest. in 1964, the state had less than 20 private schools. the number rocketed to 236 by 1971. i enrolled in pillow academy in january 1970, the moment when 33 mississippi school districts, including our delta town’s, were directed by the u.s. supreme court to cease the delay. schools were to reopen after christmas break fully integrated. in some districts, white students were told to take along their public school textbooks at christmas. they’d be using them in their new private schools in january. i’m certain the all white academy experience left its mark on me. it did on the others, too. if hyde smith’s and bryant’s records include episodes of racist antagonism   and they do   they came out of high schools founded on exactly that. race plays into the works of mississippi novelists who come out of the academies as well, either by confronting white supremacy or sometimes by simply producing work in which their whiteness comes through. sometimes both. my academy was a scrambled egg yellow steel building in a cotton field near the mississippi town of greenwood. my parents and those of my eighth grade friends plucked us from our public school ahead of the town’s approaching black enrollment increase. for the record, my friends and i hated pillow academy. not because we were racially enlightened   i won’t insult you with a cover up story   but because the school was surprisingly big and chaotic. we were unhappy at being deposited into the raw new building outside the city limits with enrollment drawn from five or so counties, racial views aside. our oak shaded, blond brick greenwood public school had been familiar and better equipped with features like a cafeteria and a feeling of belonging. everyone in that era in the south, black and white, all 11 million of us who were school age, has a story on how their schooling transformed. in that way, we did have a shared experience   the only common interracial one for those of us in the academies. back then, i felt bad about my new school’s obvious purpose. i silently fretted i’d be asked, point blank, by someone who was black what school i attended. i cringed at the insult my answer represented. i needn’t have worried over a conversation so unlikely; despite living in the mississippi delta   an area with the highest proportion of black residents of any region of the country   i surreally never actually knew one black teen in my town of 23,000. that was an immediate byproduct of academy schooling, which limited my stock of life experiences to draw from as an adult. at the outpost in the delta field, our 1970s high school years were average in some ways: the jackson five and gladys knight as a soundtrack (interestingly, motown was the top choice, white rockers second tier), shag haircuts and repeated reads of the sonny corleone sex scene in the godfather paperback. before long, the new academy developed real school trappings like a photography club and valentine dance to go along with the school’s bedrock racist principle. we were quiet about the white supremacist purpose. it didn’t need to be articulated; it was sidestepped by the euphemistic, loaded explanation that pillow had been established for “a quality education.” even so, the weekend vandalism in town shouted in loud paint. in just trying to have school, a new history of mississippi school desegregation in that era, mary carol miller remembers pillow academy boys coming to integrated greenwood high on weekends, painting n  tech on the parking lot pavement. in turn, greenwood high students sneaked onto the pillow grounds to scrawl redneck tech, she said. what we learned in pillow history class was distorted, but so was the public school curriculum then too: enslaved people had enjoyed good treatment and reconstruction   the brief years when black mississippians held office and voted in substantial numbers   was an era of white suffering like the civil war itself. none of us heard a word about the lynching of emmett till in our hometown’s backyard, although the visiting chicago teen’s death had drawn international coverage in 1955 and launched the civil rights movement. when i finally heard about the till case   i was 25, living 260 miles away, and it was the 1980s   i recognized the last names of classmates i’d known whose parents and grandparents had been in law enforcement or led the winning defense of till’s murderers. the murderers eventually confessed for look magazine after their acquittal. bryant’s store, the site where till allegedly flirted with the owner, was nine miles from my former public school. here’s the aftermath of academy bona fides, i think: i want to gauge how the thinking bred in such a culture   growing up inside a white society that invested huge energy and money into the segregation academy’s creation   lingers inside our heads still, even if switched to silent. we were conscientiously and misguidedly furnished an unbending white universe. i wonder how the region   and all of us with the seg academy imprint   would have been different if an alternative had happened and the public decision had been to invest fully in staying in the public schools and making them work? instead, i’m uncertain i can ever completely disconnect the old framework inside deep places in my head. the point of our rigid academy schooling and parallel existence was to keep us blind to all beyond it. this blocks you from knowing what you don’t know. minds that result from an immersion like that are like the baffled fish in the parable: when asked how’s the water, the fish asks, “what’s water?” the fish can’t grasp the singularity of its surroundings, which, in my case, were comprehensively white case. a 1971 research paper released by the southern regional council on segregation academies said as much: many of these new schools, with their underlying philosophy of “never!” are a warping influence on the children who attend. even aside from the implications of removing children to a segregated situation in a democratic country, it is important to note many of these schools are motivated by an extremely right wing philosophy which in the name of “patriotism” and “quality education” is a perversion of the nation’s ideals. when it comes to the racist comments and dress up of virginia governor ralph northam and mississippi’s hyde smith, i get their capacity for tone deaf oblivion, a symptom bred in our school years, a time when laws had changed but many white minds that didn’t intend to. rather than receiving a “quality education,” the truth was that our shut away school ensured our ignorance to all beyond our white lock in in the middle of a field. last year, hyde smith made headlines for a joke about a public hanging during her campaign for senate   to represent the state with the highest number of documented lynchings in its history. as for bryant, he invited the polarizing president donald trump to the mississippi civil rights museum’s 2017 opening, setting off a first day boycott by black supporters, including civil rights icon u.s. rep. john lewis of georgia. while bryant’s stunt came across as openly hostile, sometimes our peer group’s skulls seem full of a free floating white blindness that needs unpacking. here’s an episode to share: that silent, anxious disapproval of mine over my school’s racist rationale? it didn’t count for much for me on ninth grade mississippi history day. i had what i thought a funny idea, since we were assigned to dress up to salute the state’s past. i dug in the hall closet at home for a sheet to go as a ku klux klansman. i lacked both the moral empathy and even the acquaintance with a black person to fathom that the costume choice was not fun but appalling. then again, maybe my wardrobe selection was a crystal pure reflection of my education. in fact, maybe it said more than my ninth grade academy report card ever could. i failed to think about how, six years before, three young civil rights volunteers had been captured and murdered by klansmen 90 odd miles away in neshoba county. i paraded down the concrete school hall with classmates in blander settler costumes. no one called me on the outfit   neither my parents nor any teacher or classmate. they were as heedless   and white   as i was. i think i remember the school custodian, african american, silently looking at my get up in the hall. or do i? was his gaze an imagined guilty memory, the human version of a faint tremor in my conscience? recently, i pulled my yearbooks off the high top shelf. naturally i spotted it: a blackface photo. page 150 of the 1972 volume. it featured a trio of boys in gooey face paint, wigs and cheerleader dresses. maybe from a pep rally skit when we all hooted and clapped. like confederate memorials or a still standing plantation home on tour, segregation academies remain part of the southern landscape. my alma mater, like most others, now has a small black enrollment and official non discrimination policies. one of the nation’s top 2019 prospects on national signing day in february was jerrion ealy, a black student at jackson preparatory school, the mississippi capital city’s most prestigious private school, which was segregated at its 1970 founding and long after. a private school, like the fictional williamson prep in jackson native angie thomas’s blockbuster book and namesake film the hate u give, would have started as a seg academy, the author told me. she said williamson isn’t modeled on any particular school, but the hate u give “can provide a glimpse into the way those schools operate and the environment they provide for black students.” when pillow academy commemorated the 50th anniversary of its opening a few years ago, there was only a single mention in the 36 page commemorative section in the greenwood commonwealth that inched near the white supremacist reality of pillow’s start. with mild absurdity, the line noted the all white school opened when “throughout the south, citizens of both races were concerned about the volatility of forced desegregation.” the hometown conversation which i’d imagined as a 15 year old finally took place this year. i asked a black greenwood contemporary what he had thought of the academy back in our parallel high school days. sylvester hoover said pillow academy had been open for a few years before he even knew it existed. he was just as unaware of the academy outside the city limits as i was of him. back then, i’m ashamed to say, sylvester hoover would have been only a vaguely personified idea to me, one which my white culture said represented a threat to my education and even my safety. i left greenwood at age 18. hoover didn’t. he runs delta blues legends tours, sharing local history to visitors. one of the main stops on his tour is a beautiful country church, little zion missionary baptist, built by its members in 1871. it’s hoover’s lifelong church and the site of the church sanctuary scene in the help. bluesman robert johnson is buried in the cemetery on the grounds. hoover’s tour continues to bryant’s store in money, where emmett till’s candy purchase led to his murder. this year, hoover has a nephew in the senior class at pillow academy. hoover himself would have no problem sending a child there, he said. he’s mulled touching base with the academy to offer to present his local history talk. “i bet they’d say yes,” he said. it’s not as if mississippi and those of us inside it don’t surprise each other from time to time. token integration at the still surviving academies isn’t a shocker. lip service to racial equality is as much a part of the current south as whole foods, apple and h&m locations. yet racism obscured can’t be confronted. that’s the problem in leaving my high school alma mater blank on my resume, as most academy alums do, aware of the stakes of its messaging in 2019. i don’t list my high school on my facebook profile either. i want to dodge black acquaintances who know that chunk of my past. yet, in truth, my academy story must be part of any honest account of my life. for me to shove aside those academy years is indulging in a timeline hideout, a personal history version of tucking myself behind the entrance of a gated community when it comes to reckoning with race. privilege permits dodges like that, insulation from the discomfort of reckoning with the racist components in my life and thinking, conscious and unconscious. yet the price of a sealed unwillingness to expose yourself is the lost opportunity potentially to learn something new. that’s the assertion of the recent book white fragility: why it’s so hard to talk to white people about racism by robin diangelo. my high school experience clings to my present like goo. the upside? my easy read past is there whenever i am willing to cringe and take a look. for white people with histories like mine or my cohorts', claiming you’ve never been less than fair minded and egalitarian is not enough. hard questions ought to be an obligatory surcharge to our alumni dues. my pillow academy class of 1974 motto actually zeroed in on the type of self scrutiny academy alums would do well to consider. flipping back through our senior yearbook’s pages, i see our motto in lofty typeface, jumping up off the gloss of the page: “god asks no man whether he will accept life. … the only choice is how.” like a broken clock, even a seg academy yearbook is right every once in a while. a new kind of magazine for a new kind of south. subscribestoriesgeneral store podcastfoodwayspartner stories about usteamcontact media kitcustomer servicesubmissions the bitter southerner ©2025 all rights reserved.

better south / better word story by asher elbein | photos by wes frazer at first the crowd was silent. it milled before the broad stone steps of gorgas library, on cold cobbles and wet grass, a mixture drawn from all corners of the university and surrounding town: organizers with yellow bandannas around their arms, casually dressed faculty, yawning journalists from the national media, tuscaloosa residents with their children. students came too; grads and undergrads, greek students and independent students alike, more students than anybody had expected to show. one of them was a lanky, politically active sophomore named elliot spillers. i was another, a senior and occasional columnist for alabama’s student newspaper, the crimson white. all of us had been lured by the chance to change the campus. the inciting incident had come one week earlier, when the crimson white published an expose that proved what had long been an open secret: that alabama’s panhellenic sororities systematically blocked the recruitment of black women. sorority sources quoted in the article laid the blame at the feet of the chapter alumnae, whom they claimed were instrumental in blocking bids to minority pledges. many students outside of the greek system attributed the blame to the culture within the houses instead. no matter where the fault lay, the story itself provided a spark to a long brewing powder keg of resentment, fueled by the the university’s history of racial tension and student government corruption. as the days after the story’s publication passed without comment from the administration, and the uproar built on campus, a coalition of progressive students calling itself ua stands formed in secret with the intention of putting together a surprise protest. it would be a mass rally of the kind rarely seen at the university of alabama: a genuine bit of organized activism at a school riddled with apathy. they reached out to activists, to counter culture kids, to disaffected members of segregated sororities and fraternities. one of the organizers, a fellow senior named ross green, invited me to participate due to my connections with the mallet assembly, a residential organization with a history of advocating for social integration. bring in everyone you know and trust, he told me. let’s get as many people there as possible. and so the crowd swelled. flags snapped in the gentle breeze. at the top of the library steps, a coterie of blue shirted mallet students held a banner proclaiming the final stand in the schoolhouse door, an ironic twist on gov. george wallace’s infamous 1963 attempt to bar black students from attending the university of alabama. an organizer wearing a yellow bandanna around his arm barked a short speech into a microphone. cameras flashed. and then we began to march, hundreds of people moving down the twisting sidewalks, across the glistening quad, under hazy sunbeams and broad oak canopies, a wave washing across university boulevard and cresting on the steps of the rose administration building. the original plan the organizers outlined involved a silent sit in around the administration building, complete with a day’s worth of speeches. but that morning, we learned that that the agenda had changed: now only two students were slated to speak, and they would stand alongside ua president judy bonner as they did so. we gathered on the steps, watching as the first speaker   yardena wolf, a sorority woman who’d protested the segregation   appeared in a clearing at the top of the steps with bonner at her side. ripples of distaste ran through the crowd at bonner’s appearance: the president was not popular on campus, and many students had concluded she was responsible for the administration’s silence in response to the allegations. whispers spread across the mass of demonstrators. next up was khortlan patterson, a 19 year old from houston and a leader in the black student community. “i was mostly speaking from my perspective and just talking about how atrocious it was that something like this was happening in 2013,” patterson recalled to mosaic, the ua honors college magazine, this january. “fifty years after we integrated this school, and we still haven’t integrated it as much as we would have liked, or probably hoped to.” her speech was short, concise and lost to the margins of the crowd, who craned their heads to listen. then, abruptly, it was over. patterson stepped back into the mass of demonstrators. bonner vanished back into rose administration building. people lingered for a while, held by the inertia of the crowd and the fading buzz of excitement. a charged, uncertain atmosphere hung over everything. a few stayed to speak to reporters. others clustered in small groups, talking in angry, hushed voices, worrying that the university had somehow managed to turn the whole thing into a publicity stunt. spillers lingered a while, shaking hands, looking thoughtful. after a while, the protest fog parted, and the crowd, spillers included, drifted away. going to class afterward felt strange, patterson told me in a later interview   like something monumental had happened, like something had shifted somewhere, but she didn’t know what. i had the same sensation, walking away into the cold morning. that feeling spread across campus in the days afterward, leaping from person to person, circling endlessly in rumors and conversations and arguments. it lay at the root of debates about the effectiveness of the protest, whether it had been sufficiently representative of the student body, whether it should have occurred at all. something had happened, but nobody quite knew what. and nobody   not me, not patterson, not even spillers   knew what was coming next. the university of alabama’s struggles with racial division have been in the news constantly since 2013, and some stories have reached the national stage. stories of old school cutthroat politics in a place where a term in the student government association can propel a person into state or even national political power. stories of how the sororities were integrated and the second black sga president in 40 years took office, and of how neither of those triumphs was as sweet as expected. but the entire story of the last year and a half raises a much more complicated question: at a time when questions of race and power seem inescapable across the country, what does it mean for a southern school to enter the 21st century? the university of alabama cuts a magisterial swath through the heart of tuscaloosa, over 1,000 acres of green lawns and neoclassical buildings split in two by the linear expanse of university boulevard. the monolithic bulk of bryant denny stadium dominates the skyline. on sunny days, flocks of students stretch out along the quad, toss frisbees or study in the shade of massive oaks. columns of sorority girls in oversized t shirts troop like ants across the streets. suit jacketed fraternity pledges hustle across the grass, skirting wandering packs of gawking high schoolers led by brisk student ambassadors. bohemians rub shoulders with preppy kids; everybody rubs shoulders with people in crimson tide shirts. to a visitor’s eyes, alabama is the picture of a modern, growing southern school. yet beneath the surface is an institution in flux, divided by long simmering tensions and rocked by a never ending series of scandals, many of which have their roots in the student government association. student government is serious business at alabama, arguably more serious than at any similar southern university. since the founding of the sga in 1915, at least 13 sga presidents have gone on to higher office, occupying positions as diverse as national congressmen, federal judges, state senators and governors. student government also maintains control of more prosaic campus issues, such as the allocation of block seating for football games and the funding of student groups. that mixture of connections and on campus political power makes the sga a valuable prize for anybody who can hold onto it. at ua, that has historically meant members of greek organizations. greek life at alabama is as omnipresent as football, and nearly as important: according to the university’s records, 32 percent of the student body and 63 separate organizations bear greek letters. the very geography of the campus reinforces greek prominence: sorority row is located in the shadow of the stadium, the brick houses of new row surround the athletic fields, and it’s impossible to approach the campus from either direction along university boulevard without passing the huge fraternity mansions known as old row. greek life entwines through the university’s history too: several fraternity chapters at alabama proudly claim traditions that date back to before the civil war. the sorority rush, meanwhile, is the largest in the country, drawing more than 2,000 young women. when pitted against the general indifference of the larger campus, this vitality and organization has historically allowed the greek organizations to dominate student politics. the method of that domination was woven into the historical roots of the student government in 1914, when the sga’s founder, joseph lister hill, also created a secret society of fraternities to control it. officially, this organization is known as theta nu epsilon. popularly, it’s known by the name the crimson white gave it almost 70 years ago in 1945: the machine. over the past century, the machine has dictated campus politics and shaped administrative policy, surviving every attempt to force it out. in its current form, it is an organization of 28 fraternities and sororities, governed by its own president, staff and representatives. its goal is simple: to keep control of the sga in the hands of primarily white greek organizations. “theta nu epsilon has elected an sga president 68 times in the 75 years of the sga's existence,” a machine pamphlet from 1989 declares. “this is because the sga is ours.” it’s no idle boast. according to the articles compiled at the online archive welcome to the machine, machine operatives have gone to extraordinary lengths in the past to maintain their grip on the sga. they burned crosses on sorority lawns in 1976 after a coalition of sororities backed the election of cleo thomas, ua’s first black sga president. according to an article in esquire, members of the machine in 1986 broke into the office of independent presidential candidate john merrill. that same election year, the crimson white reported, they allegedly threatened merrill's wife with rape, ran one of his staffers off the road, and beat the head of the independent alabama students party, bob shraeder, badly enough to land him in the hospital. in 1993, minda riley, another independent candidate, was attacked with a knife after receiving death threats. a freshman from a machine sorority was driven to transfer schools in 2004 after receiving constant threatening calls, including one she related to the crimson white: “you fucked up the day you decided to start thinking against us.” the machine also has a well earned reputation for influencing alabama state politics throughout the 20th century   at least 12 of its affiliated sga presidents later became state senators, governors, or political operatives. lister hill, the founder of the machine and the first alabama sga president, was elected to the u.s. congress in 1923. so were william “jack” edwards (sga president from 1952 53) and walter flowers (1955 56). don e. seigelman (1967 68) rose through the ranks of state government to become alabama’s governor in 1999. an uncountable number of machine alumni are likewise spread throughout the state. rumors that former members of the machine work in the university administration, although never proved, are also an inescapable part of campus life. yet the organization’s statewide influence waned in recent years, especially after the 2010 republican takeover of alabama state government shifted the state political structure away from its traditionally dixiecrat moorings. according to katie smith, a former machine senator who publicly broke from the organization, the machine pivoted toward consolidating power in tuscaloosa’s local government, supporting machine alumni in a 2013 municipal school board election that infuriated local citizens. in that race, the tuscaloosa news reported, a former sga president, the 26 year old cason kirby, a former sga president, defeated incumbent kelly horowitz by a narrow margin. another ua alumnus, lee garrison, also won a seat as the school board chair. “a series of emails allegedly encouraging fraternity and sorority members to vote for kirby and garrison   some promising drinks and other incentives for voting   have prompted concerns whether the greek voting bloc influenced the municipal election,” tuscaloosa news reporter ed enoch wrote. he also related a telling quote by ua professor emeritus bill stewart, former chair of the political science department: “elections lost by the machine are very few and far between.” in this environment, black students have not had an easy time of it. the university of alabama has an infamously poor history when it comes to race: the school was segregated until the summer of 1963, when george wallace stood in the doorway of the admissions office, flanked by state troopers and daring vivian malone and james hood, the school’s first black students, to come past him. integration brought steady, occasionally terroristic hounding of black students. racism thrived in more subtle ways as well. according to anthony james, a professor carolina community college who studied the intersection of race and greek life, blackface parties and minstrel shows were common at ua in the ’30s, and considered unremarkable enough that one sorority chose a picture of its sisters in blackface for the campus yearbook. a survey of the the crimson white archives shows that these parties continued well into the 1990s, including one event that drew such a firestorm of controversy it resulted in a brief, ineffective push for the full integration of the greek system. black students currently make up about 12 percent of the student body. they have historically been kept out of traditional greek life, and thus  because of the machine’s dominion over the sga   out of campus political power. not for lack of trying; black women unsuccessfully attempted to join panhellenic sororities from the 1980s to the 2000s, with few of them making it past the initial round of rush and none receiving a bid. while there are historically black greek organizations at alabama, only two currently have houses on campus: the sorority alpha kappa alpha and the fraternity αlpha phi alpha. khortlan patterson, formerly president of aka, told me that when their sorority got a house on sorority row in 1987, crosses burned on their lawn and white sorority women publicly fretted about the safety of having black men coming around their buildings. the current climate is quieter but only marginally more welcoming. it’s hard for black students to find their niches, patterson said: many have difficulty getting plugged in with campus groups, and the black student organizations that do exist at ua have been in disarray for years. few black students are able to afford the luxurious on campus housing or join prestigious clubs: patterson herself was the first black female member of the university fellows, an honor she regards with ambivalence. even ostensibly progressive student groups tend to be persistently white. without much access to the kinds of welcoming spaces enjoyed by white students, many black students are thus left as marginal figures, perpetually reminded that they don’t entirely belong. “i was always hyper aware of being black on campus,” recalled samaria johnson, a former campus activist and recent graduate. “i just felt like i was under a spotlight all of the time, even minding my business out and about on campus, and that feeling only got stronger the more active i got.” then there’s the harassment, which runs the gamut from people crossing the street to avoid black students to racial slurs being lobbed from fraternity porches or passing cars. “my freshman year i was walking down frat row behind bryant and [the fraternity] ato,” patterson said. “it was the middle of the day in the spring, and these dudes come out in a truck   they were leaving a day party   and they yelled out ‘nigger!’ at me. in the middle of the day.” her experience was typical of the black students i interviewed for this story, including spillers, and is consistent with stories i’ve heard from friends and with my own limited experiences. during a stay in one dormitory, it was not uncommon to overhear casually racist conversations in the halls or see slurs scribbled on bulletin boards. two black resident advisers were called “nigger” in front of me. many of my black friends flatly refused to walk behind old row alone   you never knew who you might run into, how drunk they’d be, or what they might do. all of these tensions boiled for years before the 2013 ua stands demonstration. and to some extent, they combined in the protest itself, which had hidden undercurrents of its own. to begin with, many of those who appeared were white, with the majority of black students present wearing the blue t shirts of the mallet assembly. according to spillers, johnson and patterson, most of the black organizations on campus weren’t informed, and those who were, including alpha phi alpha, chose to sit it out. part of that reticence was due to suspicion about the motives of ua stands’ organizers, johnson says, and part of it was due to suspecting that they were going to be used as political props in an attempt to garner more black support for a system that had no actual interest in them. adding to the confusion, the administration had taken its own steps to deal with the sorority problem. according to a new york times report, a few days before the protest, president bonner called representatives from the panhellenic sororities into a tense meeting and informed them she was declaring an open admissions process, effectively desegregating them by fiat. all of this had, as usual, taken place behind closed doors, and the administration’s silence had resulted in a public relations disaster. when they got wind of the imminent protest, they saw a way to turn things around. the day before the event, the administration summoned the leadership of ua stands. “there was an attempt to strong arm us,” ross green recalled. “they threatened all sorts of retribution: suspension, expulsion, police.” but eventually, he says, they worked out a deal: the administration took steps to address the integration issue, and the ua stands protest became a rally. to many observers, however, it seemed as if the administration had entirely co opted the conversation to play down the bad publicity. this was not an unfair assumption: in an interview with campus radio, judy bonner managed to simultaneously laud student pressure and pass the buck. “the students wanted to make this happen,” she said. “there were many barriers identified   one that was always discussed was media descending upon them.” in addition, bonner laid the responsibility for integrating campus greek life on traditionally black sororities as well as traditionally white ones, ignoring the fact that black greek organizations at ua do accept non black students who meet their criteria. still, for a while, it seemed like the university was finally serious about pursuing integration. on sept. 20, 2013, traditionally white sororities offered 14 bids to black women, six of whom accepted. the faculty senate likewise created a diversity task force, which offered several recommendations for reforming the sga. (according to donna meester, faculty senate president, these recommendations remain under consideration.) the historic barrier had been cracked, if not smashed, and the potential was there for a change in the racial dynamics at ua. the question was whether it would stick. as the fall 2013 semester ground on, a curious silence settled across the university of alabama. after submitting to the open bidding   a process by which offers were extended to potential sisters whether they participated through the formal rush or not   the sororities closed ranks. multiple sources told me that several of the organizations conducting open recruitment quietly continued to stonewall attempts to add black women. according to an article in insideec, the continuous open bidding director of kappa delta left her position after two weeks, calling the experience of trying to integrate her sorority "the most miserable thing [she’d] ever done in [her] entire life." the six black pledges were forbidden from speaking to the press. one of them, a freshman named destyne brown, told inside ec that she’d been encouraged not to participate in interviews with cnn and other media outlets: “they were just like, ‘no, you don’t need that.’ i would have. the crimson white tried to interview me, too, but i couldn’t.” meanwhile, greek students like sam creden   a friend of mine   who had spoken publicly to the media during the protest found themselves shunned by their fraternities. the sga, for its part, refused to comment on the entire affair at all. meanwhile, the progressive sector stalled out. ua stands folded in the month following the demonstration, giving rise to to student organizations like sodel (students for open doors and ethical leadership) and blend, each of which attempted to bring together student leaders and foster an open dialogue about campus culture. the organizers of sodel hoped to harness enough groundswell support to build something ua hadn’t seen for years   a viable independent coalition capable of challenging the machine. but while the groups had some scattered success in organizing events, they’d lost the momentum. one by one, they pivoted toward other campus issues. “everyone wanted to do something,” recalled elliot spillers. he’s a senior now and still lanky, with an easy smile and a deliberate manner of speech. “you had sodel and blend, you had the progressive potluck…. you had these exact same organizations who were doing the exact same things. and i’m in both meetings, thinking, ‘why don’t you merge together for the betterment of campus?’ but they didn’t want to do that.” spillers had been a peripheral figure in campus politics since he arrived in 2012, a self described military brat majoring in business management. but he’d been making a name for himself through a mixture of slick presentation and raw charisma, a clinton like ability to slap backs and remember names. he had a particular skill for making white greek students feel comfortable, presenting himself as a sharply dressed kid who spoke their language, shrugging off whatever insults came his way. that chameleonic unflappability also doubles as a preemptive defense. “i’m a very optimistic personality,” spillers said. “if i’m the only black person you ever meet in your entire life, i’m gonna make damn sure it’s going to be good. i want you to know that i’m not a stereotype.” in a way, he said, it’s a bit like being a politician: “you have to constantly redefine and fine tune yourself. you always have to be aware of your surroundings. you always have to be aware of who’s listening to you.” those networking skills didn’t help spillers much in his first election, a spur of the moment run at the sga senate in spring 2013. he had the support and mentorship of campus leaders like the sga’s sydney page, herself the latest in a tradition of black political operators stretching back to cleo thomas. but, as spillers freely admits, he wasn’t ready. he had also picked a particularly unfortunate time to make the attempt. according to andrew parks, student columnist and the director of political engagement with the nonprofit united alabama project, the 2013 elections were a general mess. widespread apathy led to an abysmal 18 percent voter turnout, a new low even for the generally uninterested voting populace at ua. most of the machine candidates for executive positions ran uncontested. page, who’d taken an appointed directorship position with the sga, selected spillers as her deputy. he crossed back and forth across campus throughout the fall 2013 semester, talking to student groups and taking part in the ua stands demonstration, networking as he went. as the protest faded into the rearview mirror and the 2014 sga elections appeared on the horizon, spillers felt it was time to take another crack at it. this time he decided to go for an executive position. vice president of student affairs, he felt, would fit his interests nicely. that decision that put him on his first collision course with the machine. the political processes of ua’s student government are somewhat murky at the best of times, an issue not helped by the fact that most of them take place in secret. but it’s necessary here to note a few points. the first is that the university currently lacks student specific political parties, a state of affairs dating back to the 1993 knife attack on minda riley. the incident was so outrageous (and the identity of her father, state senator and governor to be bob riley, so august) that the administration lost patience and dissolved student government for three years. it was an attempt to uproot the machine for good, but it ended up having the opposite effect. when the constitution was rewritten, parks said, the revisers forbade the formation of partisan organizations. the machine skated under this restriction by not technically existing. however, the decision hamstrung independent politicians by requiring them to run either alone or in loose factions, scrambling for votes wherever they could. also notable is the nebulous method by which the machine selects its candidates. in essence, member houses take turns to offer candidates, which are then voted on by the assembled representatives. but in practice, this mechanism is apparently complicated by some fairly byzantine scheming: a houses’ turn can be delayed or taken away should they incur the machine’s displeasure. a 2011 report by the crimson white noted that there was no formal process for gaining a nomination, but for the most part, the process spits out a succession of uncontroversial candidates. for the 2014 elections, the machine’s choice for vpsa was stephen “stevie” keller, a finance major from baton rouge and a member of delta kappa epsilon, an old row fraternity. according to several sources, stevie (who refused several requests for comment for this story) had a reputation for high handedness and arrogance that made him unpopular in greek circles. getting the machine nomination meant that his election to the vpsa was all but assured. he came into the election with a dependable voting block of more than 7,000, a crushing figure in a campus election. the results weren’t even close: when election day arrived on march 10, keller walked away with 59 percent of the vote. but election day also brought a snag. keller and his associates spent the day passing out lime green fliers listing candidates affiliated with a group labeled “students for experienced leadership.” this, naturally, was the machine slate, which presented a problem: while loose factions weren’t illegal under sga rules, directly campaigning for affiliated candidates was distinctly not kosher. a visitor to the university, chris allen, surreptitiously recorded keller handing out the fliers, and then spoke to keller himself. “so you know these guys?” he asked the candidate. “this is your group?” on the recording, keller told him that it was. but when asked about it in a subsequent interview on campus radio, keller floundered, claiming to have no knowledge of the group. the fliers, he said, had been a gift from an independent group of students, whom he’d never met and had no contact with. “do you know who paid for these fliers?” the reporter asked him. “no, sir,” keller replied. “i was just handed a handful and i told everyone, ‘thank you very much.’” “when your financial report comes out,” the reporter pressed, “is it going to say anything about this green form?” “uh,” keller said. “no, it’s actually not. i only report finances i personally spent, and like i said, i was handed fliers, and i started handing them out to students, thank you very much.” in essence, not only had keller been caught in a lie, he had admitted to election fraud on air. he’d been caught distributing materials which he hadn’t paid for, which carried a penalty of immediate disqualification according to the sga elections board handbook. spillers, who’d raked in a respectable 4,000 votes of his own, filed an immediate complaint with the board. “that’s pretty bold, you know, to admit that out in the public,” he told the radio station. “if justice should have it, he would get disqualified.” for a week, the position of vpsa sat in limbo while the elections board deliberated. then the decision was handed down; the board declared that keller had violated the rules, despite submitting a disclosure form that included the funds at the last possible minute on election day. his sentence: 75 hours of community service. the office of vpsa, despite the written rules, would remain his. keller’s response was to complain about the wrist slapping to the crimson white: “in every way, i followed the specific rules that are listed in the elections manual.” “it hurt,” spillers told me, when i asked him about it a year later. the subject brought an uncharacteristic bluntness. “the fact that in bold print it said that ‘failure to turn in any financial disclosure form is subject to disqualification,’ and that he didn’t get disqualified. they made an entire runaround excuse for how it wasn’t illegal...but even speaking with him personally, he didn’t want it. he didn’t authentically see the motive behind the office. what it meant. what it entailed. the students he’d be serving. he wanted it for the power or the title.” overall, not a single independent student won an executive position in the 2014 election. the machine celebrated by busily tamping down dissent in the sga, where one of their own senators, katie smith, had broken ranks to ally with chisolm allenlundy, an independent senator, in order to propose a nonbinding resolution calling for the full integration of the greek system. smith, a member of alpha omicron pi, had already been in hot water with the machine for leaking evidence of their influence in the 2013 tuscaloosa municipal elections, and her attempts to get the organization to back a similar resolution around the time of the ua stands demonstration came to nothing. by march 21, smith lost her temper. she quit the machine and immediately brought the resolution to the sga senate. the session that ensued was one of the most hostile she ever attended, she told me, full of people who had clearly been coached against her bill. “someone asked me in the senate why i thought alabama has a problem of racism,” she said, a note of disbelief creeping into her voice. “first of all, we’re debating this right now on a senate floor in 2014. i think that’s an indication that alabama has a problem of racism.” the bill was summarily killed as the old student government left office, surprising nobody. but this proved to be a miscalculation; after widespread national scorn, the new sga senate hurriedly brought the bill back up for a vote under the name of a machine senator. this time it passed by an overwhelming majority. “i am proud of the senate’s dedication to integration,” hamilton bloom, the new machine backed president, wrote in a statement to the crimson white. “although our university has come very far over the past two semesters, we still have a long road ahead, and my administration is fully dedicated to seeing and encouraging results.” round one had gone, as so many had, to the machine. spillers, however, was preparing for round two. the 2014 2015 academic year dawned with a scream, a rolling sound that echoed through the hot air like high pitched thunder. on aug. 16, more than 2,000 women decked in dresses and pearls flooded from the massive expanse of bryant denny stadium, stampeding in long lines down the streets of sorority row toward their appointed houses. the participants in ua’s first integrated sorority rush, by far the largest in the nation’s history, had just received their bids. like most “bid days,” it was a festive event, the culmination of two grueling weeks of rush. but this time the festivities were restricted: in a sharp departure from previous years, the media access to rush was heavily controlled, with on the street interviews forbidden and all inquiries directed toward the university’s office of media relations. instead, ua provided a set of numbers to the press: of the 2,054 women who received bids, 21 were black. the effectiveness of the integration initiative was still an open question: while this was a step up from last year, observers agreed, 25 students out of over 2,000 was an uncomfortably small number. several of the sorority women i spoke with (none of whom wanted me to use their names) brushed the issue off as one of cultural differences. black women, they opined, were less likely to be comfortable in panhellenic settings. since this had been the public explanation panhellenic sororities used when dropping black candidates prior to integration, many independents viewed this claim with suspicion. but there was some truth to it; none of the black students i talked to were particularly eager to become the token black member of an all white sorority. “i personally did not want to go into the panhellenic system,” patterson told me, “even though i’d been approached.” the real issue, patterson said, was socioeconomic, with an emphasis on the economics. according to ua panhellenic website, sororities are incredibly expensive, with dues as high as $6,500 per year for those living in house. that’s more than many black students are able to pay, patterson said, especially for those who have to work, or are the first in their families to attend college. in addition, most panhellenic sororities place a premium on an upper class cultural background, complete with internships, prestigious schools and expensive vacations. some black students are interested in that environment, patterson said, and can afford it. but most others tend to gravitate to black greek life, which is cheaper and more welcoming. patterson herself joined aka, a historically black sorority, and served as chapter president. it’s a more comfortable environment for her, she said: “we have a plethora of cultural differences in aka. there’s people from all over the country; there’s people from different socioeconomic statuses.” nonetheless, on bid day the ua administration took pains to assure people that no black woman who’d been interested had been left out. “every young woman identifying herself as african american received a bid,” an administration official told the crimson white. “none withdrew from recruitment or were released.” in other words, everything had been entirely above board. problem solved. no embarrassments. the first embarrassment arrived that afternoon, after a snapchat showing three smiling white women and the tagline “chi o got no niggas!” began circulating on campus. (the statement was not only offensive but also incorrect: chi omega had in fact pledged a handful of black women.) this time, the administration managed not to be caught flat footed, releasing a statement monday that condemned the image and promised action would be taken. the huffington post reported a few days later that chi omega had expelled the girl responsible. but more racially tinged incidents arrived soon afterward: a few weeks later, two female students filed separate police reports claiming sexual harassment by black men, both of which were later recanted, according to reports on al.com. the most spectacular flare up came on sept. 21, in the form of an unsubstantiated shooter threat warning members of the white greek system to expect retribution in the name of “minorities.” the threat sparked a panicked exodus from sorority row, forced the cancellation of classes and led to a police search of tutwiler hall, a women’s dorm. by the time the dust cleared, two white fraternity brothers were arrested for encouraging the panic by sending anonymous threats of their own as a practical joke. both were charged with making terroristic threats. the original culprit was never found. despite the best efforts of the administration, the campus was once again smothered by a strange, expectant atmosphere. between the media shy sororities and the weird events of september, there was a strong sense of forces stirring behind the scenes. you could sense it in the air, one friend wrote to me: “it feels like everyone’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.” spillers, now a junior, had been appointed assistant vice president of student affairs as a goodwill gesture by keller. but working under keller had not been productive, spillers told me: he’d been stymied in his attempts to do anything with the position on his own, and keller had chosen to hold his staff meetings on nights when elliot had class. if anything, the entire experience had hardened his resolve. next election, he decided, he was going for the presidency. that october, he gathered a group of people together to figure out how to make that happen. the people in the room with spillers all had various connections to ua’s political scene. chisolm allenlundy, the original co writer of the sga integration resolution, came on as his political strategist. andrew parks of the united alabama project was in the room as well. together they sat down with recorded elections data from the past several years, parks recalled, crunching numbers, scribbling on whiteboards, trying to figure out what it would take to beat the machine. the voting bloc they were up against was nearly impossible to beat even by rallying the scattered groups of the independent caucus. the only way to win, they realized, was to somehow split the greek vote. that strategy had worked in 1976, when cleo thomas won the presidency by rallying the sororities, and in 1986, when current alabama secretary of state john merrill did the same with new row fraternities. but both times, parks said, the machine had quickly recruited the rogue greek houses into its structure, offering them more power as an incentive to toe the line. spillers was going to have to find some new cracks to exploit in order to build his own coalition. as it happened, a few such fissures had begun to open within even the oldest greek houses. these were difficult to detect from the outside   only john brinkerhoff, a friend and colleague of mine from the crimson white and an alumni of sigma phi epsilon, would speak to me on the record about it. according to brinkerhoff, the convulsions around the sorority segregation scandal forced many of the chapters on campus into quiet conversations about their racial makeup. small numbers of greek students, most of them from out of state, had pushed for integration prior to the protest. but their efforts petered out, undercut by widespread lack of interest, resistance from alumni, or fear of social ostracization from other chapters. none of the large organizations were willing to make the first step, brinkerhoff said. the crimson white article, and the ensuing protest and media coverage, finally forced them to move. “a huge amount of it was pr awareness,” brinkerhoff said. there had been internal pressure in various houses on the subject of integration for decades, he said, but without sustained outside pressure, the topic never seemed to go anywhere. the overwhelming attention from the protest gave the reformers inside the greek system some ammunition. “a lot of white students who never had an outlet to express their dissatisfaction with the racial status quo on campus finally had an outlet to stand up and say something,” brinkerhoff said. “and as a functional issue, out of state students were a lot of the ones who were protesting. they hadn't been fully indoctrinated into the tradition.” in the aftermath, brinkerhoff said, when it was clear to everyone that integration wasn’t going anywhere, some members tried to draw in more minority pledges   with varying degrees of success   and pushed their chapters to adopt a more open posture. but comprehensive change remained rare, frustrating those working on the inside. “generally, the rest of the greek community still doesn’t care,” brinkerhoff said. “which shows the lesson hasn’t translated.” if somebody from outside could reach the disaffected, however   and provide them with a packaged opportunity to make a political point of their displeasure   there was a good chance that they would flip. spillers went to work. meanwhile, rumors began to filter out that stephen keller was working to get himself on the machine slate for the presidency. in theory, parks said, keller’s position had never been stronger: the vpsa position had traditionally functioned as a direct stepping stone into the position, and keller was the presumptive nominee. if he won the machine slate, it was his election to lose. but the support keller needed wasn’t surfacing, parks said. he remained unpopular, and the way he’d handled the fiasco with the fliers made him look unreliable and easily flustered. keller thus found himself fighting for a nomination others had coasted into. keller hustled for backing in the traditional way: by showering largesse on the right people. “i’m friends with him on facebook,” allenlundy said. “i saw pictures of him, where he’d brought a bunch of friends to his sister’s extravagant wedding in baton rouge … and i was looking at these pictures and thinking, ‘i know these people. they’re all machine reps.’” parks confirmed that story and added another: that keller took four machine reps to the 2015 sugar bowl, a college football semifinal in new orleans. on feb. 17, a month before the election, the machine representatives held a meeting to determine their slate. parks, who spoke to people who were in the meeting, said that it was a tense gathering. representatives from sigma nu, an old row fraternity, went after keller, questioning his electability and experience. instead they offered a challenger from their own house: tate thomas. in the end, parks said, it came down to a vote by the representatives. when the doors opened, keller walked out the nominee, having won by a narrow 16 14 vote. according to a friend of chisolm’s, one of the machine representatives allegedly stormed out of the room, rounded on another rep, and snarled, “he’s going to lose. and we’re going to lose our block seating.” it was a comment that embodied an absurdity at the heart of alabama student politics   corruption not just in the service of political power, but also in the interest of keeping good seats at crimson tide football games. spillers capitalized on the dissension. as the official opening of campaign season approached, he stepped up his efforts to reach out to greek houses. his girlfriend was a member of the machine sorority alpha gamma delta, and through her, spillers was able to gain their support. soon afterward, he scored another coup: with allenlundy acting as go between, spillers managed to forge a historic alliance with tate thomas, placing them on the same ticket and thereby dragging sigma nu halfway out of the machine’s orbit. still smarting from keller’s successful bid for the machine nomination, allenlundy said, the fraternity wasn’t hard to persuade. spillers’ other connections in ua greek life paid off as he picked up steam. three years’ worth of networking and glad handing had given him backing in every corner of ua. chi omega and alpha omicron pi, both machine sororities, lent him partial support, and individuals from various machine houses broke ranks to support him on the sly. “throughout my years at the university,” spillers told me before the election, “i had friends in the machine who went against it to help me out. that’s happening again. that’s how i know something is changing. not the entire machine, but friends of mine believe in me enough to back me.” when election season officially began on feb. 26, both campaigns hit the ground running. spillers stood as the only independent executive candidate against a nearly full machine slate. in an interview with the crimson white, he unveiled his platform, complete with promises to tackle transparency, raise awareness of student mental health issues and develop ways to help victims of sexual assault. all the preparation and false starts had paid off: this time, when he stepped into the spotlight, he was electric. he sailed through debates and interviews alike, unshaken by incidents like stolen campaign banners, spinning out a narrative that enfolded the upheavals and disappointments of the past few years. “ua is for all,” he told people. “not for some.” to a student body drained by the struggles around the sorority integration and drained by the constant media furors, it was precisely the right message. an obama like subtext bubbled under everything, in the #spillthevote hashtags flooding social media, in the rapturous enthusiasm that greeted spillers online. he was the black candidate of change, and keller was the face of the establishment. keller fought back, declaring himself independently minded and championing his sga experience, but the ground beneath him was slipping. quietly, parks said, the machine shifted its focus toward electing the rest of its sga senators. the campus held its breath. at 8 p.m. on march 10, the online polls closed. on the side of the quad that had hosted the ua stands march, the spillers campaign staff crowding the tiny brick toumey hall erupted in cheers. the cheers spread across the quad, through the dorms, out onto the streets, across the internet. elliot spillers had won the sga presidency by 58 percent of the vote, the crimson white reported, smashing stephen keller and becoming the second black student government president in the university of alabama’s history. he took office on march 31 on a campus with integrated sororities, backed by one of the largest voter turnouts recently seen on ua’s campus. “we did it,” spillers told his supporters. “thank you. we all did it.” the news reports flashed, glowing, proud: the machine was beaten. change had really, officially come to alabama. what does it mean to move into the 21st century? throughout the course of reporting this story, i grappled with this question. there’s an ever present temptation to view change as a wave rolling up a beach, sweeping everything in its path. a new person is elected. a system is altered. the water pounds at the sand. and yet when the wave rolls out, the beach remains. shifted, yes, reorganized, layers of sediment jumbled or scoured away. but the coastline stretches on. spillers’ problems began with his inauguration on april 1st, 2014. he took office alone, after his running mate tate thomas lost a runoff election to the machine candidate. the machine now controls the rest of the executive board and most of the sga senate. over the last months of the spring 2015 semester, spillers fought tooth and nail to select his own chief of staff, nominating first allenlundy, then a junior named douglas logan, then allenlundy again. each time the senate voted them down. spillers eventually got his way: the sga judicial board stepped in on april 21, overturning the senate’s decision and allowing allenlundy to take the position. but his allies also had trouble. attempts by the united alabama project to sponsor election reform legislation were also unceremoniously killed, parks said, despite several speeches in favor and a poll showing support from over 60 percent of campus. “[the machine] is running the ‘party of no’ strategy,” parks told me. “i think by the time this is over, [spillers’ administration] is going to have to stand up and fight…. elliot wants to revive some bills, including the elections bill. he’s planning on tackling sexual assault. i’m fully expecting the machine to oppose them on every single one of those things.” whether or not that will prove true remains to be seen. the machine has, for the moment, suffered a blow. but the machine has suffered blows before and proved resilient: its most potent weapon is the regular turnover of students and the resulting instability and apathy of the wider student body. i’ve lost count of the number of people who lamented to me that if only people cared, if only enough people voted, the machine could be squashed again and again. spiller’s election proved that to be true. but then, cleo thomas and john merrill proved it as well, and each was preceded and succeeded by a long string of machine presidents. politics as usual rules at alabama as much as anywhere else: past the occasional flare of interest aroused by a charismatic candidate like elliot, people ignore student government. the panhellenic sororities are integrated now; but as of the 2015 sorority rush, integration at alabama looks like 241 minority students spread across a pledge class of 2,261. this has not stopped at least one sorority from recently advertising itself with a tone deaf recruitment video that features uniformly white and blond members cavorting on the quad, not a minority woman to be seen. (the university of alabama, once again acting with uncharacteristic speed, condemned the video.) a few of the fraternities also pledge a black student every now and then   because their pledge process is much more informal, it’s hard to monitor in the same way. that opacity has now spread to the sororities, too: beginning this year, the university will no longer release more specific demographic numbers, citing “safety” concerns. besides, 241 minority women is a much nicer figure than 21 black ones. yet here is a truth that is difficult to acknowledge: even if alabama’s palatial greek houses threw open their doors to black students, their racial composition would hardly change. according to the ua penhellenic association, the average cost to live in a sorority house can run as high as $26,000 for four years. the ua interfraternity council lists the typical price of fraternity life at $18,440 for the same amount of time. as patterson pointed out, this simply too much for most black students to pay. culturally, the traditionally white organizations prize the kind of upper class activities that most minority students in alabama often cannot afford. the black women who successfully joined panhellenic sororities were exceptional candidates, in that all of them were exceptions. the majority of national greek organizations write in their guidelines that they do not condone discrimination of any kind. yet the de facto segregation that’s still common at ua is still common around the country: in 2010, matthew hughey, an assistant professor of sociology university of connecticut, performed a study of diversity in greek organizations. the resulting paper, “a paradox of participation” concluded that, while small numbers of minority students occasionally make it into traditionally white organizations across the country, by and large they remain marginal figures once inside. hughey records several examples of this; black students who are assumed to be more intimately acquainted with poverty and charity, and are often pushed into chapter community service positions as a result; minority students who are subjected to more extensive hazing or drinking, under the assumption that they can “take it”; and most commonly, minority members pressured into performing a sanitized version of stereotypical racial identities. “while it remains possible for blacks to gain entry to [white greek life organizations] and even ‘climb the ranks’ as leaders and gatekeepers of particular institutional activities,” hughey wrote, “it is clear that such material transformation does not equate with a change in the cultural logic of the institution.” it should surprise nobody that the dominant cultural practices of panhellenic and ifc greek life follow those of traditionally upper crust white society, and anyone who joins has to conform to those roles. but it is worth pausing to wonder whether such values are incompatible with fostering diversity of any kind; if indeed, they are not actively inimical to it. by breaking an explicit color line, ua’s greek system now stands with the rest of the country: minority students are no longer excluded specifically on the basis of race, but on the basis of class and social background. in this more enlightened century, such metrics are a much more effective method of keeping them out. yet the most insidious facet of life at the university of alabama remains its culture of backroom dealing. this is most easily noted in the greek system, where students, whatever their political allegiances, tend to lock ranks when publically questioned. sometimes this is due to overwhelming social pressure not to rock the boat, or explicit policies regarding contact with the media. in other cases, internal conflict keeps people silent. “some people are very proud of their fraternity or sorority,” brinkerhoff said. “you love it even though you're ashamed of it. you take pride in it even though you hate it. it's a very complex, nuanced relationship, so trying to get people to speak publicly on it almost inherently requires them to trash something they love.” meanwhile, politics are still conducted with a minimum of transparency and no accountability, parks said. the united alabama project is attempting to combat this by releasing the names and voting records of sga senators, urging students to contact those politicians whose votes they disagree with. but while these are promising first steps, they have yet to take root as a systemic reform, and as long as the machine maintains control of the sga senate, they are unlikely to do so. this culture of silence has infiltrated other parts of campus life as well: underground societies like the white rose society and the mysterious argentum operate in the strictest confidence, recruiting a network of student leaders from all corners of ua to help their agenda. argentum is in some ways a classic case: its existence has never been publicly verified in the ways the machine has. while former argentum member marina roberts (who, full disclosure, is a close friend) insists that the group is benevolent, and that its covertness exists only to ensure the recruitment of those truly invested in helping campus, she also acknowledges that secrecy itself is corrosive. according to the 1992 esquire article, theta nu epsilon, the national organization that birthed the alabama machine, also believed at its inception that working underground guaranteed selflessness. now, that secrecy allows the machine and other groups alike to operate without accountability or oversight, a situation that is ripe for abuse, and contributes to a cloud of mistrust and paranoia that smothers ua. and yet the ua administration is the worst offender of all in this respect. the board of trustees is almost comically opaque; according to a report by al.com, several members have personal or professional ties to the same bank and a tendency to meet in secret, in defiance of state law. “the entire board, going back several decades, appears to be a group whose primary role is to establish and maintain relationships with politicians and wealthy donors,” writes david pelfrey in “a river ruined through it,” a damning investigation into the trustees’ attempts to sell shepherd bend, a plot of land immediately upstream from a birmingham water intake, for surface coal mining. one of those wealthy donors, trustee emeritus gary neal drummond, is allegedly responsible for pressuring the board to put the land up for sale, pelfrey reports. drummond coal company, by the way, has been sued three times for allying with right wing colombian paramilitary groups involved in the murder of union leaders. ua has also gone through three presidents in four years, with the third, judy bonner, abruptly stepping down this summer with hardly any explanation. “i would like to return to my first love,” she announced in a press release, “which is teaching and working more directly with students.” her predecessor, guy bailey, began the job in september 2012, ordered the shutdown of fraternity pledgeship in the wake of a massive hazing scandal on oct. 18, and resigned on oct. 31. he told al.com in a subsequent interview that the decision had more to do with his wife’s poor health and miscommunications with trustees than with his action with the greek community. this was probably true. but the administration’s compulsive tight lippedness meant that few people believed it. step away from the details, however, and a larger issue presents itself. yes, alabama has changed: the days when the machine operated with complete impunity are gone, and the campus is more integrated now than it has been in years. and the campus population itself is changing: 45 percent of the student body now comes from out of state, a demographic shift that promises to further unsettle campus power dynamics. but how much that change actually matters is an open question. to speak as if this moment represents progress is to succumb to the softest possible bigotry of the lowest possible expectations. the same racial issues present on ua’s campus have metastasized for years in every corner of the country, often in more violent and tragic forms, checked only by a halting awareness on the part of the wider populace. the same obstructionism and lack of transparency the sga demonstrates is endemic to most of our modern political processes. the same superstructure of class undergirds every institution in our culture. if the university of alabama has truly joined the rest of america in the 21st century, then that is a damning statement for america. in 1963, wallace stood aside and the campus changed. in 1976, cleo thomas got himself elected as alabama’s first black sga president, and the campus changed. in 1993, the sga was disbanded and reformed, and the campus changed. in 2013, the sororities were integrated, and the campus changed. in 2015, elliot spillers was elected as alabama’s second black student government president, and the campus changed. each change was a wave, chewing on the shore, rearranging the sand. the beach remains. we’re all waiting for the wave that sticks. subscribestoriesgeneral store podcastfoodwayspartner stories about usteamcontact media kitcustomer servicesubmissions the bitter southerner ©2025 all rights reserved.

each of our resources is free, scholar reviewed, and easy to implement. browse our full collection by subject, grade level, era, or term. showcase your service project for a chance to win $10,000! myimpact challenge accepts projects that are charitable, government intiatives, or entrepreneurial in nature. open to students aged 13 19. make the most immediate impact through a gift to bri today to promote freedom and opportunity for students and teachers across america. we seek an america where we more perfectly realize the promise of liberty and equality expressed in the declaration of independence. this calls for civic education that helps students examine the story of our country and exercise the skills of citizenship. martin luther king jr. wrote the letter from birmingham jail while he was imprisoned for leading nonviolent civil rights demonstrations in alabama in 1963. the letter from birmingham jail explains why mlk believed people had a responsibility to follow just laws and a duty to break unjust ones. letter from birmingham jail pdf letter from birmingham jail | primary source essentials dr. martin luther king, jr. april 16, 1963 my dear fellow clergymen, while confined here in the birmingham city jail, i came across your recent statement calling our present activities “unwise and untimely.” seldom, if ever, do i pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas … but since i feel that you are men of genuine good will and your criticisms are sincerely set forth, i would like to answer your statement in what i hope will be patient and reasonable terms. i think i should give the reason for my being in birmingham, since you have been influenced by the argument of “outsiders coming in.” i have the honor of serving as president of the southern christian leadership conference, an organization operating in every southern state with headquarters in atlanta, georgia. we have some 85 affiliate organizations all across the south … several months ago our local affiliate here in birmingham invited us to be on call to engage in a nonviolent direct action program if such were deemed necessary. we readily consented. in any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: 1) collection of the facts to determine whether injustices are alive; 2) negotiation; 3) self purification; and 4) direct action. we have gone through all of these steps in birmingham … birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the united states. its ugly record of police brutality is known in every section of the country. its unjust treatment of negroes in the courts is a notorious reality. there have been more unsolved bombings of negro homes and churches in birmingham than in any city in this nation. these are the hard, brutal, and unbelievable facts. on the basis of these conditions negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. but the political leaders consistently refused to engage in good faith negotiation. then came the opportunity last september to talk with some of the leaders of the economic community. in these negotiating sessions certain promises were made by the merchants such as the promise to remove the humiliating racial signs from the stores. on the basis of these promises reverend shuttlesworth and the leaders of the alabama christian movement for human rights agreed to call a moratorium on any type of demonstrations. as the weeks and months unfolded we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. the signs remained. as in so many experiences in the past, we were confronted with blasted hopes, and the dark shadow of a deep disappointment settled upon us. so we had no alternative except that of preparing for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and national community. we were not unmindful of the difficulties involved. so we decided to go through the process of self purification. we started having workshops on nonviolence and repeatedly asked ourselves the questions, “are you able to accept the blows without retaliating?” “are you able to endure the ordeals of jail?” you may well ask, “why direct action? why sit ins, marches, etc.? isn’t negotiation a better path?” you are exactly right in your call for negotiation. indeed, this is the purpose of direct action. nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and establish such creative tension that a community that has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. my friends, i must say to you that we have not made a single gain in civil rights without legal and nonviolent pressure. history is the long and tragic story of the fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. individuals may see the moral light and give up their unjust posture; but as reinhold niebuhr has reminded us, groups are more immoral than individuals. we know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. frankly i have never yet engaged in a direct action movement that was “well timed,” according to the timetable of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. for years now i have heard the word “wait!” it rings in the ear of every negro with a piercing familiarity. this “wait” has almost always meant “never.” it has been a tranquilizing thalidomide, relieving the emotional stress for a moment, only to give birth to an ill formed infant of frustration. we must come to see with the distinguished jurist of yesterday that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” we have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and god given rights. the nations of asia and africa are moving with jetlike speed toward the goal of political independence, and we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward the gaining of a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. i guess it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say wait. but when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick, brutalize, and even kill your black brothers and sisters with impunity; when you see the vast majority of your 20 million negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see the tears welling up in her little eyes when she is told that funtown is closed to colored children, and see the depressing clouds of inferiority begin to form in her little mental sky, and see her begin to distort her little personality by unconsciously developing a bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking in agonizing pathos: “daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?” when you take a cross country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” men and “colored” when your first name becomes “nigger” and your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “john,” and when your wife and mother are never given the respected title of “mrs.” when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a negro, living constantly at tip toe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness” then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. there comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into an abyss of injustice where they experience the bleakness of corroding despair. i hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience. i must make two honest confessions to you, my christian and jewish brothers. first, i must confess that over the last few years i have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. i have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the negro’s great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the white citizens’ “councilor” or the ku klux klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says “i agree with you in the goal you seek, but i can’t agree with your methods of direst action” who paternistically feels that he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by the myth of time and who constantly advises the negro to wait until a “more convenient season.” shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. you spoke of our activity in birmingham as extreme. at first i was rather disappointed that fellow clergymen would see my nonviolent efforts as those of an extremist. i started thinking about the fact that i stand in the middle of two opposing forces in the negro community. one is a force of complacency made up of negroes who, as a result of long years of oppression, have been so completely drained of self respect and a sense of “somebodiness” that they have adjusted to segregation, and a few negroes in the middle class who, because of a degree of academic and economic security, and at points they profit from segregation, have unconsciously become insensitive to the problems of the masses. the other force is one of bitterness and hatred and comes perilously close to advocating violence. it is expressed in the various black nationalist groups that are springing up over the nation, the largest and best known being elijah muhammad’s muslim movement. this movement is nourished by the contemporary frustration over the continued existence of racial discrimination. it is made up of people who have lost faith in america, who have absolutely repudiated christianity, and who have concluded that the white man is an incurable “devil.” the negro has many pent up resentments and latent frustrations. he has to get them out. so let him march sometime; let him have his prayer pilgrimages to the city hall; understand why he must have sit ins and freedom rides. if his repressed emotions do not come out in these nonviolent ways, they will come out in ominous expressions of violence. this is not a threat; it is a fact of history. so i have not said to my people, “get rid of your discontent.” but i have tried to say that this normal and healthy discontent can be channeled through the creative outlet of nonviolent direct action. in spite of my shattered dreams of the past, i came to birmingham with the hope that the white religious leadership in the community would see the justice of our cause and, with deep moral concern, serve as the channel through which our just grievances could get to the power structure. i had hoped that each of you would understand. but again i have been disappointed. i have heard numerous religious leaders of the south call upon their worshippers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but i have longed to hear white ministers say follow this decree because integration is morally right and the negro is your brother. in the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the negro, i have watched white churches stand on the sideline and merely mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. in the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, i have heard so many ministers say, “those are social issues with which the gospel has no real concern,” and i have watched so many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which made a strange distinction between body and soul, the sacred and the secular. i hope this letter finds you strong in the faith. i also hope that circumstances will soon make it possible for me to meet each of you, not as an integrationist or a civil rights leader, but as a fellow clergyman and a christian brother. let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear drenched communities and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all of their scintillating beauty. yours for the cause of peace and brotherhood, (king, martin luther, jr.) “letter from a birmingham jail.” accessed 3/24/21 https://www.africa.upenn.edu/articles_gen/letter_birmingham.html join the bri network! get the latest institute news, new resource notifications, and more through a newsletter subscription. don't miss out!

u.s. intellectual history blog lauren anderson may 24, 2010 4 in my new outlook of the dissertation as only the beginning of a whole new journey of understanding, i’m going to try to read much more broadly this summer (beyond my own “derrida,” as the movie below points out, with much amusement). i’m just rereading “letter from a birmingham jail” by martin luther king, jr. the last time i read it, i completely understood his frustration with the “patience” and “wait” lines he had been fed growing up. now that i’ve written a dissertation on the generation before king, on blacks and whites who alternatively decried “patience” and advocated it, i’m seeing the “letter” with new eyes. we know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. frankly, i have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was “well timed” in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. for years now i have heard the word “wait!” it rings in the ear of every negro with piercing familiarity. this “wait” has almost always meant “never.” we must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” we have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and god given rights. the nations of asia and africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, “wait.” but when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; isn’t it interesting that king moves from horrifying violence and poverty to a more middle class exclusion from a theme park? perhaps this seems particularly noteworthy in the light of subsequent events, where the black middle class can now participate in most things it can afford, but violence and poverty are still realities. there is a side historiographical conversation about how king’s legacy has been tamed by “the media” (singh and hall are two i can think of) an idea i intuitively agree with, but that needs more step by step analysis. but what about king’s claim that “wait” means “never”? there are so many elements in that statement. one is youth. anna arnold hedgeman, in her autobiography, remembered a similar fierceness in her early years with the ywca in the 1920s. she got so frustrated with white board members controlling the finances of black “neighborhood” (read segregated) branches and then telling her and her cohort to be patient, to wait for change. and yet, it was the years that arnold hedgeman worked in the ywca, in the new york mayor’s first equal employment office, and with a. philip randolph to produce the march on washington that did produce change. there is a passion among the young to change the world right now. by placing his demands for rights and for change within waiting for 340 years, king glosses over the changes that had occurred since the constitution. he needed to his essay was one of the most masterful and powerful pieces of persuasion in the twentieth century. i can’t imagine it not being read for many more centuries. i’m starting to realize that one of the contributions of my dissertation is witnessing slow change by people who advocated patience (while working) and by people who criticized the patient. perhaps that is one of the major differences between the interwar generation of black leaders and the civil rights movement generation. even as i write that, i do not want to make it seem that african americans ever just accepted jim crow in the way that king tears apart. but they did live with it, while working against it. and that living and working make for fascinating study. did the group i study lay the foundations for the civil rights movement or turn into the “complacent” that king found himself fighting? i began thinking about the fact that i stand in the middle of two opposing forces in the negro community. one is a force of complacency, made up in part of negroes who, as a result of long years of oppression, are so drained of self respect and a sense of “somebodiness” that they have adjusted to segregation; and in part of a few middle class negroes who, because of a degree of academic and economic security and because in some ways they profit by segregation, have become insensitive to the problems of the masses. yes and yes. it is too simple a question. many black leaders in the 1930s criticized the black middle class for their distance from the “masses,” but it was a self critique. it was difficult to be both an intellectual and know for certain what motivated impoverished black people. abram harris, in particular, went through frequent self analysis about his own role as an intellectual and also frequently critiqued middle class african americans for not caring enough about economic injustice. yet, but the time of king’s writing, he might be considered one of those who “had academic and economic security” not because he accepted segregation, but because he was one of the few who broke through it into a position at the university of chicago (albeit a lesser position as only in the undergraduate college.). one of the members of my committee asked a perceptive question during my defense did i think that change happens in academics? or does the academic system necessarily limit and order radical thought? can we substitute the “academic system” for “white moderate” in the following king quote? i must make two honest confessions to you, my christian and jewish brothers. first, i must confess that over the past few years i have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. i have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the white citizen’s counciler or the ku klux klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “i agree with you in the goal you seek, but i cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. i think my dissertation offers a complicated answer yes, oftentimes academics chops off the most demanding calls for the ends of injustice. at the same time, the academy can also support those demands through careful thought and teaching positions. it is a difficult position one that is frequently discussed among theorists and analysts of the current state of black studies. (this is also a driving personal question for me are we all extremists? “so the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. will we be extremists for hate or for love? will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice?” (king). or is moderation possible? post 9 11, it seems to me that moderation was hailed and extremism deplored by a certain liberal and vocal subset of society. is that the more moral choice? if extremism is the better path, is it possible as an academic? can moderates be moral standard bearers, or are they necessarily moral cowards? do any of these questions even make sense outside of the particular moral question being asked?) tags: african americans, state of academia the society for u.s. intellectual history is a nonpartisan educational organization. the opinions expressed on the blog are strictly those of the individual writers and do not represent those of the society or of the writers’ employers. all text (including posts, pages, and comments) posted on this blog on or after august 7, 2012, is licensed under a creative commons attribution noncommercial sharealike 3.0 unported license. this blog is © 2007 2022 society for u.s. intellectual history. we ask that those who participate in the discussions generated in the comments section do so with the same decorum as they would in any other academic setting or context. since the usih bloggers write under our real names, we would prefer that our commenters also identify themselves by their real name. as our primary goal is to stimulate and engage in fruitful and productive discussion, ad hominem attacks (personal or professional), unnecessary insults, and/or mean spiritedness have no place in the usih blog’s comments section. therefore, we reserve the right to remove any comments that contain any of the above and/or are not intended to further the discussion of the topic of the post. we welcome suggestions for corrections to any of our posts. as the official blog of the society of us intellectual history, we hope to foster a diverse community of scholars and readers who engage with one another in discussions of us intellectual history, broadly understood. such a thoughtful and interesting post, lauren! it immediately made me think of two comparisons. first, if we are going to hear the voice of youth in king’s impatience in the letter, how interesting the peroration of his famous memphis speech becomes: and then i got into memphis. and some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. what would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers? well, i don’t know what will happen now. we’ve got some difficult days ahead. but it really doesn’t matter with me now, because i’ve been to the mountaintop. and i don’t mind. like anybody, i would like to live a long life. longevity has its place. but i’m not concerned about that now. i just want to do god’s will. and he’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. and i’ve looked over. and i’ve seen the promised land. i may not get there with you. but i want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land! and so i’m happy, tonight. i’m not worried about anything.i’m not fearing any man! mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord!! the most striking thing about that is still its bold invocation of moses and its eerily prophetic quality. but it’s also interesting to compare this king, just half a decade later, from the king that sat in that birmingham jail. i don’t think he’d have disagreed with anything he had written in the letter…but the note of impatience has been replaced with something else. the second comparison is less obvious…but more striking. when i taught the letter this spring, the words you quote in your final paragraph about “extremism” leapt out at me….and i thought of a famous speech from a little over a year later: i would remind you that extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice. and let me remind you also that moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue. i’m less sure what to do with this comparison…except, perhaps, to note that if martin luther king, jr. and barry goldwater are using such similar tropes, perhaps we are really seeing the beginnings of the collapse of the cold war liberal consensus (if there ever was such a thing). thanks to lauren’s great post, and to ben’s response, i have an idea for my class today. it’s a summer survey, post 1945 us. we’ll be talking about the conservative movement and the goldwater campaign. i am going to have them analyze goldwater’s famous vice/virtue speech, set in relief by mlk’s speech. that memphis speech always gives me the chills he really did know what was coming and had made his peace with it. andrew how did the class go? what did you and your students think of those two speeches? i still wonder whether it is worthwhile to discuss the merits and problems with moderation and extremism outside the specific moral issue? lauren: the class went pretty well. i set them up. after lecturing about 1950s and 1960s conservatism, we listened to the goldwater speech, and i talked about the john birch society and how the mention of “extremism” was a veiled reference to it. then i asked them to discuss whether extremism was inherently bad. a few of them said, no, not inherently, and pointed to the abolitionists as a case in point (although some said john brown took it too far, which made it clear that they’ve yet to be exposed to some of the recent historiography that rehabilitates brown.) most of the students, though, said extremism is a bad thing, and seemed to think it always ended in violence and even, perhaps, totalitarianism. hitler was brought up by more than one student. then i had them read the mlk speech. and, predictably, many changed their minds. too easy. comments are closed. eran zelnik february 17, 2015 ben alpers march 6, 2013 robert greene ii may 24, 2018 all text (including posts, pages, and comments) posted on this blog on or after august 7, 2012, is licensed under a creative commons attribution noncommercial sharealike 3.0 unported license. © 2007 2025 society for u.s. intellectual history

by duncan green it was martin luther king day this week, and save the kids boss kevin watkins tweeted a link to king’s 1963 letter from birmingham city jail, describing it as ‘a hymn for our times and a reminder of the ties that bind us’. so i took a look. it’s beautifully written, deeply moving, and gives some powerful analytical insights into the non violent direct action (nvda) movement that king was leading. the letter is long, so here are some excerpts for the tl;dr community. background: in april 1963, king was jailed in birmingham, alabama, after he defied a state court’s injunction and led a march of black protesters without a permit, urging an easter boycott of white owned stores. a statement published in the birmingham news, written by eight moderate white clergymen, criticized the march and other demonstrations. this prompted king to write a lengthy response, begun in the margins of the newspaper. he smuggled it out with the help of his lawyer, and the nearly 7,000 words were transcribed. why is he in birmingham? i cannot sit idly by in atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in birmingham. injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea. anyone who lives inside the united states can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds. what is nvda? in any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self purification; and direct action. we have gone through all these steps in birmingham. birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the united states. its ugly record of brutality is widely known. negroes have experienced grossly unjust treatment in the courts. there have been more unsolved bombings of negro homes and churches in birmingham than in any other city in the nation. these are the hard, brutal facts of the case. on the basis of these conditions, negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. but the latter consistently refused to engage in good faith negotiation. mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to undertake a process of self purification. we began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves: “are you able to accept blows without retaliating?” “are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?” the importance of creating tension: nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. it seeks so to dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored. my citing the creation of tension as part of the work of the nonviolent resister may sound rather shocking. but i must confess that i am not afraid of the word “tension.” i have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. why not wait? for years now i have heard the word “wait!” it rings in the ear of every negro with piercing familiarity. this “wait” has almost always meant “never.” we must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” we have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and god given rights. the nations of asia and africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, “wait.” but when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking: “daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger,” your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “john,” and your wife and mother are never given the respected title “mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness” then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. just v unjust laws: any law that uplifts human personality is just. an unjust law is a code that a numerical or power majority group compels a minority group to obey but does not make binding on itself. this is difference made legal. by the same token, a just law is a code that a majority compels a minority to follow and that it is willing to follow itself. this is sameness made legal. i submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law. the white moderate: i must confess that over the past few years i have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. i have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the white citizens’ counciler or the ku klux klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “i agree with you in the goal you seek, but i cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom. shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. reform v revolution: i stand in the middle of two opposing forces in the negro community. one is a force of complacency, made up in part of negroes who, as a result of long years of oppression, are so drained of self respect and a sense of “somebodiness” that they have adjusted to segregation; and in part of a few middle class negroes who, because of a degree of academic and economic security and because in some ways they profit by segregation, have become insensitive to the problems of the masses. the other force is one of bitterness and hatred, and it comes perilously close to advocating violence. it is expressed in the various black nationalist groups that are springing up across the nation, the largest and best known being elijah muhammad’s muslim movement. nourished by the negro’s frustration over the continued existence of racial discrimination, this movement is made up of people who have lost faith in america, who have absolutely repudiated christianity, and who have concluded that the white man is an incorrigible “devil.” i have tried to stand between these two forces, saying that we need emulate neither the “do nothingism” of the complacent nor the hatred and despair of the black nationalist. for there is the more excellent way of love and nonviolent protest. i am grateful to god that, through the influence of the negro church, the way of nonviolence became an integral part of our struggle. here’s the full text these personal reflections are not intended as a comprehensive statement of the agreed policies of either oxfam or the lse. fp2p © 2022 oxfam gb • this work is licensed under a creative commons attribution noncommercial sharealike 4.0 international license

16 april 1963 my dear fellow clergymen: while confined here in the birmingham city jail, i came across your recent statement calling my present activities "unwise and untimely." seldom do i pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. if i sought to answer all the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would have little time for anything other than such correspondence in the course of the day, and i would have no time for constructive work. but since i feel that you are men of genuine good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, i want to try to answer your statement in what i hope will be patient and reasonable terms. i think i should indicate why i am here in birmingham, since you have been influenced by the view which argues against "outsiders coming in." i have the honor of serving as president of the southern christian leadership conference, an organization operating in every southern state, with headquarters in atlanta, georgia. we have some eighty five affiliated organizations across the south, and one of them is the alabama christian movement for human rights. frequently we share staff, educational and financial resources with our affiliates. several months ago the affiliate here in birmingham asked us to be on call to engage in a nonviolent direct action program if such were deemed necessary. we readily consented, and when the hour came we lived up to our promise. so i, along with several members of my staff, am here because i was invited here. i am here because i have organizational ties here. but more basically, i am in birmingham because injustice is here. just as the prophets of the eighth century b.c. left their villages and carried their "thus saith the lord" far beyond the boundaries of their home towns, and just as the apostle paul left his village of tarsus and carried the gospel of jesus christ to the far corners of the greco roman world, so am i compelled to carry the gospel of freedom beyond my own home town. like paul, i must constantly respond to the macedonian call for aid. moreover, i am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. i cannot sit idly by in atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in birmingham. injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial "outside agitator" idea. anyone who lives inside the united states can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds. you deplore the demonstrations taking place in birmingham. but your statement, i am sorry to say, fails to express a similar concern for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations. i am sure that none of you would want to rest content with the superficial kind of social analysis that deals merely with effects and does not grapple with underlying causes. it is unfortunate that demonstrations are taking place in birmingham, but it is even more unfortunate that the city's white power structure left the negro community with no alternative. in any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self purification; and direct action. we have gone through all these steps in birmingham. there can be no gainsaying the fact that racial injustice engulfs this community. birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the united states. its ugly record of brutality is widely known. negroes have experienced grossly unjust treatment in the courts. there have been more unsolved bombings of negro homes and churches in birmingham than in any other city in the nation. these are the hard, brutal facts of the case. on the basis of these conditions, negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. but the latter consistently refused to engage in good faith negotiation. then, last september, came the opportunity to talk with leaders of birmingham's economic community. in the course of the negotiations, certain promises were made by the merchants  for example, to remove the stores' humiliating racial signs. on the basis of these promises, the reverend fred shuttlesworth and the leaders of the alabama christian movement for human rights agreed to a moratorium on all demonstrations. as the weeks and months went by, we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. a few signs, briefly removed, returned; the others remained. as in so many past experiences, our hopes had been blasted, and the shadow of deep disappointment settled upon us. we had no alternative except to prepare for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and the national community. mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to undertake a process of self purification. we began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves: "are you able to accept blows without retaliating?" "are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?" we decided to schedule our direct action program for the easter season, realizing that except for christmas, this is the main shopping period of the year. knowing that a strong economic withdrawal program would be the by product of direct action, we felt that this would be the best time to bring pressure to bear on the merchants for the needed change. then it occurred to us that birmingham's mayoral election was coming up in march, and we speedily decided to postpone action until after election day. when we discovered that the commissioner of public safety, eugene "bull" connor, had piled up enough votes to be in the run off, we decided again to postpone action until the day after the run off so that the demonstrations could not be used to cloud the issues. like many others, we waited to see mr. connor defeated, and to this end we endured postponement after postponement. having aided in this community need, we felt that our direct action program could be delayed no longer. you may well ask: "why direct action? why sit ins, marches and so forth? isn't negotiation a better path?" you are quite right in calling for negotiation. indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. it seeks so to dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored. my citing the creation of tension as part of the work of the nonviolent resister may sound rather shocking. but i must confess that i am not afraid of the word "tension." i have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. just as socrates felt that it was necessary to create a tension in the mind so that individuals could rise from the bondage of myths and half truths to the unfettered realm of creative analysis and objective appraisal, so must we see the need for nonviolent gadflies to create the kind of tension in society that will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood. the purpose of our direct action program is to create a situation so crisis packed that it will inevitably open the door to negotiation. i therefore concur with you in your call for negotiation. too long has our beloved southland been bogged down in a tragic effort to live in monologue rather than dialogue. one of the basic points in your statement is that the action that i and my associates have taken in birmingham is untimely. some have asked: "why didn't you give the new city administration time to act?" the only answer that i can give to this query is that the new birmingham administration must be prodded about as much as the outgoing one, before it will act. we are sadly mistaken if we feel that the election of albert boutwell as mayor will bring the millennium to birmingham. while mr. boutwell is a much more gentle person than mr. connor, they are both segregationists, dedicated to maintenance of the status quo. i have hope that mr. boutwell will be reasonable enough to see the futility of massive resistance to desegregation. but he will not see this without pressure from devotees of civil rights. my friends, i must say to you that we have not made a single gain in civil rights without determined legal and nonviolent pressure. lamentably, it is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. individuals may see the moral light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but, as reinhold niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals. we know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. frankly, i have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was "well timed" in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. for years now i have heard the word "wait!" it rings in the ear of every negro with piercing familiarity. this "wait" has almost always meant "never." we must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that "justice too long delayed is justice denied." we have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and god given rights. the nations of asia and africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, "wait." but when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking: "daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?"; when you take a cross county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading "white" and "colored"; when your first name becomes "nigger," your middle name becomes "boy" (however old you are) and your last name becomes "john," and your wife and mother are never given the respected title "mrs."; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness"  then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. there comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. i hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience. you express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break laws. this is certainly a legitimate concern. since we so diligently urge people to obey the supreme court's decision of 1954 outlawing segregation in the public schools, at first glance it may seem rather paradoxical for us consciously to break laws. one may well ask: "how can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?" the answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: just and unjust. i would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. one has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. i would agree with st. augustine that "an unjust law is no law at all." now, what is the difference between the two? how does one determine whether a law is just or unjust? a just law is a man made code that squares with the moral law or the law of god. an unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. to put it in the terms of st. thomas aquinas: an unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal law and natural law. any law that uplifts human personality is just. any law that degrades human personality is unjust. all segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality. it gives the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority. segregation, to use the terminology of the jewish philosopher martin buber, substitutes an "i it" relationship for an "i thou" relationship and ends up relegating persons to the status of things. hence segregation is not only politically, economically and sociologically unsound, it is morally wrong and sinful. paul tillich has said that sin is separation. is not segregation an existential expression of man's tragic separation, his awful estrangement, his terrible sinfulness? thus it is that i can urge men to obey the 1954 decision of the supreme court, for it is morally right; and i can urge them to disobey segregation ordinances, for they are morally wrong. let us consider a more concrete example of just and unjust laws. an unjust law is a code that a numerical or power majority group compels a minority group to obey but does not make binding on itself. this is difference made legal. by the same token, a just law is a code that a majority compels a minority to follow and that it is willing to follow itself. this is sameness made legal. let me give another explanation. a law is unjust if it is inflicted on a minority that, as a result of being denied the right to vote, had no part in enacting or devising the law. who can say that the legislature of alabama which set up that state's segregation laws was democratically elected? throughout alabama all sorts of devious methods are used to prevent negroes from becoming registered voters, and there are some counties in which, even though negroes constitute a majority of the population, not a single negro is registered. can any law enacted under such circumstances be considered democratically structured? sometimes a law is just on its face and unjust in its application. for instance, i have been arrested on a charge of parading without a permit. now, there is nothing wrong in having an ordinance which requires a permit for a parade. but such an ordinance becomes unjust when it is used to maintain segregation and to deny citizens the first amendment privilege of peaceful assembly and protest. i hope you are able to see the distinction i am trying to point out. in no sense do i advocate evading or defying the law, as would the rabid segregationist. that would lead to anarchy. one who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty. i submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law. of course, there is nothing new about this kind of civil disobedience. it was evidenced sublimely in the refusal of shadrach, meshach and abednego to obey the laws of nebuchadnezzar, on the ground that a higher moral law was at stake. it was practiced superbly by the early christians, who were willing to face hungry lions and the excruciating pain of chopping blocks rather than submit to certain unjust laws of the roman empire. to a degree, academic freedom is a reality today because socrates practiced civil disobedience. in our own nation, the boston tea party represented a massive act of civil disobedience. we should never forget that everything adolf hitler did in germany was "legal" and everything the hungarian freedom fighters did in hungary was "illegal." it was "illegal" to aid and comfort a jew in hitler's germany. even so, i am sure that, had i lived in germany at the time, i would have aided and comforted my jewish brothers. if today i lived in a communist country where certain principles dear to the christian faith are suppressed, i would openly advocate disobeying that country's antireligious laws. i must make two honest confessions to you, my christian and jewish brothers. first, i must confess that over the past few years i have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. i have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the white citizen's counciler or the ku klux klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "i agree with you in the goal you seek, but i cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the negro to wait for a "more convenient season." shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. i had hoped that the white moderate would understand that law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice and that when they fail in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress. i had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the south is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the negro passively accepted his unjust plight, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality. actually, we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. we merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. we bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with. like a boil that can never be cured so long as it is covered up but must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed, with all the tension its exposure creates, to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured. in your statement you assert that our actions, even though peaceful, must be condemned because they precipitate violence. but is this a logical assertion? isn't this like condemning a robbed man because his possession of money precipitated the evil act of robbery? isn't this like condemning socrates because his unswerving commitment to truth and his philosophical inquiries precipitated the act by the misguided populace in which they made him drink hemlock? isn't this like condemning jesus because his unique god consciousness and never ceasing devotion to god's will precipitated the evil act of crucifixion? we must come to see that, as the federal courts have consistently affirmed, it is wrong to urge an individual to cease his efforts to gain his basic constitutional rights because the quest may precipitate violence. society must protect the robbed and punish the robber. i had also hoped that the white moderate would reject the myth concerning time in relation to the struggle for freedom. i have just received a letter from a white brother in texas. he writes: "all christians know that the colored people will receive equal rights eventually, but it is possible that you are in too great a religious hurry. it has taken christianity almost two thousand years to accomplish what it has. the teachings of christ take time to come to earth." such an attitude stems from a tragic misconception of time, from the strangely irrational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. more and more i feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. we will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co workers with god, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. we must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right. now is the time to make real the promise of democracy and transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood. now is the time to lift our national policy from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of human dignity. you speak of our activity in birmingham as extreme. at first i was rather disappointed that fellow clergymen would see my nonviolent efforts as those of an extremist. i began thinking about the fact that i stand in the middle of two opposing forces in the negro community. one is a force of complacency, made up in part of negroes who, as a result of long years of oppression, are so drained of self respect and a sense of "somebodiness" that they have adjusted to segregation; and in part of a few middle class negroes who, because of a degree of academic and economic security and because in some ways they profit by segregation, have become insensitive to the problems of the masses. the other force is one of bitterness and hatred, and it comes perilously close to advocating violence. it is expressed in the various black nationalist groups that are springing up across the nation, the largest and best known being elijah muhammad's muslim movement. nourished by the negro's frustration over the continued existence of racial discrimination, this movement is made up of people who have lost faith in america, who have absolutely repudiated christianity, and who have concluded that the white man is an incorrigible "devil." i have tried to stand between these two forces, saying that we need emulate neither the "do nothingism" of the complacent nor the hatred and despair of the black nationalist. for there is the more excellent way of love and nonviolent protest. i am grateful to god that, through the influence of the negro church, the way of nonviolence became an integral part of our struggle. if this philosophy had not emerged, by now many streets of the south would, i am convinced, be flowing with blood. and i am further convinced that if our white brothers dismiss as "rabble rousers" and "outside agitators" those of us who employ nonviolent direct action, and if they refuse to support our nonviolent efforts, millions of negroes will, out of frustration and despair, seek solace and security in black nationalist ideologies  a development that would inevitably lead to a frightening racial nightmare. oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever. the yearning for freedom eventually manifests itself, and that is what has happened to the american negro. something within has reminded him of his birthright of freedom, and something without has reminded him that it can be gained. consciously or unconsciously, he has been caught up by the zeitgeist, and with his black brothers of africa and his brown and yellow brothers of asia, south america and the caribbean, the united states negro is moving with a sense of great urgency toward the promised land of racial justice. if one recognizes this vital urge that has engulfed the negro community, one should readily understand why public demonstrations are taking place. the negro has many pent up resentments and latent frustrations, and he must release them. so let him march; let him make prayer pilgrimages to the city hall; let him go on freedom rides  and try to understand why he must do so. if his repressed emotions are not released in nonviolent ways, they will seek expression through violence; this is not a threat but a fact of history. so i have not said to my people: "get rid of your discontent." rather, i have tried to say that this normal and healthy discontent can be channeled into the creative outlet of nonviolent direct action. and now this approach is being termed extremist. but though i was initially disappointed at being categorized as an extremist, as i continued to think about the matter i gradually gained a measure of satisfaction from the label. was not jesus an extremist for love: "love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you." was not amos an extremist for justice: "let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever flowing stream." was not paul an extremist for the christian gospel: "i bear in my body the marks of the lord jesus." was not martin luther an extremist: "here i stand; i cannot do otherwise, so help me god." and john bunyan: "i will stay in jail to the end of my days before i make a butchery of my conscience." and abraham lincoln: "this nation cannot survive half slave and half free." and thomas jefferson: "we hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal . . ." so the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. will we be extremists for hate or for love? will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice? in that dramatic scene on calvary's hill three men were crucified. we must never forget that all three were crucified for the same crime  the crime of extremism. two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their environment. the other, jesus christ, was an extremist for love, truth and goodness, and thereby rose above his environment. perhaps the south, the nation and the world are in dire need of creative extremists. i had hoped that the white moderate would see this need. perhaps i was too optimistic; perhaps i expected too much. i suppose i should have realized that few members of the oppressor race can understand the deep groans and passionate yearnings of the oppressed race, and still fewer have the vision to see that injustice must be rooted out by strong, persistent and determined action. i am thankful, however, that some of our white brothers in the south have grasped the meaning of this social revolution and committed themselves to it. they are still all too few in quantity, but they are big in quality. some  such as ralph mcgill, lillian smith, harry golden, james mcbride dabbs, ann braden and sarah patton boyle  have written about our struggle in eloquent and prophetic terms. others have marched with us down nameless streets of the south. they have languished in filthy, roach infested jails, suffering the abuse and brutality of policemen who view them as "dirty nigger lovers." unlike so many of their moderate brothers and sisters, they have recognized the urgency of the moment and sensed the need for powerful "action" antidotes to combat the disease of segregation. let me take note of my other major disappointment. i have been so greatly disappointed with the white church and its leadership. of course, there are some notable exceptions. i am not unmindful of the fact that each of you has taken some significant stands on this issue. i commend you, reverend stallings, for your christian stand on this past sunday, in welcoming negroes to your worship service on a nonsegregated basis. i commend the catholic leaders of this state for integrating spring hill college several years ago. but despite these notable exceptions, i must honestly reiterate that i have been disappointed with the church. i do not say this as one of those negative critics who can always find something wrong with the church. i say this as a minister of the gospel, who loves the church; who was nurtured in its bosom; who has been sustained by its spiritual blessings and who will remain true to it as long as the cord of life shall lengthen. when i was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in montgomery, alabama, a few years ago, i felt we would be supported by the white church. i felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the south would be among our strongest allies. instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows. in spite of my shattered dreams, i came to birmingham with the hope that the white religious leadership of this community would see the justice of our cause and, with deep moral concern, would serve as the channel through which our just grievances could reach the power structure. i had hoped that each of you would understand. but again i have been disappointed. i have heard numerous southern religious leaders admonish their worshipers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but i have longed to hear white ministers declare: "follow this decree because integration is morally right and because the negro is your brother." in the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the negro, i have watched white churchmen stand on the sideline and mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. in the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, i have heard many ministers say: "those are social issues, with which the gospel has no real concern." and i have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which makes a strange, un biblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular. i have traveled the length and breadth of alabama, mississippi and all the other southern states. on sweltering summer days and crisp autumn mornings i have looked at the south's beautiful churches with their lofty spires pointing heavenward. i have beheld the impressive outlines of her massive religious education buildings. over and over i have found myself asking: "what kind of people worship here? who is their god? where were their voices when the lips of governor barnett dripped with words of interposition and nullification? where were they when governor wallace gave a clarion call for defiance and hatred? where were their voices of support when bruised and weary negro men and women decided to rise from the dark dungeons of complacency to the bright hills of creative protest?" yes, these questions are still in my mind. in deep disappointment i have wept over the laxity of the church. but be assured that my tears have been tears of love. there can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love. yes, i love the church. how could i do otherwise? i am in the rather unique position of being the son, the grandson and the great grandson of preachers. yes, i see the church as the body of christ. but, oh! how we have blemished and scarred that body through social neglect and through fear of being nonconformists. there was a time when the church was very powerful  in the time when the early christians rejoiced at being deemed worthy to suffer for what they believed. in those days the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was a thermostat that transformed the mores of society. whenever the early christians entered a town, the people in power became disturbed and immediately sought to convict the christians for being "disturbers of the peace" and "outside agitators."' but the christians pressed on, in the conviction that they were "a colony of heaven," called to obey god rather than man. small in number, they were big in commitment. they were too god intoxicated to be "astronomically intimidated." by their effort and example they brought an end to such ancient evils as infanticide and gladiatorial contests. things are different now. so often the contemporary church is a weak, ineffectual voice with an uncertain sound. so often it is an archdefender of the status quo. far from being disturbed by the presence of the church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the church's silent  and often even vocal  sanction of things as they are. but the judgment of god is upon the church as never before. if today's church does not recapture the sacrificial spirit of the early church, it will lose its authenticity, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the twentieth century. every day i meet young people whose disappointment with the church has turned into outright disgust. perhaps i have once again been too optimistic. is organized religion too inextricably bound to the status quo to save our nation and the world? perhaps i must turn my faith to the inner spiritual church, the church within the church, as the true ekklesia and the hope of the world. but again i am thankful to god that some noble souls from the ranks of organized religion have broken loose from the paralyzing chains of conformity and joined us as active partners in the struggle for freedom. they have left their secure congregations and walked the streets of albany, georgia, with us. they have gone down the highways of the south on tortuous rides for freedom. yes, they have gone to jail with us. some have been dismissed from their churches, have lost the support of their bishops and fellow ministers. but they have acted in the faith that right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant. their witness has been the spiritual salt that has preserved the true meaning of the gospel in these troubled times. they have carved a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of disappointment. i hope the church as a whole will meet the challenge of this decisive hour. but even if the church does not come to the aid of justice, i have no despair about the future. i have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. we will reach the goal of freedom in birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of america is freedom. abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with america's destiny. before the pilgrims landed at plymouth, we were here. before the pen of jefferson etched the majestic words of the declaration of independence across the pages of history, we were here. for more than two centuries our forebears labored in this country without wages; they made cotton king; they built the homes of their masters while suffering gross injustice and shameful humiliation  and yet out of a bottomless vitality they continued to thrive and develop. if the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. we will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of god are embodied in our echoing demands. before closing i feel impelled to mention one other point in your statement that has troubled me profoundly. you warmly commended the birmingham police force for keeping "order" and "preventing violence." i doubt that you would have so warmly commended the police force if you had seen its dogs sinking their teeth into unarmed, nonviolent negroes. i doubt that you would so quickly commend the policemen if you were to observe their ugly and inhumane treatment of negroes here in the city jail; if you were to watch them push and curse old negro women and young negro girls; if you were to see them slap and kick old negro men and young boys; if you were to observe them, as they did on two occasions, refuse to give us food because we wanted to sing our grace together. i cannot join you in your praise of the birmingham police department. it is true that the police have exercised a degree of discipline in handling the demonstrators. in this sense they have conducted themselves rather "nonviolently" in public. but for what purpose? to preserve the evil system of segregation. over the past few years i have consistently preached that nonviolence demands that the means we use must be as pure as the ends we seek. i have tried to make clear that it is wrong to use immoral means to attain moral ends. but now i must affirm that it is just as wrong, or perhaps even more so, to use moral means to preserve immoral ends. perhaps mr. connor and his policemen have been rather nonviolent in public, as was chief pritchett in albany, georgia, but they have used the moral means of nonviolence to maintain the immoral end of racial injustice. as t. s. eliot has said: "the last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason." i wish you had commended the negro sit inners and demonstrators of birmingham for their sublime courage, their willingness to suffer and their amazing discipline in the midst of great provocation. one day the south will recognize its real heroes. they will be the james merediths, with the noble sense of purpose that enables them to face jeering and hostile mobs, and with the agonizing loneliness that characterizes the life of the pioneer. they will be old, oppressed, battered negro women, symbolized in a seventy two year old woman in montgomery, alabama, who rose up with a sense of dignity and with her people decided not to ride segregated buses, and who responded with ungrammatical profundity to one who inquired about her weariness: "my feets is tired, but my soul is at rest." they will be the young high school and college students, the young ministers of the gospel and a host of their elders, courageously and nonviolently sitting in at lunch counters and willingly going to jail for conscience' sake. one day the south will know that when these disinherited children of god sat down at lunch counters, they were in reality standing up for what is best in the american dream and for the most sacred values in our judaeo christian heritage, thereby bringing our nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the founding fathers in their formulation of the constitution and the declaration of independence. never before have i written so long a letter. i'm afraid it is much too long to take your precious time. i can assure you that it would have been much shorter if i had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else can one do when he is alone in a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think long thoughts and pray long prayers? if i have said anything in this letter that overstates the truth and indicates an unreasonable impatience, i beg you to forgive me. if i have said anything that understates the truth and indicates my having a patience that allows me to settle for anything less than brotherhood, i beg god to forgive me. i hope this letter finds you strong in the faith. i also hope that circumstances will soon make it possible for me to meet each of you, not as an integrationist or a civil rights leader but as a fellow clergyman and a christian brother. let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty. yours for the cause of peace and brotherhood, martin luther king, jr. published in: king, martin luther jr. page editor: ali b. ali dinar, ph.d.

funding from the library of congress/ameritech national digital library competition supported the electronic publication of this title. text scanned (ocr) by katherine lofton images scanned by katherine loftontext encoded by andrew leiter and jill kuhn sexton first edition, 2001 ca. 450k academic affairs library, unc ch university of north carolina at chapel hill, 2001. source description: the electronic edition is a part of the unc ch digitization project, documenting the american south. this electronic edition has been created by optical character recognition (ocr). ocr ed text has been compared against the original document and corrected. the text has been encoded using the recommendations for level 4 of the tei in libraries guidelines. original grammar, punctuation, and spelling have been preserved. encountered typographical errors have been preserved, and appear in red type. any hyphens occurring in line breaks have been removed, and the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding line. all quotation marks, em dashes and ampersand have been transcribed as entity references. all double right and left quotation marks are encoded as " and " respectively. all single right and left quotation marks are encoded as ' and ' respectively. all em dashes are encoded as    indentation in lines has not been preserved. running titles have not been preserved. spell check and verification made against printed text using author/editor (softquad) and microsoft word spell check programs. languages used: lc subject headings: revision history: by second edition published april 18, 1903 second edition june 1, 1903 to burghardt and yolande the lost and the found herein lie buried many things which if read with patience may show the strange meaning of being black here at the dawning of the twentieth century. this meaning is not without interest to you, gentle reader; for the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line. i pray you, then, receive my little book in all charity, studying my words with me, forgiving mistake and foible for sake of the faith and passion that is in me, and seeking the grain of truth hidden there. i have sought here to sketch, in vague, uncertain outline, the spiritual world in which ten thousand thousand americans live and strive. first, in two chapters i have tried to show what emancipation meant to them, and what was its aftermath. in a third chapter i have pointed out the slow rise of personal leadership, and criticised candidly the leader who bears the chief burden of his race to day. then, in two other chapters i have sketched in swift outline the two worlds within and without the veil, and thus have come to the central problem of training men for life. venturing now into deeper detail, i have in two chapters studied the struggles of the massed millions of the black peasantry, and in another have sought to make clear the present relations of the sons of master and man. leaving, then, the white world, i have stepped within the veil, raising it that you may view faintly its deeper recesses,  the meaning of its religion, the passion of its human sorrow, and the struggle of its greater souls. all this i have ended with a tale twice told but seldom written, and a chapter of song. some of these thoughts of mine have seen the light before in other guise. for kindly consenting to their republication here, in altered and extended form, i must thank the publishers of the atlantic monthly, the world's work, the dial, the new world, and the annals of the american academy of political and social science. before each chapter, as now printed, stands a bar of the sorrow songs,  some echo of haunting melody from the only american music which welled up from black souls in the dark past. and, finally, need i add that i who speak here am bone of the bone and flesh of the flesh of them that live within the veil? w. e. b. du b. o water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand, all night long crying with a mournful cry, as i lie and listen, and cannot understand the voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea, o water, crying for rest, is it i, is it i? all night long the water is crying to me. unresting water, there shall never be rest till the last moon droop and the last tide fail, and the fire of the end begin to burn in the west; and the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea, all life long crying without avail, as the water all night long is crying to me. arthur symons. between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. all, nevertheless, flutter round it. they approach me in a half hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, how does it feel to be a problem? they say, i know an excellent colored man in my town; or, i fought at mechanicsville; or, do not these southern outrages make your blood boil? at these i smile, or am interested, or reduce the boiling to a simmer, as the occasion may require. to the real question, how does it feel to be a problem? i answer seldom a word. and yet, being a problem is a strange experience,  peculiar even for one who has never been anything else, save perhaps in babyhood and in europe. it is in the early days of rollicking boyhood that the revelation first bursts upon one, all in a day, as it were. i remember well when the shadow swept across me. i was a little thing, away up in the hills of new england, where the dark housatonic winds between hoosac and taghkanic to the sea. in a wee wooden schoolhouse, something put it into the boys' and girls' heads to buy gorgeous visiting cards  ten cents a package  and exchange. the exchange was merry, till one girl, a tall newcomer, refused my card,  refused it peremptorily, with a glance. then it dawned upon me with a certain suddenness that i was different from the others; or like, mayhap, in heart and life and longing, but shut out from their world by a vast veil. i had thereafter no desire to tear down that veil, to creep through; i held all beyond it in common contempt, and lived above it in a region of blue sky and great wandering shadows. that sky was bluest when i could beat my mates at examination time, or beat them at a footrace, or even beat their stringy heads. alas, with the years all this fine contempt began to fade; for the worlds i longed for, and all their dazzling opportunities, were theirs, not mine. but they should not keep these prizes, i said; some, all, i would wrest from them. just how i would do it i could never decide: by reading law, by healing the sick, by telling the wonderful tales that swam in my head,  some way. with other black boys the strife was not so fiercely sunny: their youth shrunk into tasteless sycophancy, or into silent hatred of the pale world about them and mocking distrust of everything white; or wasted itself in a bitter cry, why did god make me an outcast and a stranger in mine own house? the shades of the prison house closed round about us all: walls strait and stubborn to the whitest, but relentlessly narrow, tall, and unscalable to sons of night who must plod darkly on in resignation, or beat unavailing palms against the stone, or steadily, half hopelessly, watch the streak of blue above. after the egyptian and indian, the greek and roman, the teuton and mongolian the negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second sight in this american world,  a world which yields him no true self consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. it is a peculiar sensation, this double consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. one ever feels his two ness,  an american, a negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. the history of the american negro is the history of this strife,  this longing to attain self conscious manhood, for merge his double self into a better and truer self. in this merging he wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. he would not africanize america; for america has too much to teach the world and africa. he would not bleach his negro soul in a flood of white americanism, for he knows that negro blood has a message for the world. he simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a negro and an american, without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without having the doors of opportunity closed roughly in his face. this, then, is the end of his striving: to be a co worker in the kingdom of culture, to escape both death and isolation, to husband and use his best powers and his latent genius. these powers of body and mind have in the past been strangely wasted, dispersed, or forgotten. the shadow of a mighty negro past flits through the tale of ethiopia the shadowy and of egypt the sphinx. throughout history, the powers of single black men flash here and there like falling stars, and die sometimes before the world has rightly gauged their brightness. here in america, in the few days since emancipation, the black man's turning hither and thither in hesitant and doubtful striving has often made his very strength to lose effectiveness, to seem like absence of power, like weakness. and yet it is not weakness,  it is the contradiction of double aims. the double aimed struggle of the black artisan  on the one hand to escape white contempt for a nation of mere hewers of wood and drawers of water, and on the other hand to plough and nail and dig for a poverty stricken horde  could only result in making him a poor craftsman, for he had but half a heart in either cause. by the poverty and ignorance of his people, the negro minister or doctor was tempted toward quackery and demagogy; and by the criticism of the other world, toward ideals that made him ashamed of his lowly tasks. the would be black savant was confronted by the paradox that the knowledge his people needed was a twice told tale to his white neighbors, while the knowledge which would teach the white world was greek to his own flesh and blood. the innate love of harmony and beauty that set the ruder souls of his people a dancing and a singing raised but confusion and doubt in the soul of the black artist; for the beauty revealed to him was the soul beauty of a race which his larger audience despised, and he could not articulate the message of another people. this waste of double aims, this seeking to satisfy two unreconciled ideals, has wrought sad havoc with the courage and faith and deeds of ten thousand thousand people,  has sent them often wooing false gods and invoking false means of salvation, and at times has even seemed about to make them ashamed of themselves. away back in the days of bondage they thought to see in one divine event the end of all doubt and disappointment; few men ever worshipped freedom with half such unquestioning faith as did the american negro for two centuries. to him, so far as he thought and dreamed, slavery was indeed the sum of all villainies, the cause of all sorrow, the root of all prejudice; emancipation was the key to a promised land of sweeter beauty than ever stretched before the eyes of wearied israelites. in song and exhortation swelled one refrain  liberty; in his tears and curses the god he implored had freedom in his right hand. at last it came,  suddenly, fearfully, like a dream. with one wild carnival of blood and passion came the message in his own plaintive cadences:   "shout, o children! shout, you're free! for god has bought your liberty!" years have passed away since then,  ten, twenty, forty; forty years of national life, forty years of renewal and development, and yet the swarthy spectre sits in its accustomed seat at the nation's feast. in vain do we cry to this our vastest social problem:   "take any shape but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble!" the nation has not yet found peace from its sins; the freedman has not yet found in freedom his promised land. whatever of good may have come in these years of change, the shadow of a deep disappointment rests upon the negro people,  a disappointment all the more bitter because the unattained ideal was unbounded save by the simple ignorance of a lowly people. the first decade was merely a prolongation of the vain search for freedom, the boon that seemed ever barely to elude their grasp,  like a tantalizing will o' the wisp, maddening and misleading the headless host. the holocaust of war, the terrors of the ku klux klan, the lies of carpet baggers, the disorganization of industry, and the contradictory advice of friends and foes, left the bewildered serf with no new watchword beyond the old cry for freedom. as the time flew, however, he began to grasp a new idea. the ideal of liberty demanded for its attainment powerful means, and these the fifteenth amendment gave him. the ballot, which before he had looked upon as a visible sign of freedom, he now regarded as the chief means of gaining and perfecting the liberty with which war had partially endowed him. and why not? had not votes made war and emancipated millions? had not votes enfranchised the freedmen? was anything impossible to a power that had done all this? a million black men started with renewed zeal to vote themselves into the kingdom. so the decade flew away, the revolution of 1876 came, and left the half free serf weary, wondering, but still inspired. slowly but steadily, in the following years, a new vision began gradually to replace the dream of political power,  a powerful movement, the rise of another ideal to guide the unguided, another pillar of fire by night after a clouded day. it was the ideal of "book learning"; the curiosity, born of compulsory ignorance, to know and test the power of the cabalistic letters of the white man, the longing to know. here at last seemed to have been discovered the mountain path to canaan; longer than the highway of emancipation and law, steep and rugged, but straight, leading to heights high enough to overlook life. up the new path the advance guard toiled, slowly, heavily, doggedly; only those who have watched and guided the faltering feet, the misty minds, the dull understandings, of the dark pupils of these schools know how faithfully, how piteously, this people strove to learn. it was weary work. the cold statistician wrote down the inches of progress here and there, noted also where here and there a foot had slipped or some one had fallen. to the tired climbers, the horizon was ever dark, the mists were often cold, the canaan was always dim and far away. if, however, the vistas disclosed as yet no goal, no resting place, little but flattery and criticism, the journey at least gave leisure for reflection and self examination; it changed the child of emancipation to the youth with dawning self consciousness, self realization, self respect. in those sombre forests of his striving his own soul rose before him, and he saw himself,  darkly as through a veil; and yet he saw in himself some faint revelation of his power, of his mission. he began to have a dim feeling that, to attain his place in the world, he must be himself, and not another. for the first time he sought to analyze the burden he bore upon his back, that dead weight of social degradation partially masked behind a half named negro problem. he felt his poverty; without a cent, without a home, without land, tools, or savings, he had entered into competition with rich, landed, skilled neighbors. to be a poor man is hard, but to be a poor race in a land of dollars is the very bottom of hardships. he felt the weight of his ignorance,  not simply of letters, but of life, of business, of the humanities; the accumulated sloth and shirking and awkwardness of decades and centuries shackled his hands and feet. nor was his burden all poverty and ignorance. the red stain of bastardy, which two centuries of systematic legal defilement of negro women had stamped upon his race, meant not only the loss of ancient african chastity, but also the hereditary weight of a mass of corruption from white adulterers, threatening almost the obliteration of the negro home. a people thus handicapped ought not to be asked to race with the world, but rather allowed to give all its time and thought to its own social problems. but alas! while sociologists gleefully count his bastards and his prostitutes, the very soul of the toiling, sweating black man is darkened by the shadow of a vast despair. men call the shadow prejudice, and learnedly explain it as the natural defence of culture against barbarism, learning against ignorance, purity against crime, the "higher" against the "lower" races. to which the negro cries amen! and swears that to so much of this strange prejudice as is founded on just homage to civilization, culture, righteousness, and progress, he humbly bows and meekly does obeisance. but before that nameless prejudice that leaps beyond all this he stands helpless, dismayed, and well nigh speechless; before that personal disrespect and mockery, the ridicule and systematic humiliation, the distortion of fact and wanton license of fancy, the cynical ignoring of the better and the boisterous welcoming of the worse, the all pervading desire to inculcate disdain for everything black, from toussaint to the devil,  before this there rises a sickening despair that would disarm and discourage any nation save that black host to whom "discouragement" is an unwritten word. but the facing of so vast a prejudice could not but bring the inevitable self questioning, self disparagement, and lowering of ideals which ever accompany repression and breed in an atmosphere of contempt and hate. whisperings and portents came borne upon the four winds: lo! we are diseased and dying, cried the dark hosts; we cannot write, our voting is vain; what need of education, since we must always cook and serve? and the nation echoed and enforced this self criticism, saying: be content to be servants, and nothing more; what need of higher culture for half men? away with the black man's ballot, by force or fraud,  and behold the suicide of a race! nevertheless, out of the evil came something of good,  the more careful adjustment of education to real life, the clearer perception of the negroes' social responsibilities, and the sobering realization of the meaning of progress. so dawned the time of sturm und drang: storm and stress to day rocks our little boat on the mad waters of the world sea; there is within and without the sound of conflict, the burning of body and rending of soul; inspiration strives with doubt, and faith with vain questionings. the bright ideals of the past,  physical freedom, political power, the training of brains and the training of hands,  all these in turn have waxed and waned, until even the last grows dim and overcast. are they all wrong,  all false? no, not that, but each alone was over simple and incomplete,  the dreams of a credulous race childhood, or the fond imaginings of the other world which does not know and does not want to know our power. to be really true, all these ideals must be melted and welded into one. the training of the schools we need to day more than ever,  the training of deft hands, quick eyes and ears, and above all the broader, deeper, higher culture of gifted minds and pure hearts. the power of the ballot we need in sheer self defence,  else what shall save us from a second slavery? freedom, too, the long sought, we still seek,  the freedom of life and limb, the freedom to work and think, the freedom to love and aspire. work, culture, liberty,  all these we need, not singly but together, not successively but together, each growing and aiding each and all striving toward that vaster ideal that swims before the negro people, the ideal of human brotherhood, gained through the unifying ideal of race; the ideal of fostering and developing the traits and talents of the negro, not in opposition to or contempt for other races, but rather in large conformity to the greater ideals of the american republic, in order that some day on american soil two world races may give each to each those characteristics both so sadly lack. we the darker ones come even now not altogether empty handed: there are to day no truer exponents of the pure human spirit of the declaration of independence than the american negroes; there is no true american music but the wild sweet melodies of the negro slave; the american fairy tales and folk lore are indian and african; and, all in all, we black men seem the sole oasis of simple faith and reverence in a dusty desert of dollars and smartness. will america be poorer if she replace her brutal dyspeptic blundering with light hearted but determined negro humility? or her coarse and cruel wit with loving jovial good humor? or her vulgar music with the soul of the sorrow songs? merely a concrete test of the underlying principles of the great republic is the negro problem, and the spiritual striving of the freedmen's sons is the travail of souls whose burden is almost beyond the measure of their strength, but who bear it in the name of an historic race, in the name of this the land of their fathers' fathers, and in the name of human opportunity. and now what i have briefly sketched in large outline let me on coming pages tell again in many ways, with loving emphasis and deeper detail, that men may listen to the striving in the souls of black folk. careless seems the great avenger; history's lessons but record one death grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the word; truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne; yet that scaffold sways the future, and behind the dim unknown standeth god within the shadow keeping watch above his own. lowell. the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line,  the relation of the darker to the lighter races of men in asia and africa, in america and the islands of the sea. it was a phase of this problem that caused the civil war; and however much they who marched south and north in 1861 may have fixed on the technical points of union and local autonomy as a shibboleth, all nevertheless knew, as we know, that the question of negro slavery was the real cause of the conflict. curious it was, too, how this deeper question ever forced itself to the surface despite effort and disclaimer. no sooner had northern armies touched southern soil than this old question, newly guised, sprang from the earth,  what shall be done with negroes? peremptory military commands, this way and that, could not answer the query; the emancipation proclamation seemed but to broaden and intensify the difficulties; and the war amendments made the negro problems of to day. it is the aim of this essay to study the period of history from 1861 to 1872 so far as it relates to the american negro. in effect, this tale of the dawn of freedom is an account of that government of men called the freedmen's bureau,  one of the most singular and interesting of the attempts made by a great nation to grapple with vast problems of race and social condition. the war has naught to do with slaves, cried congress, the president, and the nation; and yet no sooner had the armies, east and west, penetrated virginia and tennessee than fugitive slaves appeared within their lines. they came at night, when the flickering camp fires shone like vast unsteady stars along the black horizon: old men and thin, with gray and tufted hair; women, with frightened eyes, dragging whimpering hungry children; men and girls, stalwart and gaunt,  a horde of starving vagabonds, homeless, helpless, and pitiable, in their dark distress. two methods of treating these newcomers seemed equally logical to opposite sorts of minds. ben butler, in virginia, quickly declared slave property contraband of war, and put the fugitives to work; while fremont, in missouri, declared the slaves free under martial law. butler's action was approved, but fremont's was hastily countermanded, and his successor, halleck, saw things differently. "hereafter," he commanded, "no slaves should be allowed to come into your lines at all; if any come without your knowledge, when owners call for them deliver them." such a policy was difficult to enforce; some of the black refugees declared themselves freemen, others showed that their masters had deserted them, and still others were captured with forts and plantations. evidently, too, slaves were a source of strength to the confederacy, and were being used as laborers and producers. "they constitute a military resource," wrote secretary cameron, late in 1861; "and being such, that they should not be turned over to the enemy is too plain to discuss." so gradually the tone of the army chiefs changed; congress forbade the rendition of fugitives, and butler's "contrabands" were welcomed as military laborers. this complicated rather than solved the problem, for now the scattering fugitives became a steady stream, which flowed faster as the armies marched. then the long headed man with care chiselled face who sat in the white house saw the inevitable, and emancipated the slaves of rebels on new year's, 1863. a month later congress called earnestly for the negro soldiers whom the act of july, 1862, had half grudgingly allowed to enlist. thus the barriers were levelled and the deed was done. the stream of fugitives swelled to a flood, and anxious army officers kept inquiring: "what must be done with slaves, arriving almost daily? are we to find food and shelter for women and children?" it was a pierce of boston who pointed out the way, and thus became in a sense the founder of the freedmen's bureau. he was a firm friend of secretary chase; and when, in 1861, the care of slaves and abandoned lands devolved upon the treasury officials, pierce was specially detailed from the ranks to study the conditions. first, he cared for the refugees at fortress monroe; and then, after sherman had captured hilton head, pierce was sent there to found his port royal experiment of making free workingmen out of slaves. before his experiment was barely started, however, the problem of the fugitives had assumed such proportions that it was taken from the hands of the over burdened treasury department and given to the army officials. already centres of massed freedmen were forming at fortress monroe, washington, new orleans, vicksburg and corinth, columbus, ky., and cairo, ill., as well as at port royal. army chaplains found here new and fruitful fields; "superintendents of contrabands" multiplied, and some attempt at systematic work was made by enlisting the able bodied men and giving work to the others. then came the freedmen's aid societies, born of the touching appeals from pierce and from these other centres of distress. there was the american missionary association, sprung from the amistad, and now full grown for work; the various church organizations, the national freedmen's relief association, the american freedmen's union, the western freedmen's aid commission,  in all fifty or more active organizations, which sent clothes, money, school books, and teachers southward. all they did was needed, for the destitution of the freedmen was often reported as "too appalling for belief," and the situation was daily growing worse rather than better. and daily, too, it seemed more plain that this was no ordinary matter of temporary relief, but a national crisis; for here loomed a labor problem of vast dimensions. masses of negroes stood idle, or, if they worked spasmodically, were never sure of pay; and if perchance they received pay, squandered the new thing thoughtlessly. in these and other ways were camp life and the new liberty demoralizing the freedmen. the broader economic organization thus clearly demanded sprang up here and there as accident and local conditions determined. here it was that pierce's port royal plan of leased plantations and guided workmen pointed out the rough way. in washington the military governor, at the urgent appeal of the superintendent, opened confiscated estates to the cultivation of the fugitives, and there in the shadow of the dome gathered black farm villages. general dix gave over estates to the freedmen of fortress monroe, and so on, south and west. the government and benevolent societies furnished the means of cultivation, and the negro turned again slowly to work. the systems of control, thus started, rapidly grew, here and there, into strange little governments, like that of general banks in louisiana, with its ninety thousand black subjects, its fifty thousand guided laborers, and its annual budget of one hundred thousand dollars and more. it made out four thousand pay rolls a year, registered all freedmen, inquired into grievances and redressed them, laid and collected taxes, and established a system of public schools. so, too, colonel eaton, the superintendent of tennessee and arkansas, ruled over one hundred thousand freedmen, leased and cultivated seven thousand acres of cotton land, and fed ten thousand paupers a year. in south carolina was general saxton, with his deep interest in black folk. he succeeded pierce and the treasury officials, and sold forfeited estates, leased abandoned plantations, encouraged schools, and received from sherman, after that terribly picturesque march to the sea, thousands of the wretched camp followers. three characteristic things one might have seen in sherman's raid through georgia, which threw the new situation in shadowy relief: the conqueror, the conquered, and the negro. some see all significance in the grim front of the destroyer, and some in the bitter sufferers of the lost cause. but to me neither soldier nor fugitive speaks with so deep a meaning as that dark human cloud that clung like remorse on the rear of those swift columns, swelling at times to half their size, almost engulfing and choking them. in vain were they ordered back, in vain were bridges hewn from beneath their feet; on they trudged and writhed and surged, until they rolled into savannah, a starved and naked horde of tens of thousands. there too came the characteristic military remedy: "the islands from charleston south, the abandoned rice fields along the rivers for thirty miles back from the sea, and the country bordering the st. john's river, florida, are reserved and set apart for the settlement of negroes now made free by act of war." so read the celebrated "field order number fifteen." all these experiments, orders, and systems were bound to attract and perplex the government and the nation. directly after the emancipation proclamation, representative eliot had introduced a bill creating a bureau of emancipation; but it was never reported. the following june a committee of inquiry, appointed by the secretary of war, reported in favor of a temporary bureau for the "improvement, protection, and employment of refugee freedmen," on much the same lines as were afterwards followed. petitions came in to president lincoln from distinguished citizens and organizations, strongly urging a comprehensive and unified plan of dealing with the freedmen, under a bureau which should be "charged with the study of plans and execution of measures for easily guiding, and in every way judiciously and humanely aiding, the passage of our emancipated and yet to be emancipated blacks from the old condition of forced labor to their new state of voluntary industry." some half hearted steps were taken to accomplish this, in part, by putting the whole matter again in charge of the special treasury agents. laws of 1863 and 1864 directed them to take charge of and lease abandoned lands for periods not exceeding twelve months, and to "provide in such leases, or otherwise, for the employment and general welfare" of the freedmen. most of the army officers greeted this as a welcome relief from perplexing "negro affairs," and secretary fessenden, july 29, 1864, issued an excellent system of regulations, which were afterward closely followed by general howard. under treasury agents, large quantities of land were leased in the mississippi valley, and many negroes were employed; but in august, 1864, the new regulations were suspended for reasons of "public policy," and the army was again in control. meanwhile congress had turned its attention to the subject; and in march the house passed a bill by a majority of two establishing a bureau for freedmen in the war department. charles sumner, who had charge of the bill in the senate, argued that freedmen and abandoned lands ought to be under the same department, and reported a substitute for the house bill attaching the bureau to the treasury department. this bill passed, but too late for action by the house. the debates wandered over the whole policy of the administration and the general question of slavery, without touching very closely the specific merits of the measure in hand. then the national election took place; and the administration, with a vote of renewed confidence from the country, addressed itself to the matter more seriously. a conference between the two branches of congress agreed upon a carefully drawn measure which contained the chief provisions of sumner's bill, but made the proposed organization a department independent of both the war and the treasury officials. the bill was conservative, giving the new department "general superintendence of all freedmen." its purpose was to "establish regulations" for them, protect them, lease them lands, adjust their wages, and appear in civil and military courts as their "next friend." there were many limitations attached to the powers thus granted, and the organization was made permanent. nevertheless, the senate defeated the bill, and a new conference committee was appointed. this committee reported a new bill, february 28, which was whirled through just as the session closed, and became the act of 1865 establishing in the war department a "bureau of refugees, freedmen, and abandoned lands." this last compromise was a hasty bit of legislation, vague and uncertain in outline. a bureau was created, "to continue during the present war of rebellion, and for one year thereafter," to which was given "the supervision and management of all abandoned lands and the control of all subjects relating to refugees and freedmen," under "such rules and regulations as may be presented by the head of the bureau and approved by the president." a commissioner, appointed by the president and senate was to control the bureau, with an office force not exceeding ten clerks. the president might also appoint assistant commissioners in the seceded states, and to all these offices military officials might be detailed at regular pay. the secretary of war could issue rations, clothing, and fuel to the destitute, and all abandoned property was placed in the hands of the bureau for eventual lease and sale to ex slaves in forty acre parcels. thus did the united states government definitely assume charge of the emancipated negro as the ward of the nation. it was a tremendous undertaking. here at a stroke of the pen was erected a government of millions of men,  and not ordinary men either, but black men emasculated by a peculiarly complete system of slavery, centuries old; and now, suddenly, violently, they come into a new birthright, at a time of war and passion, in the midst of the stricken and embittered population of their former masters. any man might well have hesitated to assume charge of such a work, with vast responsibilities, indefinite powers, and limited resources. probably no one but a soldier would have answered such a call promptly; and, indeed, no one but a soldier could be called, for congress had appropriated no money for salaries and expenses. less than a month after the weary emancipator passed to his rest, his successor assigned major gen. oliver o. howard to duty as commissioner of the new bureau. he was a maine man, then only thirty five years of age. he had marched with sherman to the sea, had fought well at gettysburg, and but the year before had been assigned to the command of the department of tennessee. an honest man, with too much faith in human nature, little aptitude for business and intricate detail, he had had large opportunity of becoming acquainted at first hand with much of the work before him. and of that work it has been truly said that "no approximately correct history of civilization can ever be written which does not throw out in bold relief, as one of the great landmarks of political and social progress, the organization and administration of the freedmen's bureau." on may 12, 1865, howard was appointed; and he assumed the duties of his office promptly on the 15th, and began examining the field of work. a curious mess he looked upon: little despotisms, communistic experiments, slavery, peonage, business speculations, organized charity, unorganized almsgiving,  all reeling on under the guise of helping the freedmen, and all enshrined in the smoke and blood of war and the cursing and silence of angry men. on may 19 the new government  for a government it really was  issued its constitution; commissioners were to be appointed in each of the seceded states, who were to take charge of "all subjects relating to refugees and freedmen," and all relief and rations were to be given by their consent alone. the bureau invited continued coöperation with benevolent societies, and declared: "it will be the object of all commissioners to introduce practicable systems of compensated labor," and to establish schools. forthwith nine assistant commissioners were appointed. they were to hasten to their fields of work; seek gradually to close relief establishments, and make the destitute self supporting; act as courts of law where there were no courts, or where negroes were not recognized in them as free; establish the institution of marriage among ex slaves, and keep records; see that freedmen were free to choose their employers, and help in making fair contracts for them; and finally, the circular said: "simple good faith, for which we hope on all hands for those concerned in the passing away of slavery, will especially relieve the assistant commissioners in the discharge of their duties toward the freedmen, as well as promote the general welfare." no sooner was the work thus started, and the general system and local organization in some measure begun, than two grave difficulties appeared which changed largely the theory and outcome of bureau work. first, there were the abandoned lands of the south. it had long been the more or less definitely expressed theory of the north that all the chief problems of emancipation might be settled by establishing the slaves on the forfeited lands of their masters,  a sort of poetic justice, said some. but this poetry done into solemn prose meant either wholesale confiscation of private property in the south, or vast appropriations. now congress had not appropriated a cent, and no sooner did the proclamations of general amnesty appear than the eight hundred thousand acres of abandoned lands in the hands of the freedmen's bureau melted quickly away. the second difficulty lay in perfecting the local organization of the bureau throughout the wide field of work. making a new machine and sending out officials of duly ascertained fitness for a great work of social reform is no child's task; but this task was even harder, for a new central organization had to be fitted on a heterogeneous and confused but already existing system of relief and control of ex slaves; and the agents available for this work must be sought for in an army still busy with war operations,  men in the very nature of the case ill fitted for delicate social work,  or among the questionable camp followers of an invading host. thus, after a year's work, vigorously as it was pushed, the problem looked even more difficult to grasp and solve than at the beginning. nevertheless, three things that year's work did, well worth the doing: it relieved a vast amount of physical suffering; it transported seven thousand fugitives from congested centres back to the farm; and, best of all, it inaugurated the crusade of the new england schoolma'am. the annals of this ninth crusade are yet to be written,  the tale of a mission, that seemed to our age far more quixotic than the quest of st. louis seemed to his. behind the mists of ruin and rapine waved the calico dresses of women who dared, and after the hoarse mouthings of the field guns rang the rhythm of the alphabet. rich and poor they were, serious and curious. bereaved now of a father, now of a brother, now of more than these, they came seeking a life work in planting new england schoolhouses among the white and black of the south. they did their work well. in that first year they taught one hundred thousand souls, and more. evidently, congress must soon legislate again on the hastily organized bureau, which had so quickly grown into wide significance and vast possibilities. an institution such as that was well nigh as difficult to end as to begin. early in 1866 congress took up the matter, when senator trumbull, of illinois, introduced a bill to extend the bureau and enlarge its powers. this measure received, at the hands of congress, far more thorough discussion and attention than its predecessor. the war cloud had thinned enough to allow a clearer conception of the work of emancipation. the champions of the bill argued that the strengthening of the freedmen's bureau was still a military necessity; that it was needed for the proper carrying out of the thirteenth amendment, and was a work of sheer justice to the ex slave, at a trifling cost to the government. the opponents of the measure declared that the war was over, and the necessity for war measures past; that the bureau, by reason of its extraordinary powers, was clearly unconstitutional in time of peace, and was destined to irritate the south and pauperize the freedmen, at a final cost of possibly hundreds of millions. these two arguments were unanswered, and indeed unanswerable: the one that the extraordinary powers of the bureau threatened the civil rights of all citizens; and the other that the government must have power to do what manifestly must be done, and that present abandonment of the freedmen meant their practical re enslavement. the bill which finally passed enlarged and made permanent the freedmen's bureau. it was promptly vetoed by president johnson as "unconstitutional," "unnecessary," and "extrajudicial," and failed of passage over the veto. meantime, however, the breach between congress and the president began to broaden, and a modified form of the lost bill was finally passed over the president's second veto, july 16. the act of 1866 gave the freedmen's bureau its final form,  the form by which it will be known to posterity and judged of men. it extended the existence of the bureau to july, 1868; it authorized additional assistant commissioners, the retention of army officers mustered out of regular service, the sale of certain forfeited lands to freedmen on nominal terms, the sale of confederate public property for negro schools, and a wider field of judicial interpretation and cognizance. the government of the unreconstructed south was thus put very largely in the hands of the freedmen's bureau, especially as in many cases the departmental military commander was now made also assistant commissioner. it was thus that the freedmen's bureau became a full fledged government of men. it made laws, executed them and interpreted them; it laid and collected taxes, defined and punished crime, maintained and used military force, and dictated such measures as it thought necessary and proper for the accomplishment of its varied ends. naturally, all these powers were not exercised continuously nor to their fullest extent; and yet, as general howard has said, "scarcely any subject that has to be legislated upon in civil society failed, at one time or another, to demand the action of this singular bureau." to understand and criticise intelligently so vast a work, one must not forget an instant the drift of things in the later sixties. lee had surrendered, lincoln was dead, and johnson and congress were at loggerheads, the thirteenth amendment was adopted, the fourteenth pending, and the fifteenth declared in force in 1870. guerrilla raiding, the ever present flickering after flame of war, was spending its force against the negroes, and all the southern land was awakening as from some wild dream to poverty and social revolution. in a time of perfect calm, amid willing neighbors and streaming wealth, the social uplifting of four million slaves to an assured and self sustaining place in the body politic and economic would have been a herculean task; but when to the inherent difficulties of so delicate and nice a social operation were added the spite and hate of conflict, the hell of war; when suspicion and cruelty were rife, and gaunt hunger wept beside bereavement,  in such a case, the work of any instrument of social regeneration was in large part foredoomed to failure. the very name of the bureau stood for a thing in the south which for two centuries and better men had refused even to argue,  that life amid free negroes was simply unthinkable, the maddest of experiments. the agents that the bureau could command varied all the way from unselfish philanthropists to narrow minded busybodies and thieves; and even though it be true that the average was far better than the worst, it was the occasional fly that helped spoil the ointment. then amid all crouched the freed slave, bewildered between friend and foe. he had emerged from slavery,  not the worst slavery in the world, not a slavery that made all life unbearable, rather a slavery that had here and there something of kindliness, fidelity, and happiness,  but withal slavery, which, so far as human aspiration and desert were concerned, classed the black man and the ox together. and the negro knew full well that, whatever their deeper convictions may have been, southern men had fought with desperate energy to perpetuate this slavery under which the black masses, with half articulate thought, had writhed and shivered. they welcomed freedom with a cry. they shrank from the master who still strove for their chains; they fled to the friends that had freed them, even though those friends stood ready to use them as a club for driving the recalcitrant south back into loyalty. so the cleft between the white and black south grew. idle to say it never should have been; it was as inevitable as its results were pitiable. curiously incongruous elements were left arrayed against each other,  the north, the government, the carpet bagger, and the slave, here; and there, all the south that was white, whether gentleman or vagabond, honest man or rascal, lawless murderer or martyr to duty. thus it is doubly difficult to write of this period calmly, so intense was the feeling, so mighty the human passions that swayed and blinded men. amid it all, two figures ever stand to typify that day to coming ages,  the one, a gray haired gentleman, whose fathers had quit themselves like men, whose sons lay in nameless graves; who bowed to the evil of slavery because its abolition threatened untold ill to all; who stood at last, in the evening of life, a blighted, ruined form, with hate in his eyes;  and the other, a form hovering dark and mother like, her awful face black with the mists of centuries, had aforetime quailed at that white master's command, had bent in love over the cradles of his sons and daughters, and closed in death the sunken eyes of his wife,  aye, too, at his behest had laid herself low to his lust, and borne a tawny man child to the world, only to see her dark boy's limbs scattered to the winds by midnight marauders riding after "damned niggers." these were the saddest sights of that woful day; and no man clasped the hands of these two passing figures of the present past; but, hating, they went to their long home, and, hating, their children's children live to day. here, then, was the field of work for the freedmen's bureau; and since, with some hesitation, it was continued by the act of 1868 until 1869, let us look upon four years of its work as a whole. there were, in 1868, nine hundred bureau officials scattered from washington to texas, ruling, directly and indirectly, many millions of men. the deeds of these rulers fall mainly under seven heads: the relief of physical suffering, the overseeing of the beginnings of free labor, the buying and selling of land, the establishment of schools, the paying of bounties, the administration of justice, and the financiering of all these activities. up to june, 1869, over half a million patients had been treated by bureau physicians and surgeons, and sixty hospitals and asylums had been in operation. in fifty months twenty one million free rations were distributed at a cost of over four million dollars. next came the difficult question of labor. first, thirty thousand black men were transported from the refuges and relief stations back to the farms, back to the critical trial of a new way of working. plain instructions went out from washington: the laborers must be free to choose their employers, no fixed rate of wages was prescribed, and there was to be no peonage or forced labor. so far, so good; but where local agents differed toto coelo in capacity and character, where the personnel was continually changing, the outcome was necessarily varied. the largest element of success lay in the fact that the majority of the freedmen were willing, even eager, to work. so labor contracts were written,  fifty thousand in a single state,  laborers advised, wages guaranteed, and employers supplied. in truth, the organization became a vast labor bureau,  not perfect, indeed, notably defective here and there, but on the whole successful beyond the dreams of thoughtful men. the two great obstacles which confronted the officials were the tyrant and the idler,  the slaveholder who was determined to perpetuate slavery under another name; and the freedman who regarded freedom as perpetual rest,  the devil and the deep sea. in the work of establishing the negroes as peasant proprietors, the bureau was from the first handicapped and at last absolutely checked. something was done, and larger things were planned; abandoned lands were leased so long as they remained in the hands of the bureau, and a total revenue of nearly half a million dollars derived from black tenants. some other lands to which the nation had gained title were sold on easy terms, and public lands were opened for settlement to the very few freedmen who had tools and capital. but the vision of "forty acres and a mule"  the righteous and reasonable ambition to become a landholder, which the nation had all but categorically promised the freedmen was  destined in most cases to bitter disappointment. and those men of marvellous hindsight who are today seeking to preach the negro back to the present peonage of the soil know well, or ought to know, that the opportunity of binding the negro peasant willingly to the soil was lost on that day when the commissioner of the freedmen's bureau had to go to south carolina and tell the weeping freedmen, after their years of toil, that their land was not theirs, that there was a mistake  somewhere. if by 1874 the georgia negro alone owned three hundred and fifty thousand acres of land, it was by grace of his thrift rather than by bounty of the government. the greatest success of the freedmen's bureau lay in the planting of the free school among negroes, and the idea of free elementary education among all classes in the south. it not only called the school mistresses through the benevolent agencies and built them schoolhouses, but it helped discover and support such apostles of human culture as edmund ware, samuel armstrong, and erastus cravath. the opposition to negro education in the south was at first bitter, and showed itself in ashes, insult, and blood; for the south believed an educated negro to be a dangerous negro. and the south was not wholly wrong; for education among all kinds of men always has had, and always will have, an element of danger and revolution, of dissatisfaction and discontent. nevertheless, men strive to know. perhaps some inkling of this paradox, even in the unquiet days of the bureau, helped the bayonets allay an opposition to human training which still to day lies smouldering in the south, but not flaming. fisk, atlanta, howard, and hampton were founded in these days, and six million dollars were expended for educational work, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars of which the freedmen themselves gave of their poverty. such contributions, together with the buying of land and various other enterprises, showed that the ex slave was handling some free capital already. the chief initial source of this was labor in the army, and his pay and bounty as a soldier. payments to negro soldiers were at first complicated by the ignorance of the recipients, and the fact that the quotas of colored regiments from northern states were largely filled by recruits from the south, unknown to their fellow soldiers. consequently, payments were accompanied by such frauds that congress, by joint resolution in 1867, put the whole matter in the hands of the freedmen's bureau. in two years six million dollars was thus distributed to five thousand claimants, and in the end the sum exceeded eight million dollars. even in this system fraud was frequent; but still the work put needed capital in the hands of practical paupers, and some, at least, was well spent. the most perplexing and least successful part of the bureau's work lay in the exercise of its judicial functions. the regular bureau court consisted of one representative of the employer, one of the negro, and one of the bureau. if the bureau could have maintained a perfectly judicial attitude, this arrangement would have been ideal, and must in time have gained confidence; but the nature of its other activities and the character of its personnel prejudiced the bureau in favor of the black litigants, and led without doubt to much injustice and annoyance. on the other hand, to leave the negro in the hands of southern courts was impossible. in a distracted land where slavery had hardly fallen, to keep the strong from wanton abuse of the weak, and the weak from gloating insolently over the half shorn strength of the strong, was a thankless, hopeless task. the former masters of the land were peremptorily ordered about, seized, and imprisoned, and punished over and again, with scant courtesy from army officers. the former slaves were intimidated, beaten, raped, and butchered by angry and revengeful men. bureau courts tended to become centres simply for punishing whites, while the regular civil courts tended to become solely institutions for perpetuating the slavery of blacks. almost every law and method ingenuity could devise was employed by the legislatures to reduce the negroes to serfdom,  to make them the slaves of the state, if not of individual owners; while the bureau officials too often were found striving to put the "bottom rail on top," and give the freedmen a power and independence which they could not yet use. it is all well enough for us of another generation to wax wise with advice to those who bore the burden in the heat of the day. it is full easy now to see that the man who lost home, fortune, and family at a stroke, and saw his land ruled by "mules and niggers," was really benefited by the passing of slavery. it is not difficult now to say to the young freedman, cheated and cuffed about, who has seen his father's head beaten to a jelly and his own mother namelessly assaulted, that the meek shall inherit the earth. above all, nothing is more convenient than to heap on the freedmen's bureau all the evils of that evil day, and damn it utterly for every mistake and blunder that was made. all this is easy, but it is neither sensible nor just. some one had blundered, but that was long before oliver howard was born; there was criminal aggression and heedless neglect, but without some system of control there would have been far more than there was. had that control been from within, the negro would have been re enslaved, to all intents and purposes. coming as the control did from without, perfect men and methods would have bettered all things; and even with imperfect agents and questionable methods, the work accomplished was not undeserving of commendation. such was the dawn of freedom; such was the work of the freedmen's bureau, which, summed up in brief, may be epitomized thus: for some fifteen million dollars, beside the sums spent before 1865, and the dole of benevolent societies, this bureau set going a system of free labor, established a beginning of peasant proprietorship, secured the recognition of black freedmen before courts of law, and founded the free common school in the south. on the other hand, it failed to begin the establishment of good will between ex masters and freedmen, to guard its work wholly from paternalistic methods which discouraged self reliance, and to carry out to any considerable extent its implied promises to furnish the freedmen with land. its successes were the result of hard work, supplemented by the aid of philanthropists and the eager striving of black men. its failures were the result of bad local agents, the inherent difficulties of the work, and national neglect. such an institution, from its wide powers, great responsibilities, large control of moneys, and generally conspicuous position, was naturally open to repeated and bitter attack. it sustained a searching congressional investigation at the instance of fernando wood in 1870. its archives and few remaining functions were with blunt discourtesy transferred from howard's control, in his absence, to the supervision of secretary of war belknap in 1872, on the secretary's recommendation. finally, in consequence of grave intimations of wrong doing made by the secretary and his subordinates, general howard was court martialed in 1874. in both of these trials the commissioner of the freedmen's bureau was officially exonerated from any wilful misdoing, and his work commended. nevertheless, many unpleasant things were brought to light,  the methods of transacting the business of the bureau were faulty; several cases of defalcation were proved, and other frauds strongly suspected; there were some business transactions which savored of dangerous speculation, if not dishonesty; and around it all lay the smirch of the freedmen's bank. morally and practically, the freedmen's bank was part of the freedmen's bureau, although it had no legal connection with it. with the prestige of the government back of it, and a directing board of unusual respectability and national reputation, this banking institution had made a remarkable start in the development of that thrift among black folk which slavery had kept them from knowing. then in one sad day came the crash,  all the hard earned dollars of the freedmen disappeared; but that was the least of the loss,  all the faith in saving went too, and much of the faith in men; and that was a loss that a nation which to day sneers at negro shiftlessness has never yet made good. not even ten additional years of slavery could have done so much to throttle the thrift of the freedmen as the mismanagement and bankruptcy of the series of savings banks chartered by the nation for their especial aid. where all the blame should rest, it is hard to say; whether the bureau and the bank died chiefly by reason of the blows of its selfish friends or the dark machinations of its foes, perhaps even time will never reveal, for here lies unwritten history. of the foes without the bureau, the bitterest were those who attacked not so much its conduct or policy under the law as the necessity for any such institution at all. such attacks came primarily from the border states and the south; and they were summed up by senator davis, of kentucky, when he moved to entitle the act of 1866 a bill "to promote strife and conflict between the white and black races . . . by a grant of unconstitutional power." the argument gathered tremendous strength south and north; but its very strength was its weakness. for, argued the plain common sense of the nation, if it is unconstitutional, institutional, unpractical, and futile for the nation to stand guardian over its helpless wards, then there is left but one alternative,  to make those wards their own guardians by arming them with the ballot. moreover, the path of the practical politician pointed the same way; for, argued this opportunist, if we cannot peacefully reconstruct the south with white votes, we certainly can with black votes. so justice and force joined hands. the alternative thus offered the nation was not between full and restricted negro suffrage; else every sensible man, black and white, would easily have chosen the latter. it was rather a choice between suffrage and slavery, after endless blood and gold had flowed to sweep human bondage away. not a single southern legislature stood ready to admit a negro, under any conditions, to the polls; not a single southern legislature believed free negro labor was possible without a system of restrictions that took all its freedom away; there was scarcely a white man in the south who did not honestly regard emancipation as a crime, and its practical nullification as a duty. in such a situation, the granting of the ballot to the black man was a necessity, the very least a guilty nation could grant a wronged race, and the only method of compelling the south to accept the results of the war. thus negro suffrage ended a civil war by beginning a race feud. and some felt gratitude toward the race thus sacrificed in its swaddling clothes on the altar of national integrity; and some felt and feel only indifference and contempt. had political exigencies been less pressing, the opposition to government guardianship of negroes less bitter, and the attachment to the slave system less strong, the social seer can well imagine a far better policy,  a permanent freedmen's bureau, with a national system of negro schools; a carefully supervised employment and labor office; a system of impartial protection before the regular courts; and such institutions for social betterment as savings banks, land and building associations, and social settlements. all this vast expenditure of money and brains might have formed a great school of prospective citizenship, and solved in a way we have not yet solved the most perplexing and persistent of the negro problems. that such an institution was unthinkable in 1870 was due in part to certain acts of the freedmen's bureau itself. it came to regard its work as merely temporary, and negro suffrage as a final answer to all present perplexities. the political ambition of many of its agents and protégés led it far afield into questionable activities, until the south, nursing its own deep prejudices, came easily to ignore all the good deeds of the bureau and hate its very name with perfect hatred. so the freedmen's bureau died, and its child was the fifteenth amendment. the passing of a great human institution before its work is done, like the untimely passing of a single soul, but leaves a legacy of striving for other men. the legacy of the freedmen's bureau is the heavy heritage of this generation. to day, when new and vaster problems are destined to strain every fibre of the national mind and soul, would it not be well to count this legacy honestly and carefully? for this much all men know: despite compromise, war, and struggle, the negro is not free. in the backwoods of the gulf states, for miles and miles, he may not leave the plantation of his birth; in well nigh the whole rural south the black farmers are peons, bound by law and custom to an economic slavery, from which the only escape is death or the penitentiary. in the most cultured sections and cities of the south the negroes are a segregated servile caste, with restricted rights and privileges. before the courts, both in law and custom, they stand on a different and peculiar basis. taxation without representation is the rule of their political life. and the result of all this is, and in nature must have been, lawlessness and crime. that is the large legacy of the freedmen's bureau, the work it did not do because it could not. i have seen a land right merry with the sun, where children sing, and rolling hills lie like passioned women wanton with harvest. and there in the king's highway sat and sits a figure veiled and bowed, by which the traveller's footsteps hasten as they go. on the tainted air broods fear. three centuries' thought has been the raising and unveiling of that bowed human heart, and now behold a century new for the duty and the deed. the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line. from birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned! . . . . . . . . hereditary bondsmen! know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? byron. easily the most striking thing in the history of the american negro since 1876 is the ascendancy of mr. booker t. washington. it began at the time when war memories and ideals were rapidly passing; a day of astonishing commercial development was dawning; a sense of doubt and hesitation overtook the freedmen's sons,  then it was that his leading began. mr. washington came, with a simple definite programme, at the psychological moment when the nation was a little ashamed of having bestowed so much sentiment on negroes, and was concentrating its energies on dollars. his programme of industrial education, conciliation of the south, and submission and silence as to civil and political rights, was not wholly original; the free negroes from 1830 up to war time had striven to build industrial schools, and the american missionary association had from the first taught various trades; and price and others had sought a way of honorable alliance with the best of the southerners. but mr. washington first indissolubly linked these things; he put enthusiasm, unlimited energy, and perfect faith into this programme, and changed it from a by path into a veritable way of life. and the tale of the methods by which he did this is a fascinating study of human life. it startled the nation to hear a negro advocating such a programme after many decades of bitter complaint; it startled and won the applause of the south, it interested and won the admiration of the north; and after a confused murmur of protest, it silenced if it did not convert the negroes themselves. to gain the sympathy and coöperation of the various elements comprising the white south was mr. washington's first task; and this, at the time tuskegee was founded, seemed, for a black man, well nigh impossible. and yet ten years later it was done in the word spoken at atlanta: "in all things purely social we can be as separate as the five fingers, and yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress." this "atlanta compromise" is by all odds the most notable thing in mr. washington's career. the south interpreted it in different ways: the radicals received it as a complete surrender of the demand for civil and political equality; the conservatives, as a generously conceived working basis for mutual understanding. so both approved it, and to day its author is certainly the most distinguished southerner since jefferson davis, and the one with the largest personal following. next to this achievement comes mr. washington's work in gaining place and consideration in the north. others less shrewd and tactful had formerly essayed to sit on these two stools and had fallen between them; but as mr. washington knew the heart of the south from birth and training, so by singular insight he intuitively grasped the spirit of the age which was dominating the north. and so thoroughly did he learn the speech and thought of triumphant commercialism, and the ideals of material prosperity, that the picture of a lone black boy poring over a french grammar amid the weeds and dirt of a neglected home soon seemed to him the acme of absurdities. one wonders what socrates and st. francis of assisi would say to this. and yet this very singleness of vision and thorough oneness with his age is a mark of the successful man. it is as though nature must needs make men narrow in order to give them force. so mr. washington's cult has gained unquestioning followers, his work has wonderfully prospered, his friends are legion, and his enemies are confounded. to day he stands as the one recognized spokesman of his ten million fellows, and one of the most notable figures in a nation of seventy millions. one hesitates, therefore, to criticise a life which, beginning with so little, has done so much. and yet the time is come when one may speak in all sincerity and utter courtesy of the mistakes and shortcomings of mr. washington's career, as well as of his triumphs, without being thought captious or envious, and without forgetting that it is easier to do ill than well in the world. the criticism that has hitherto met mr. washington has not always been of this broad character. in the south especially has he had to walk warily to avoid the harshest judgments,  and naturally so, for he is dealing with the one subject of deepest sensitiveness to that section. twice  once when at the chicago celebration of the spanish american war he alluded to the color prejudice that is "eating away the vitals of the south," and once when be dined with president roosevelt  has the resulting southern criticism been violent enough to threaten seriously his popularity. in the north the feeling has several times forced itself into words, that mr. washington's counsels of submission; overlooked certain elements of true manhood, and that his educational programme was unnecessarily narrow. usually, however, such criticism has not found open expression, although, too, the spiritual sons of the abolitionists have not been prepared to acknowledge that the schools founded before tuskegee, by men of broad ideals and self sacrificing spirit, were wholly failures or worthy of ridicule. while, then, criticism has not failed to follow mr. washington, yet the prevailing public opinion of the land has been but too willing to deliver the solution of a wearisome problem into his hands, and say, "if that is all you and your race ask, take it." among his own people, however, mr. washington has encountered the strongest and most lasting opposition, amounting at times to bitterness, and even to day continuing strong and insistent even though largely silenced in outward expression by the public opinion of the nation. some of this opposition is, of course, mere envy, the disappointment of displaced demagogues and the spite of narrow minds. but aside from this, there is among educated and thoughtful colored men in all parts of the land a feeling of deep regret, sorrow, and apprehension at the wide currency and ascendancy which some of mr. washington's theories have gained. these same men admire his sincerity of purpose, and are willing to forgive much to honest endeavor which is doing something worth the doing. they coöperate with mr. washington as far as they conscientiously can; and, indeed, it is no ordinary tribute to this man's tact and power that, steering as he must between so many diverse interests and opinions, he so largely retains the respect of all. but the hushing of the criticism of honest opponents is a dangerous thing. it leads some of the best of the critics to unfortunate silence and paralysis of effort, and others to burst into speech so passionately and intemperately as to lose listeners. honest and earnest criticism from those whose interests are most nearly touched,  criticism of writers by readers, of government by those governed, of leaders by those led,  this is the soul of democracy and the safeguard of modern society. if the best of the american negroes receive by outer pressure a leader whom they had not recognized before, manifestly there is here a certain palpable gain. yet there is also irreparable loss,  a loss of that peculiarly valuable education which a group receives when by search and criticism it finds and commissions its own leaders. the way in which this is done is at once the most elementary and the nicest problem of social growth. history is but the record of such group leadership; and yet how infinitely changeful is its type and character! and of all types and kinds, what can be more instructive than the leadership of a group within a group?  that curious double movement where real progress may be negative and actual advance be relative retrogression. all this is the social student's inspiration and despair. now in the past the american negro has had instructive experience in the choosing of group leaders, founding thus a peculiar dynasty which in the light of present conditions is worth while studying. when sticks and stones and beasts form the sole environment of a people, their attitude is largely one of determined opposition to and conquest of natural forces. but when to earth and brute is added an environment of men and ideas, then the attitude of the imprisoned group may take three main forms,  a feeling of revolt and revenge; an attempt to adjust all thought and action to the will of the greater group; or, finally, a determined effort at self realization and self development despite environing opinion. the influence of all of these attitudes at various times can be traced in the history of the american negro, and in the evolution of his successive leaders. before 1750, while the fire of african freedom still burned in the veins of the slaves, there was in all leadership or attempted leadership but the one motive of revolt and revenge,  typified in the terrible maroons, the danish blacks, and cato of stono, and veiling all the americas in fear of insurrection. the liberalizing tendencies of the latter half of the eighteenth century brought, along with kindlier relations between black and white, thoughts of ultimate adjustment and assimilation. such aspiration was especially voiced in the earnest songs of phyllis, in the martyrdom of attucks, the fighting of salem and poor, the intellectual accomplishments of banneker and derham, and the political demands of the cuffes. stern financial and social stress after the war cooled much of the previous humanitarian ardor. the disappointment and impatience of the negroes at the persistence of slavery and serfdom voiced itself in two movements. the slaves in the south, aroused undoubtedly by vague rumors of the haytian revolt, made three fierce attempts at insurrection,  in 1800 under gabriel in virginia, in 1822 under vesey in carolina, and in 1831 again in virginia under the terrible nat turner. in the free states, on the other hand, a new and curious attempt at self development was made. in philadelphia and new york color prescription led to a withdrawal of negro communicants from white churches and the formation of a peculiar socio religious institution among the negroes known as the african church,  an organization still living and controlling in its various branches over a million of men. walker's wild appeal against the trend of the times showed how the world was changing after the coming of the cotton gin. by 1830 slavery seemed hopelessly fastened on the south, and the slaves thoroughly cowed into submission. the free negroes of the north, inspired by the mulatto immigrants from the west indies, began to change the basis of their demands; they recognized the slavery of slaves, but insisted that they themselves were freemen, and sought assimilation and amalgamation with the nation on the same terms with other men. thus, forten and purvis of philadelphia, shad of wilmington, du bois of new haven, barbadoes of boston, and others, strove singly and together as men, they said, not as slaves; as "people of color," not as "negroes." the trend of the times, however, refused them recognition save in individual and exceptional cases, considered them as one with all the despised blacks, and they soon found themselves striving to keep even the rights they formerly had of voting and working and moving as freemen. schemes of migration and colonization arose among them; but these they refused to entertain, and they eventually turned to the abolition movement as a final refuge. here, led by remond, nell, wells brown, and douglass, a new period of self assertion and self development dawned. to be sure, ultimate freedom and assimilation was the ideal before the leaders, but the assertion of the manhood rights of the negro by himself was the main reliance, and john brown's raid was the extreme of its logic. after the war and emancipation, the great form of frederick douglass, the greatest of american negro leaders, still led the host. self assertion, especially in political lines, was the main programme, and behind douglass came elliot, bruce, and langston, and the reconstruction politicians, and, less conspicuous but of greater social significance alexander crummell and bishop daniel payne. then came, the revolution of 1876, the suppression of the negro votes, the changing and shifting of ideals, and the seeking of new lights in the great night. douglass, in his old age, still bravely stood for the ideals of his early manhood,  ultimate assimilation through self assertion, and on no other terms. for a time price arose as a new leader, destined, it seemed, not to give up, but to re state the old ideals in a form less repugnant to the white south. but he passed away in his prime. then came the new leader. nearly all the former ones had become leaders by the silent suffrage of their fellows, had sought to lead their own people alone, and were usually, save douglass, little known outside their race. but booker t. washington arose as essentially the leader not of one race but of two,  a compromiser between the south, the north, and the negro. naturally the negroes resented, at first bitterly, signs of compromise which surrendered their civil and political rights, even though this was to be exchanged for larger chances of economic development. the rich and dominating north, however, was not only weary of the race problem, but was investing largely in southern enterprises, and welcomed any method of peaceful coöperation. thus, by national opinion, the negroes began to recognize mr. washington's leadership; and the voice of criticism was hushed. mr. washington represents in negro thought the old attitude of adjustment and submission; but adjustment at such a peculiar time as to make his programme unique. this is an age of unusual economic development, and mr. washington's programme naturally takes an economic cast, becoming a gospel of work and money to such an extent as apparently almost completely to overshadow the higher aims of life. moreover, this is an age when the more advanced races are coming in closer contact with the less developed races, and the race feeling is therefore intensified; and mr. washington's programme practically accepts the alleged inferiority of the negro races. again, in our own land, the reaction from the sentiment of war time has given impetus to race prejudice against negroes, and mr. washington withdraws many of the high demands of negroes as men and american citizens. in other periods of intensified prejudice all the negro's tendency to self assertion has been called forth; at this period a policy of submission is advocated. in the history of nearly all other races and peoples the doctrine preached at such crises has been that manly self respect is worth more than lands and houses, and that a people who voluntarily surrender such respect, or cease striving for it, are not worth civilizing. in answer to this, it has been claimed that the negro can survive only through submission. mr. washington distinctly asks that black people give up, at least for the present, three things,   these movements are not, to be sure, direct results of mr. washington's teachings; but his propaganda has, without a shadow of doubt, helped their speedier accomplishment. the question then comes: is it possible, and probable, that nine millions of men can make effective progress in economic lines if they are deprived of political rights, made a servile caste, and allowed only the most meagre chance for developing their exceptional men? if history and reason give any distinct answer to these questions, it is an emphatic no. and mr. washington thus faces the triple paradox of his career: this triple paradox in mr. washington's position is the object of criticism by two classes of colored americans. one class is spiritually descended from toussaint the savior, through gabriel, vesey, and turner, and they represent the attitude of revolt and revenge; they hate the white south blindly and distrust the white race generally, and so far as they agree on definite action, think that the negro's only hope lies in emigration beyond the borders of the united states. and yet, by the irony of fate, nothing has more effectually made this programme seem hopeless than the recent course of the united states toward weaker and darker peoples in the west indies, hawaii, and the philippines,  for where in the world may we go and be safe from lying and brute force? the other class of negroes who cannot agree with mr. washington has hitherto said little aloud. they deprecate the sight of scattered counsels, of internal disagreement; and especially they dislike making their just criticism of a useful and earnest man an excuse for a general discharge of venom from small minded opponents. nevertheless, the questions involved are so fundamental and serious that it is difficult to see how men like the grimkes, kelly miller, j. w. e. bowen, and other representatives of this group, can much longer be silent. such men feel in conscience bound to ask of this nation three things: insight cannot see that no such educational system ever has rested or can rest on any other basis than that of the well equipped college and university, and they insist that there is a demand for a few such institutions throughout the south to train the best of the negro youth as teachers, professional men, and leaders. this group of men honor mr. washington for his attitude of conciliation toward the white south; they accept the "atlanta compromise" in its broadest interpretation; they recognize, with him, many signs of promise, many men of high purpose and fair judgment, in this section; they know that no easy task has been laid upon a region already tottering under heavy burdens. but, nevertheless, they insist that the way to truth and right lies in straightforward honesty, not in indiscriminate flattery; in praising those of the south who do well and criticising uncompromisingly those who do ill; in taking advantage of the opportunities at hand and urging their fellows to do the same, but at the same time in remembering that only a firm adherence to their higher ideals and aspirations will ever keep those ideals within the realm of possibility. they do not expect that the free right to vote, to enjoy civic rights, and to be educated, will come in a moment; they do not expect to see the bias and prejudices of years disappear at the blast of a trumpet; but they are absolutely certain that the way for a people to gain their reasonable rights is not by voluntarily throwing them away and insisting that they do not want them; that the way for a people to gain respect is not by continually belittling and ridiculing themselves; that, on the contrary, negroes must insist continually, in season and out of season, that voting is necessary to modern manhood, that color discrimination is barbarism, and that black boys need education as well as white boys. in failing thus to state plainly and unequivocally the legitimate demands of their people, even at the cost of opposing an honored leader, the thinking classes of american negroes would shirk a heavy responsibility,  a responsibility to themselves, a responsibility to the struggling masses, a responsibility to the darker races of men whose future depends so largely on this american experiment, but especially a responsibility to this nation,  this common fatherland. it is wrong to encourage a man or a people in evil doing; it is wrong to aid and abet a national crime simply because it is unpopular not to do so. the growing spirit of kindliness and reconciliation between the north and south after the frightful differences of a generation ago ought to be a source of deep congratulation to all, and especially to those whose mistreatment caused the war; but if that reconciliation is to be marked by the industrial slavery and civic death of those same black men, with permanent legislation into a position of inferiority, then those black men, if they are really men, are called upon by every consideration of patriotism and loyalty to oppose such a course by all civilized methods, even though such opposition involves disagreement with mr. booker t. washington. we have no right to sit silently by while the inevitable seeds are sown for a harvest of disaster to our children, black and white. first, it is the duty of black men to judge the south discriminatingly. the present generation of southerners are not responsible for the past, and they should not be blindly hated or blamed for it. furthermore, to no class is the indiscriminate endorsement of the recent course of the south toward negroes more nauseating than to the best thought of the south. the south is not "solid"; it is a land in the ferment of social change, wherein forces of all kinds are fighting for supremacy; and to praise the ill the south is to day perpetrating is just as wrong as to condemn the good. discriminating and broad minded criticism, is what the south needs,  needs it for the sake of her own white sons and daughters, and for the insurance of robust, healthy mental and moral development. to day even the attitude of the southern whites toward the blacks is not, as so many assume, in all cases the same; the ignorant southerner hates the negro, the workingmen fear his competition, the money makers wish to use him as a laborer, some of the educated see a menace in his upward development, while others  usually the sons of the masters  wish to help him to rise. national opinion has enabled this last class to maintain the negro common schools, and to protect the negro partially in property, life, and limb. through the pressure of the money makers, the negro is in danger of being reduced to semi slavery, especially in the country districts; the workingmen, and those of the educated who fear the negro, have united to disfranchise him, and some have urged his deportation; while the passions of the ignorant are easily aroused to lynch and abuse any black man. to praise this intricate whirl of thought and prejudice is nonsense; to inveigh indiscriminately against "the south" is unjust; but to use the same breath in praising governor aycock, exposing senator morgan, arguing with mr. thomas nelson page, and denouncing senator ben tillman, is not only sane, but the imperative duty of thinking black men. it would be unjust to mr. washington not to acknowledge that in several instances he has opposed movements in the south which were unjust to the negro; he sent memorials to the louisiana and alabama constitutional conventions, he has spoken against lynching, and in other ways has openly or silently set his influence against sinister schemes and unfortunate happenings. notwithstanding this, it is equally true to assert that on the whole the distinct impression left by mr. washington's propaganda is, first, that the south is justified in its present attitude toward the negro because of the negro's degradation; secondly, that the prime cause of the negro's failure to rise more quickly is his wrong education in the past; and, thirdly, that his future rise depends primarily on his own efforts. each of these propositions is a dangerous half truth. the supplementary truths must never be lost sight of: first, slavery and race prejudice are potent if not sufficient causes of the negro's position; second, industrial and common school training were necessarily slow in planting because they had to await the black teachers trained by higher institutions,  it being extremely doubtful if any essentially different development was possible, and certainly a tuskegee was unthinkable before 1880; and, third, while it is a great truth to say that the negro must strive and strive mightily to help himself, it is equally true that unless his striving be not simply seconded, but rather aroused and encouraged, by the initiative of the richer and wiser environing group, he cannot hope for great success. in his failure to realize and impress this last point, mr. washington is especially to be criticised. his doctrine has tended to make the whites, north and south, shift the burden of the negro problem to the negro's shoulders and stand aside as critical and rather pessimistic spectators; when in fact the burden belongs to the nation, and the hands of none of us are clean if we bend not our energies to righting these great wrongs. the south ought to be led, by candid and honest criticism, to assert her better self and do her full duty to the race she has cruelly wronged and is still wronging. the north  her co partner in guilt  cannot salve her conscience by plastering it with gold. we cannot settle this problem by diplomacy and suaveness, by "policy" alone. if worse come to worst, can the moral fibre of this country survive the slow throttling and murder of nine millions of men? the black men of america have a duty to perform, a duty stern and delicate,  a forward movement to oppose a part of the work of their greatest leader. so far as mr. washington preaches thrift, patience, and industrial training for the masses, we must hold up his hands and strive with him, rejoicing in his honors and glorying in the strength of this joshua called of god and of man to lead the headless host. but so far as mr. washington apologizes for injustice, north or south, does not rightly value the privilege and duty of voting, belittles the emasculating effects of caste distinctions, and opposes the higher training and ambition of our brighter minds,  so far as he, the south, or the nation, does this,  we must unceasingly and firmly oppose them. by every civilized and peaceful method we must strive for the rights which the world accords to men, clinging unwaveringly to those great words which the sons of the fathers would fain forget: "we hold these truths to be self evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." willst du deine macht verkünden, wähle sie die frei von sünden, steh'n in deinem ew'gen haus! deine geister sende aus! die unsterblichen, die reinen, die nicht fühlen, die nicht weinen! nicht die zarte jungfrau wähle, nicht der hirtin weiche seele! schiller. once upon a time i taught school in the hills of tennessee, where the broad dark vale of the mississippi begins to roll and crumple to greet the alleghanies. i was a fisk student then, and all fisk men thought that tennessee  beyond the veil  was theirs alone, and in vacation time they sallied forth in lusty bands to meet the county school commissioners. young and happy, i too went, and i shall not soon forget that summer, seventeen years ago. first, there was a teachers' institute at the county seat; and there distinguished guests of the superintendent taught the teachers fractions and spelling and other mysteries,  white teachers in the morning, negroes at night. a picnic now and then, and a supper, and the rough world was softened by laughter and song. i remember how   but i wander. there came a day when all the teachers left the institute and began the hunt for schools. i learn from hearsay (for my mother was mortally afraid of fire arms) that the hunting of ducks and bears and men is wonderfully interesting, but i am sure that the man who has never hunted a country school has something to learn of the pleasures of the chase. i see now the white, hot roads lazily rise and fall and wind before me under the burning july sun; i feel the deep weariness of heart and limb as ten, eight, six miles stretch relentlessly ahead; i feel my heart sink heavily as i hear again and again, "got a teacher? yes." so i walked on and on  horses were too expensive  until i had wandered beyond railways, beyond stage lines, to a land of "varmints" and rattlesnakes, where the coming of a stranger was an event, and men lived and died in the shadow of one blue hill. sprinkled over hill and dale lay cabins and farmhouses, shut out from the world by the forests and the rolling hills toward the east. there i found at last a little school. josie told me of it; she was a thin, homely girl of twenty, with a dark brown face and thick, hard hair. i had crossed the stream at watertown, and rested under the great willows; then i had gone to the little cabin in the lot where josie was resting on her way to town. the gaunt farmer made me welcome, and josie, hearing my errand, told me anxiously that they wanted a school over the hill; that but once since the war had a teacher been there; that she herself longed to learn,  and thus she ran on, talking fast and loud, with much earnestness and energy. next morning i crossed the tall round hill, lingered to look at the blue and yellow mountains stretching toward the carolinas, then plunged into the wood, and came out at josie's home. it was a dull frame cottage with four rooms, perched just below the brow of the hill, amid peach trees. the father was a quiet, simple soul, calmly ignorant, with no touch of vulgarity. the mother was different,  strong, bustling, and energetic, with a quick, restless tongue, and an ambition to live "like folks." there was a crowd of children. two boys had gone away. there remained two growing girls; a shy midget of eight; john, tall, awkward, and eighteen; jim, younger, quicker, and better looking; and two babies of indefinite age. then there was josie herself. she seemed to be the centre of the family: always busy at service, or at home, or berry picking; a little nervous and inclined to scold, like her mother, yet faithful, too, like her father. she had about her a certain fineness, the shadow of an unconscious moral heroism that would willingly give all of life to make life broader, deeper, and fuller for her and hers. i saw much of this family afterwards, and grew to love them for their honest efforts to be decent and comfortable, and for their knowledge of their own ignorance. there was with them no affectation. the mother would scold the father for being so "easy"; josie would roundly berate the boys for carelessness; and all knew that it was a hard thing to dig a living out of a rocky side hill. i secured the school. i remember the day i rode horseback out to the commissioner's house with a pleasant young white fellow who wanted the white school. the road ran down the bed of a stream; the sun laughed and the water jingled, and we rode on. "come in," said the commissioner,  "come in. have a seat. yes, that certificate will do. stay to dinner. what do you want a month?" "oh," thought i, "this is lucky"; but even then fell the awful shadow of the veil, for they ate first, then i  alone. the schoolhouse was a log hut, where colonel wheeler used to shelter his corn. it sat in a lot behind a rail fence and thorn bushes, near the sweetest of springs. there was an entrance where a door once was, and within, a massive rickety fireplace; great chinks between the logs served as windows. furniture was scarce. a pale blackboard crouched in the corner. my desk was made of three boards, reinforced at critical points, and my chair, borrowed from the landlady, had to be returned every night. seats for the children  these puzzled me much. i was haunted by a new england vision of neat little desks and chairs, but, alas! the reality was rough plank benches without backs, and at times without legs. they had the one virtue of making naps dangerous,   possibly fatal, for the floor was not to be trusted. it was a hot morning late in july when the school opened. i trembled when i heard the patter of little feet down the dusty road, and saw the growing row of dark solemn faces and bright eager eyes facing me. first came josie and her brothers and sisters. the longing to know, to be a student in the great school at nashville, hovered like a star above this child woman amid her work and worry, and she studied doggedly. there were the dowells from their farm over toward alexandria,  fanny, with her smooth black face and wondering eyes; martha, brown and dull; the pretty girl wife of a brother, and the younger brood. there were the burkes,  two brown and yellow lads, and a tiny haughty eyed girl. fat reuben's little chubby girl came, with golden face and old gold hair, faithful and solemn. 'thenie was on hand early,  a jolly, ugly, good hearted girl, who slyly dipped snuff and looked after her little bow legged brother. when her mother could spare her, 'tildy came,  a midnight beauty, with starry eyes and tapering limbs; and her brother, correspondingly homely. and then the big boys,  the hulking lawrences; the lazy neills, unfathered sons of mother and daughter; hickman, with a stoop in his shoulders; and the rest. there they sat, nearly thirty of them, on the rough benches, their faces shading from a pale cream to a deep brown, the little feet bare and swinging, the eyes full of expectation, with here and there a twinkle of mischief, and the hands grasping webster's blue back spelling book. i loved my school, and the fine faith the children had in the wisdom of their teacher was truly marvellous. we read and spelled together, wrote a little, picked flowers, sang, and listened to stories of the world beyond the hill. at times the school would dwindle away, and i would start out. i would visit mun eddings, who lived in two very dirty rooms, and ask why little lugene, whose flaming face seemed ever ablaze with the dark red hair uncombed, was absent all last week, or why i missed so often the inimitable rags of mack and ed. then the father, who worked colonel wheeler's farm on shares, would tell me how the crops needed the boys; and the thin, slovenly mother, whose face was pretty when washed, assured me that lugene must mind the baby. "but we'll start them again next week." when the lawrences stopped, i knew that the doubts of the old folks about book learning had conquered again, and so, toiling up the hill, and getting as far into the cabin as possible, i put cicero "pro archia poeta" into the simplest english with local applications, and usually convinced them  for a week or so. on friday nights i often went home with some of the children,  sometimes to doc burke's farm. he was a great, loud, thin black, ever working, and trying to buy the seventy five acres of hill and dale where he lived; but people said that he would surely fail, and the "white folks would get it all." his wife was a magnificent amazon, with saffron face and shining hair, uncorseted and barefooted, and the children were strong and beautiful. they lived in a one and a half room cabin in the hollow of the farm, near the spring. the front room was full of great fat white beds, scrupulously neat; and there were bad chromos on the walls, and a tired centre table. in the tiny back kitchen i was often invited to "take out and help" myself to fried chicken and wheat biscuit, "meat" and corn pone, string beans and berries. at first i used to be a little alarmed at the approach of bedtime in the one lone bedroom, but embarrassment was very deftly avoided. first, all the children nodded and slept, and were stowed away in one great pile of goose feathers; next, the mother and the father discreetly slipped away to the kitchen while i went to bed; then, blowing out the dim light, they retired in the dark. in the morning all were up and away before i thought of awaking. across the road, where fat reuben lived, they all went outdoors while the teacher retired, because they did not boast the luxury of a kitchen. i liked to stay with the dowells, for they had four rooms and plenty of good country fare. uncle bird had a small, rough farm, all woods and hills, miles from the big road; but he was full of tales,  he preached now and then,  and with his children, berries, horses, and wheat he was happy and prosperous. often, to keep the peace, i must go where life was less lovely; for instance, 'tildy's mother was incorrigibly dirty, reuben's larder was limited seriously, and herds of untamed insects wandered over the eddingses' beds. best of all i loved to go to josie's, and sit on the porch, eating peaches, while the mother bustled and talked: how josie had bought the sewing machine; how josie worked at service in winter, but that four dollars a month was "mighty little" wages; how josie longed to go away to school, but that it "looked like" they never could get far enough ahead to let her; how the crops failed and the well was yet unfinished; and, finally, how "mean" some of the white folks were. for two summers i lived in this little world; it was dull and humdrum. the girls looked at the hill in wistful longing, and the boys fretted and haunted alexandria. alexandria was "town,"  a straggling, lazy village of houses, churches, and shops, and an aristocracy of toms, dicks, and captains. cuddled on the hill to the north was the village of the colored folks, who lived in three  or four room unpainted cottages, some neat and homelike, and some dirty. the dwellings were scattered rather aimlessly, but they centred about the twin temples of the hamlet, the methodist, and the hard shell baptist churches. these, in turn, leaned gingerly on a sad colored schoolhouse. hither my little world wended its crooked way on sunday to meet other worlds, and gossip, and wonder, and make the weekly sacrifice with frenzied priest at the altar of the "old time religion." then the soft melody and mighty cadences of negro song fluttered and thundered. i have called my tiny community a world, and so its isolation made it; and yet there was among us but a half awakened common consciousness, sprung from common joy and grief, at burial, birth, or wedding; from a common hardship in poverty, poor land, and low wages; and, above all, from the sight of the veil that hung between us and opportunity. all this caused us to think some thoughts together; but these, when ripe for speech, were spoken in various languages. those whose eyes twenty five and more years before had seen "the glory of the coming of the lord," saw in every present hindrance or help a dark fatalism bound to bring all things right in his own good time. the mass of those to whom slavery was a dim recollection of childhood found the world a puzzling thing: it asked little of them, and they answered with little, and yet it ridiculed their offering. such a paradox they could not understand, and therefore sank into listless indifference, or shiftlessness, or reckless bravado. there were, however, some  such as josie, jim, and ben  to whom war, hell, and slavery were but childhood tales, whose young appetites had been whetted to an edge by school and story and half awakened thought. ill could they be content, born without and beyond the world. and their weak wings beat against their barriers,  barriers of caste, of youth, of life; at last, in dangerous moments, against everything that opposed even a whim. the ten years that follow youth, the years when first the realization comes that life is leading somewhere,  these were the years that passed after i left my little school. when they were past, i came by chance once more to the walls of fisk university, to the halls of the chapel of melody. as i lingered there in the joy and pain of meeting old school friends, there swept over me a sudden longing to pass again beyond the blue hill, and to see the homes and the school of other days, and to learn how life had gone with my school children; and i went. josie was dead, and the gray haired mother said simply, "we've had a heap of trouble since you've been away." i had feared for jim. with a cultured parentage and a social caste to uphold him, he might have made a venturesome merchant or a west point cadet. but here he was, angry with life and reckless; and when farmer durham charged him with stealing wheat, the old man had to ride fast to escape the stones which the furious fool hurled after him. they told jim to run away; but he would not run, and the constable came that afternoon. it grieved josie, and great awkward john walked nine miles every day to see his little brother through the bars of lebanon jail. at last the two came back together in the dark night. the mother cooked supper, and josie emptied her purse, and the boys stole away. josie grew thin and silent, yet worked the more. the hill became steep for the quiet old father, and with the boys away there was little to do in the valley. josie helped them to sell the old farm, and they moved nearer town. brother dennis, the carpenter, built a new house with six rooms; josie toiled a year in nashville, and brought back ninety dollars to furnish the house and change it to a home. when the spring came, and the birds twittered, and the stream ran proud and full, little sister lizzie, bold and thoughtless, flushed with the passion of youth, bestowed herself on the tempter, and brought home a nameless child. josie shivered and worked on, with the vision of schooldays all fled, with a face wan and tired,  worked until, on a summer's day, some one married another; then josie crept to her mother like a hurt child, and slept  and sleeps. i paused to scent the breeze as i entered the valley. the lawrences have gone,  father and son forever,  and the other son lazily digs in the earth to live. a new young widow rents out their cabin to fat reuben. reuben is a baptist preacher now, but i fear as lazy as ever, though his cabin has three rooms; and little ella has grown into a bouncing woman, and is ploughing corn on the hot hillside. there are babies a plenty, and one half witted girl. across the valley is a house i did not know before, and there i found, rocking one baby and expecting another, one of my schoolgirls, a daughter of uncle bird dowell. she looked somewhat worried with her new duties, but soon bristled into pride over her neat cabin and the tale of her thrifty husband, the horse and cow, and the farm they were planning to buy. my log schoolhouse was gone. in its place stood progress; and progress, i understand, is necessarily ugly. the crazy foundation stones still marked the former site of my poor little cabin, and not far away, on six weary boulders, perched a jaunty board house, perhaps twenty by thirty feet, with three windows and a door that locked. some of the window glass was broken, and part of an old iron stove lay mournfully under the house. i peeped through the window half reverently, and found things that were more familiar. the blackboard had grown by about two feet, and the seats were still without backs. the county owns the lot now, i hear, and every year there is a session of school. as i sat by the spring and looked on the old and the new i felt glad, very glad, and yet   after two long drinks i started on. there was the great double log house on the corner. i remembered the broken, blighted family that used to live there. the strong, hard face of the mother, with its wilderness of hair, rose before me. she had driven her husband away, and while i taught school a strange man lived there, big and jovial, and people talked. i felt sure that ben and 'tildy would come to naught from such a home. but this is an odd world; for ben is a busy farmer in smith county, "doing well, too," they say, and he had cared for little 'tildy until last spring, when a lover married her. a hard life the lad had led, toiling for meat, and laughed at because he was homely and crooked. there was sam carlon, an impudent old skinflint, who had definite notions about "niggers," and hired ben a summer and would not pay him. then the hungry boy gathered his sacks together, and in broad daylight went into carlon's corn; and when the hard fisted farmer set upon him, the angry boy flew at him like a beast. doc burke saved a murder and a lynching that day. the story reminded me again of the burkes, and an impatience seized me to know who won in the battle, doc or the seventy five acres. for it is a hard thing to make a farm out of nothing, even in fifteen years. so i hurried on, thinking of the burkes. they used to have a certain magnificent barbarism about them that i liked. they were never vulgar, never immoral, but rather rough and primitive, with an unconventionality that spent itself in loud guffaws, slaps on the back, and naps in the corner. i hurried by the cottage of the misborn neill boys. it was empty, and they were grown into fat, lazy farm hands. i saw the home of the hickmans, but albert, with his stooping shoulders, had passed from the world. then i came to the burkes' gate and peered through; the inclosure looked rough and untrimmed, and yet there were the same fences around the old farm save to the left, where lay twenty five other acres. and lo! the cabin in the hollow had climbed the hill and swollen to a half finished six room cottage. the burkes held a hundred acres, but they were still in debt. indeed, the gaunt father who toiled night and day would scarcely be happy out of debt, being so used to it. some day he must stop, for his massive frame is showing decline. the mother wore shoes, but the lion like physique of other days was broken. the children had grown up. rob, the image of his father, was loud and rough with laughter. birdie, my school baby of six, had grown to a picture of maiden beauty, tall and tawny. "edgar is gone," said the mother, with head half bowed,  "gone to work in nashville; he and his father couldn't agree." little doc, the boy born since the time of my school, took me horseback down the creek next morning toward farmer dowell's. the road and the stream were battling for mastery, and the stream had the better of it. we splashed and waded, and the merry boy, perched behind me, chattered and laughed. he showed me where simon thompson had bought a bit of ground and a home; but his daughter lana, a plump, brown, slow girl, was not there. she had married a man and a farm twenty miles away. we wound on down the stream till we came to a gate that i did not recognize, but the boy insisted that it was "uncle bird's." the farm was fat with the growing crop. in that little valley was a strange stillness as i rode up; for death and marriage had stolen youth and left age and childhood there. we sat and talked that night after the chores were done. uncle bird was grayer, and his eyes did not see so well, but he was still jovial. we talked of the acres bought,  one hundred and twenty five,  of the new guest chamber added, of martha's marrying. then we talked of death: fanny and fred were gone; a shadow hung over the other daughter, and when it lifted she was to go to nashville to school. at last we spoke of the neighbors, and as night fell, uncle bird told me how, on a night like that, 'thenie came wandering back to her home over yonder, to escape the blows of her husband. and next morning she died in the home that her little bow legged brother, working and saving, had bought for their widowed mother. my journey was done, and behind me lay hill and dale, and life and death. how shall man measure progress there where the dark faced josie lies? how many heartfuls of sorrow shall balance a bushel of wheat? how hard a thing is life to the lowly, and yet how human and real! and all this life and love and strife and failure,  is it the twilight of nightfall or the flush of some faint dawning day? thus sadly musing, i rode to nashville in the jim crow car. o black boy of atlanta! but half was spoken; the slave's chains and the master's alike are broken; the one curse of the races held both in tether; they are rising  all are rising   the black and white together. whittier. south of the north, yet north of the south, lies the city of a hundred hills, peering out from the shadows of the past into the promise of the future. i have seen her in the morning, when the first flush of day had half roused her; she lay gray and still on the crimson soil of georgia; then the blue smoke began to curl from her chimneys, the tinkle of bell and scream of whistle broke the silence, the rattle and roar of busy life slowly gathered and swelled, until the seething whirl of the city seemed a strange thing in a sleepy land. once, they say, even atlanta slept dull and drowsy at the foot hills of the alleghanies, until the iron baptism of war awakened her with its sullen waters, aroused and maddened her, and left her listening to the sea. and the sea cried to the hills and the hills answered the sea, till the city rose like a widow and cast away her weeds, and toiled for her daily bread; toiled steadily, toiled cunningly,  perhaps with some bitterness, with a touch of réclame,  and yet with real earnestness, and real sweat. it is a hard thing to live haunted by the ghost of an untrue dream; to see the wide vision of empire fade into real ashes and dirt; to feel the pang of the conquered, and yet know that with all the bad that fell on one black day, something was vanquished that deserved to live, something killed that in justice had not dared to die; to know that with the right that triumphed, triumphed something of wrong, something sordid and mean, something less than the broadest and best. all this is bitter hard; and many a man and city and people have found in it excuse for sulking, and brooding, and listless waiting. such are not men of the sturdier make; they of atlanta turned resolutely toward the future; and that future held aloft vistas of purple and gold:  atlanta, queen of the cotton kingdom; atlanta, gateway to the land of the sun; atlanta, the new lachesis, spinner of web and woof for the world. so the city crowned her hundred hills with factories, and stored her shops with cunning handiwork, and stretched long iron ways to greet the busy mercury in his coming. and the nation talked of her striving. perhaps atlanta was not christened for the winged maiden of dull boeotia; you know the tale,  how swarthy atalanta, tall and wild, would marry only him who out raced her; and how the wily hippomenes laid three apples of gold in the way. she fled like a shadow, paused, startled over the first apple, but even as he stretched his hand, fled again; hovered over the second, then, slipping from his hot grasp, flew over river, vale, and hill; but as she lingered over the third, his arms fell round her, and looking on each other, the blazing passion of their love profaned the sanctuary of love, and they were cursed. if atlanta be not named for atalanta, she ought to have been. atalanta is not the first or the last maiden whom greed of gold has led to defile the temple of love; and not maids alone, but men in the race of life, sink from the high and generous ideals of youth to the gambler's code of the bourse; and in all our nation's striving is not the gospel of work befouled by the gospel of pay? so common is this that one half think it normal; so unquestioned, that we almost fear to question if the end of racing is not gold, if the aim of man is not rightly to be rich. and if this is the fault of america, how dire a danger lies before a new land and a new city, lest atlanta, stooping for mere gold, shall find that gold accursed! it was no maiden's idle whim that started this hard racing; a fearful wilderness lay about the feet of that city after the war,  feudalism, poverty, the rise of the third estate, serfdom, the re birth of law and order, and above and between all, the veil of race. how heavy a journey for weary feet! what wings must atalanta have to flit over all this hollow and hill, through sour wood and sullen water, and by the red waste of sun baked clay! how fleet must atalanta be if she will not be tempted by gold to profane the sanctuary! the sanctuary of our fathers has, to be sure, few gods,  some sneer, "all too few." there is the thrifty mercury of new england, pluto of the north, and ceres of the west; and there, too, is the half forgotten apollo of the south, under whose ægis the maiden ran,  and as she ran she forgot him, even as there in boeotia venus was forgot. she forgot the old ideal of the southern gentleman,  that new world heir of the grace and courtliness of patrician, knight, and noble; forgot his honor with his foibles, his kindliness with his carelessness, and stooped to apples of gold,  to men busier and sharper, thriftier and more unscrupulous. golden apples are beautiful  i remember the lawless days of boyhood, when orchards in crimson and gold tempted me over fence and field  and, too, the merchant who has dethroned the planter is no despicable parvenu. work and wealth are the mighty levers to lift this old new land; thrift and toil and saving are the highways to new hopes and new possibilities; and yet the warning is needed lest the wily hippomenes tempt atalanta to thinking that golden apples are the goal of racing, and not mere incidents by the way. atlanta must not lead the south to dream of material prosperity as the touchstone of all success; already the fatal might of this idea is beginning to spread; it is replacing the finer type of southerner with vulgar money getters; it is burying the sweeter beauties of southern life beneath pretence and ostentation. for every social ill the panacea of wealth has been urged,  wealth to overthrow the remains of the slave feudalism; wealth to raise the "cracker" third estate; wealth to employ the black serfs, and the prospect of wealth to keep them working; wealth as the end and aim of politics, and as the legal tender for law and order; and, finally, instead of truth, beauty, and goodness, wealth as the ideal of the public school. not only is this true in the world which atlanta typifies, but it is threatening to be true of a world beneath and beyond that world,  the black world beyond the veil. to day it makes little difference to atlanta, to the south, what the negro thinks or dreams or wills. in the soul life of the land he is to day, and naturally will long remain, unthought of, half forgotten; and yet when he does come to think and will and do for himself,  and let no man dream that day will never come,  then the part he plays will not be one of sudden learning, but words and thoughts he has been taught to lisp in his race childhood. to day the ferment of his striving toward self realization is to the strife of the white world like a wheel within a wheel: beyond the veil are smaller but like problems of ideals, of leaders and the led, of serfdom, of poverty, of order and subordination, and, through all, the veil of race. few know of these problems, few who know notice them; and yet there they are, awaiting student, artist, and seer,  a field for somebody sometime to discover. hither has the temptation of hippomenes penetrated; already in this smaller world, which now indirectly and anon directly must influence the larger for good or ill, the habit is forming of interpreting the world in dollars. the old leaders of negro opinion, in the little groups where there is a negro social consciousness, are being replaced by new; neither the black preacher nor the black teacher leads as he did two decades ago. into their places are pushing the farmers and gardeners, the well paid porters and artisans, the businessmen,  all those with property and money. and with all this change, so curiously parallel to that of the other world, goes too the same inevitable change in ideals. the south laments to day the slow, steady disappearance of a certain type of negro,  the faithful, courteous slave of other days, with his incorruptible honesty and dignified humility. he is passing away just as surely as the old type of southern gentleman is passing, and from not dissimilar causes,  the sudden transformation of a fair far off ideal of freedom into the hard reality of bread winning and the consequent deification of bread. in the black world, the preacher and teacher embodied once the ideals of this people,  the strife for another and a juster world, the vague dream of righteousness, the mystery of knowing; but to day the danger is that these ideals, with their simple beauty and weird inspiration, will suddenly sink to a question of cash and a lust for gold. here stands this black young atalanta, girding herself for the race that must be run; and if her eyes be still toward the hills and sky as in the days of old, then we may look for noble running; but what if some ruthless or wily or even thoughtless hippomenes lay golden apples before her? what if the negro people be wooed from a strife for righteousness, from a love of knowing, to regard dollars as the be all and end all of life? what if to the mammonism of america be added the rising mammonism of the re born south, and the mammonism of this south be reinforced by the budding mammonism of its half awakened black millions? whither, then, is the new world quest of goodness and beauty and truth gone glimmering? must this, and that fair flower of freedom which, despite the jeers of latter day striplings, sprung from our fathers' blood, must that too degenerate into a dusty quest of gold,  into lawless lust with hippomenes? the hundred hills of atlanta are not all crowned with factories. on one, toward the west, the setting sun throws three buildings in bold relief against the sky. the beauty of the group lies in its simple unity:  a broad lawn of green rising from the red street with mingled roses and peaches; north and south, two plain and stately halls; and in the midst, half hidden in ivy, a larger building, boldly graceful, sparingly decorated, and with one low spire. it is a restful group,  one never looks for more; it is all here, all intelligible. there i live, and there i hear from day to day the low hum of restful life. in winter's twilight, when the red sun glows, i can see the dark figures pass between the halls to the music of the night bell. in the morning, when the sun is golden, the clang of the day bell brings the hurry and laughter of three hundred young hearts from hall and street, and from the busy city below,  children all dark and heavy haired,  to join their clear young voices in the music of the morning sacrifice. in a half dozen class rooms they gather then,  here to follow the love song of dido, here to listen to the tale of troy divine; there to wander among the stars, there to wander among men and nations,  and elsewhere other well worn ways of knowing this queer world. nothing new, no timesaving devices,  simply old time glorified methods of delving for truth, and searching out the hidden beauties of life, and learning the good of living. the riddle of existence is the college curriculum that was laid before the pharaohs, that was taught in the groves by plato, that formed the trivium and quadrivium, and is to day laid before the freedmen's sons by atlanta university. and this course of study will not change; its methods will grow more deft and effectual, its content richer by toil of scholar and sight of seer; but the true college will ever have one goal,  not to earn meat, but to know the end and aim of that life which meat nourishes. the vision of life that rises before these dark eyes has in it nothing mean or selfish. not at oxford or at leipsic, not at yale or columbia, is there an air of higher resolve or more unfettered striving; the determination to realize for men, both black and white, the broadest possibilities of life, to seek the better and the best, to spread with their own hands the gospel of sacrifice,  all this is the burden of their talk and dream. here, amid a wide desert of caste and proscription, amid the heart hurting slights and jars and vagaries of a deep race dislike, lies this green oasis, where hot anger cools, and the bitterness of disappointment is sweetened by the springs and breezes of parnassus; and here men may lie and listen, and learn of a future fuller than the past, and hear the voice of time: "entbehren sollst du, sollst entbehren." they made their mistakes, those who planted fisk and howard and atlanta before the smoke of battle had lifted; they made their mistakes, but those mistakes were not the things at which we lately laughed somewhat uproariously. they were right when they sought to found a new educational system upon the university: where, forsooth, shall we ground knowledge save on the broadest and deepest knowledge? the roots of the tree, rather than the leaves, are the sources of its life; and from the dawn of history, from academus to cambridge, the culture of the university has been the broad foundation stone on which is built the kindergarten's a b c. but these builders did make a mistake in minimizing the gravity of the problem before them; in thinking it a matter of years and decades; in therefore building quickly and laying their foundation carelessly, and lowering the standard of knowing, until they had scattered haphazard through the south some dozen poorly equipped high schools and miscalled them universities. they forgot, too, just as their successors are forgetting, the rule of inequality:  that of the million black youth, some were fitted to know and some to dig; that some had the talent and capacity of university men, and some the talent and capacity of blacksmiths; and that true training meant neither that all should be college men nor all artisans, but that the one should be made a missionary of culture to an untaught people, and the other a free workman among serfs. and to seek to make the blacksmith a scholar is almost as silly as the more modern scheme of making the scholar a blacksmith; almost, but not quite. the function of the university is not simply to teach bread winning, or to furnish teachers for the public schools, or to be a centre of polite society; it is, above all, to be the organ of that fine adjustment between real life and the growing knowledge of life, an adjustment which forms the secret of civilization. such an institution the south of today sorely needs. she has religion, earnest, bigoted:  religion that on both sides the veil often omits the sixth, seventh, and eighth commandments, but substitutes a dozen supplementary ones. she has, as atlanta shows, growing thrift and love of toil; but she lacks that broad knowledge of what the world knows and knew of human living and doing, which she may apply to the thousand problems of real life to day confronting her. the need of the south is knowledge and culture,  not in dainty limited quantity, as before the war, but in broad busy abundance in the world of work; and until she has this, not all the apples of hesperides, be they golden and bejewelled, can save her from the curse of the boeotian lovers. the wings of atalanta are the coming universities of the south. they alone can bear the maiden past the temptation of golden fruit. they will not guide her flying feet away from the cotton and gold; for  ah, thoughtful hippomenes!  do not the apples lie in the very way of life? but they will guide her over and beyond them, and leave her kneeling in the sanctuary of truth and freedom and broad humanity, virgin and undefiled. sadly did the old south err in human education, despising the education of the masses, and niggardly in the support of colleges. her ancient university foundations dwindled and withered under the foul breath of slavery; and even since the war they have fought a failing fight for life in the tainted air of social unrest and commercial selfishness, stunted by the death of criticism, and starving for lack of broadly cultured men. and if this is the white south's need and danger, how much heavier the danger and need of the freedmen's sons! how pressing here the need of broad ideals and true culture, the conservation of soul from sordid aims and petty passions! let us build the southern university  william and mary, trinity, georgia, texas, tulane, vanderbilt, and the others  fit to live; let us build, too, the negro universities:  fisk, whose foundation was ever broad; howard, at the heart of the nation; atlanta at atlanta, whose ideal of scholarship has been held above the temptation of numbers. why not here, and perhaps elsewhere, plant deeply and for all time centres of learning and living, colleges that yearly would send into the life of the south a few white men and a few black men of broad culture, catholic tolerance, and trained ability, joining their hands to other hands, and giving to this squabble of the races a decent and dignified peace? patience, humility, manners, and taste, common schools and kindergartens, industrial and technical schools, literature and tolerance,  all these spring from knowledge and culture, the children of the university. so must men and nations build, not otherwise, not upside down. teach workers to work,  a wise saying; wise when applied to german boys and american girls; wiser when said of negro boys, for they have less knowledge of working and none to teach them. teach thinkers to think,  a needed knowledge in a clay of loose and careless logic; and they whose lot is gravest must have the carefulest training to think aright. if these things are so, how foolish to ask what is the best education for one or seven or sixty million souls! shall we teach them trades, or train them in liberal arts? neither and both: teach the workers to work and the thinkers to think; make carpenters of carpenters, and philosophers of philosophers, and fops of fools. nor can we pause here. we are training not isolated men but a living group of men,  nay, a group within a group. and the final product of our training must be neither a psychologist nor a brickmason, but a man. and to make men, we must have ideals, broad, pure, and inspiring ends of living,  not sordid money getting, not apples of gold. the worker must work for the glory of his handiwork, not simply for pay; the thinker must think for truth, not for fame. and all this is gained only by human strife and longing; by ceaseless training and education; by founding right on righteousness and truth on the unhampered search for truth; by founding the common school on the university, and the industrial school on the common school; and weaving thus a system, not a distortion, and bringing a birth, not an abortion. when night falls on the city of a hundred hills, a wind gathers itself from the seas and comes murmuring westward. and at its bidding, the smoke of the drowsy factories sweeps down upon the mighty city and covers it like a pall, while, yonder at the university the stars twinkle above stone hall. and they say that yon gray mist is the tunic of atalanta pausing over her golden apples. fly, my maiden, fly, for yonder comes hippomenes! why, if the soul can fling the dust aside, and naked on the air of heaven ride, were't not a shame  were't not a shame for him in this clay carcase crippled to abide? omar khayyám (fitzgerald). from the shimmering swirl of waters where many, many thoughts ago the slave ship first saw the square tower of jamestown, have flowed down to our day three streams of thinking: one swollen from the larger world here and over seas, saying, the multiplying of human wants in culture lands calls for the world wide coöperation of men in satisfying them. hence arises a new human unity, pulling the ends of earth nearer, and all men, black, yellow, and white. the larger humanity strives to feel in this contact of living nations and sleeping hordes a thrill of new life in the world, crying, "if the contact of life and sleep be death, shame on such life." to be sure, behind this thought lurks the afterthought of force and dominion,  the making of brown men to delve when the temptation of beads and red calico cloys. the second thought streaming from the death ship and the curving river is the thought of the older south,  the sincere and passionate belief that somewhere between men and cattle, god created a tertium quid, and called it a negro,  a clownish, simple creature, at times even lovable within its limitations, but straitly foreordained to walk within the veil. to be sure, behind the thought lurks the afterthought,  some of them with favoring chance might become men, but in sheer self defence we dare not let them, and we build about them walls so high, and hang between them and the light a veil so thick, that they shall not even think of breaking through. and last of all there trickles down that third and darker thought,  the thought of the things themselves, the confused, half conscious mutter of men who are black and whitened, crying "liberty, freedom, opportunity  vouchsafe to us, o boastful world, the chance of living men!" to be sure, behind the thought lurks the afterthought,  suppose, after all, the world is right and we are less than men? suppose this mad impulse within is all wrong, some mock mirage from the untrue? so here we stand among thoughts of human unity, even through conquest and slavery; the inferiority of black men, even if forced by fraud; a shriek in the night for the freedom of men who themselves are not yet sure of their right to demand it. this is the tangle of thought and afterthought wherein we are called to solve the problem of training men for life. behind all its curiousness, so attractive alike to sage and dilettante, lie its dim dangers, throwing across us shadows at once grotesque and awful. plain it is to us that what the world seeks through desert and wild we have within our threshold,  a stalwart laboring force, suited to the semi tropics; if, deaf to the voice of the zeitgeist, we refuse to use and develop these men, we risk poverty and loss. if, on the other hand, seized by the brutal afterthought, we debauch the race thus caught in our talons, selfishly sucking their blood and brains in the future as in the past, what shall save us from national decadence? only that saner selfishness, which education teaches men, can find the rights of all in the whirl of work. again, we may decry the color prejudice of the south, yet it remains a heavy fact. such curious kinks of the human mind exist and must be reckoned with soberly. they cannot be laughed away, nor always successfully stormed at, nor easily abolished by act of legislature. and yet they must not be encouraged by being let alone. they must be recognized as facts, but unpleasant facts; things that stand in the way of civilization and religion and common decency. they can be met in but one way,  by the breadth and broadening of human reason, by catholicity of taste and culture. and so, too, the native ambition and aspiration of men, even though they be black, backward, and ungraceful, must not lightly be dealt with. to stimulate wildly weak and untrained minds is to play with mighty fires; to flout their striving idly is to welcome a harvest of brutish crime and shameless lethargy in our very laps. the guiding of thought and the deft coordination of deed is at once the path of honor and humanity. and so, in this great question of reconciling three vast and partially contradictory streams of thought, the one panacea of education leaps to the lips of all:  such human training as will best use the labor of all men without enslaving or brutalizing; such training as will give us poise to encourage the prejudices that bulwark society, and to stamp out those that in sheer barbarity deafen us to the wail of prisoned souls within the veil, and the mounting fury of shackled men. but when we have vaguely said that education will set this tangle straight, what have we uttered but a truism? training for life teaches living; but what training for the profitable living together of black men and white? a hundred and fifty years ago our task would have seemed easier. then dr. johnson blandly assured us that education was needful solely for the embellishments of life, and was useless for ordinary vermin. to day we have climbed to heights where we would open at least the outer courts of knowledge to all, display its treasures to many, and select the few to whom its mystery of truth is revealed, not wholly by birth or the accidents of the stock market, but at least in part according to deftness and aim, talent and character. this programme, however, we are sorely puzzled in carrying out through that part of the land where the blight of slavery fell hardest, and where we are dealing with two backward peoples. to make here in human education that ever necessary combination of the permanent and the contingent  of the ideal and the practical in workable equilibrium  has been there, as it ever must be in every age and place, a matter of infinite experiment and frequent mistakes. in rough approximation we may point out four varying decades of work in southern education since the civil war. from the close of the war until 1876, was the period of uncertain groping and temporary relief. there were army schools, mission schools, and schools of the freedman's bureau in chaotic disarrangement seeking system and coöperation. then followed ten years of constructive definite effort toward the building of complete school systems in the south. normal schools and colleges were founded for the freedmen, and teachers trained there to man the public schools. there was the inevitable tendency of war to underestimate the prejudices of the master and the ignorance of the slave, and all seemed clear sailing out of the wreckage of the storm. meantime, starting in this decade yet especially developing from 1885 to 1895, began the industrial revolution of the south. the land saw glimpses of a new destiny and the stirring of new ideals. the educational system striving to complete itself saw new obstacles and a field of work ever broader and deeper. the negro colleges, hurriedly founded, were inadequately equipped, illogically distributed and of varying efficiency and grade; the normal and high schools were doing little more than common school work, and the common schools were training but a third of the children who ought to be in them, and training these too often poorly. at the same time the white south, by reason of its sudden conversion from the slavery ideal, by so much the more became set and strengthened in its racial prejudice, and crystallized it into harsh law and harsher custom; while the marvellous pushing forward of the poor white daily threatened to take even bread and butter from the mouths of the heavily handicapped sons of the freedmen. in the midst, then, of the larger problem of negro education sprang up the more practical question of work, the inevitable economic quandary that faces a people in the transition from slavery to freedom, and especially those who make that change amid hate and prejudice, lawlessness and ruthless competition. the industrial school springing to notice in this decade, but coming to full recognition in the decade beginning with 1895, was the proffered answer to this combined educational and economic crisis, and an answer of singular wisdom and timeliness. from the very first in nearly all the schools some attention had been given to training in handiwork, but now was this training first raised to a dignity that brought it in direct touch with the south's magnificent industrial development, and given an emphasis which reminded black folk that before the temple of knowledge swing the gates of toil. yet after all they are but gates, and when turning our eyes from the temporary and the contingent in the negro problem to the broader question of the permanent uplifting and civilization of black men in america, we have a right to inquire, as this enthusiasm for material advancement mounts to its height, if after all the industrial school is the final and sufficient answer in the training of the negro race; and to ask gently, but in all sincerity, the ever recurring query of the ages, is not life more than meat, and the body more than raiment? and men ask this today all the more eagerly because of sinister signs in recent educational movements. the tendency is here, born of slavery and quickened to renewed life by the crazy imperialism of the day, to regard human beings as among the material resources of a land to be trained with an eye single to future dividends. race prejudices, which keep brown and black men in their "places," we are coming to regard as useful allies with such a theory, no matter how much they may dull the ambition and sicken the hearts of struggling human beings. and above all, we daily hear that an education that encourages aspiration, that sets the loftiest of ideals and seeks as an end culture and character rather than bread winning, is the privilege of white men and the danger and delusion of black. especially has criticism been directed against the former educational efforts to aid the negro. in the four periods i have mentioned, we find first, boundless, planless enthusiasm and sacrifice; then the preparation of teachers for a vast public school system; then the launching and expansion of that school system amid increasing difficulties; and finally the training of workmen for the new and growing industries. this development has been sharply ridiculed as a logical anomaly and flat reversal of nature. soothly we have been told that first industrial and manual training should have taught the negro to work, then simple schools should have taught him to read and write, and finally, after years, high and normal schools could have completed the system, as intelligence and wealth demanded. that a system logically so complete was historically impossible, it needs but a little thought to prove. progress in human affairs is more often a pull than a push, a surging forward of the exceptional man, and the lifting of his duller brethren slowly and painfully to his vantage ground. thus it was no accident that gave birth to universities centuries before the common schools, that made fair harvard the first flower of our wilderness. so in the south: the mass of the freedmen at the end of the war lacked the intelligence so necessary to modern workingmen. they must first have the common school to teach them to read, write, and cipher; and they must have higher schools to teach teachers for the common schools. the white teachers who flocked south went to establish such a common school system. few held the idea of founding colleges; most of them at first would have laughed at the idea. but they faced, as all men since them have faced, that central paradox of the south,  the social separation of the races. at that time it was the sudden volcanic rupture of nearly all relations between black and white, in work and government and family life. since then a new adjustment of relations in economic and political affairs has grown up,  an adjustment subtle and difficult to grasp, yet singularly ingenious, which leaves still that frightful chasm at the color line across which men pass at their peril. thus, then and now, there stand in the south two separate worlds; and separate not simply in the higher realms of social intercourse, but also in church and school, on railway and street car, in hotels and theatres, in streets and city sections, in books and newspapers, in asylums and jails, in hospitals and graveyards. there is still enough of contact for large economic and group coöperation, but the separation is so thorough and deep that it absolutely precludes for the present between the races anything like that sympathetic and effective group training and leadership of the one by the other, such as the american negro and all backward peoples must have for effectual progress. this the missionaries of '68 soon saw; and if effective industrial and trade schools were impracticable before the establishment of a common school system, just as certainly no adequate common schools could be founded until there were teachers to teach them. southern whites would not teach them; northern whites in sufficient numbers could not be had. if the negro was to learn, he must teach himself, and the most effective help that could be given him was the establishment of schools to train negro teachers. this conclusion was slowly but surely reached by every student of the situation until simultaneously, in widely separated regions, without consultation or systematic plan, there arose a series of institutions designed to furnish teachers for the untaught. above the sneers of critics at the obvious defects of this procedure must ever stand its one crushing rejoinder: in a single generation they put thirty thousand black teachers in the south; they wiped out the illiteracy of the majority of the black people of the land, and they made tuskegee possible. such higher training schools tended naturally to deepen broader development: at first they were common and grammar schools, then some became high schools. and finally, by 1900, some thirty four had one year or more of studies of college grade. this development was reached with different degrees of speed in different institutions: hampton is still a high school, while fisk university started her college in 1871, and spelman seminary about 1896. in all cases the aim was identical,  to maintain the standards of the lower training by giving teachers and leaders the best practicable training; and above all, to furnish the black world with adequate standards of human culture and lofty ideals of life. it was not enough that the teachers of teachers should be trained in technical normal methods; they must also, so far as possible, be broad minded, cultured men and women, to scatter civilization among a people whose ignorance was not simply of letters, but of life itself. it can thus be seen that the work of education in the south began with higher institutions of training, which threw off as their foliage common schools, and later industrial schools, and at the same time strove to shoot their roots ever deeper toward college and university training. that this was an inevitable and necessary development, sooner or later, goes without saying; but there has been, and still is, a question in many minds if the natural growth was not forced, and if the higher training was not either overdone or done with cheap and unsound methods. among white southerners this feeling is widespread and positive. a prominent southern journal voiced this in a recent editorial. while most fair minded men would recognize this as extreme and overdrawn, still without doubt many are asking, are there a sufficient number of negroes ready for college training to warrant the undertaking? are not too many students prematurely forced into this work? does it not have the effect of dissatisfying the young negro with his environment? and do these graduates succeed in real life? such natural questions cannot be evaded, nor on the other hand must a nation naturally skeptical as to negro ability assume an unfavorable answer without careful inquiry and patient openness to conviction. we must not forget that most americans answer all queries regarding the negro a priori, and that the least that human courtesy can do is to listen to evidence. the advocates of the higher education of the negro would be the last to deny the incompleteness and glaring defects of the present system: too many institutions have attempted to do college work, the work in some cases has not been thoroughly done, and quantity rather than quality has sometimes been sought. but all this can be said of higher education throughout the land; it is the almost inevitable incident of educational growth, and leaves the deeper question of the legitimate demand for the higher training of negroes untouched. and this latter question can be settled in but one way,  by a firsthand study of the facts. if we leave out of view all institutions which have not actually graduated students from a course higher than that of a new england high school, even though they be called colleges; if then we take the thirty four remaining institutions, we may clear up many misapprehensions by asking searchingly, what kind of institutions are they? what do they teach? and what sort of men do they graduate ? and first we may say that this type of college, including atlanta, fisk, and howard, wilberforce and lincoln, biddle, shaw, and the rest, is peculiar, almost unique. through the shining trees that whisper before me as i write, i catch glimpses of a boulder of new england granite, covering a grave, which graduates of atlanta university have placed there,   "in grateful memory of their former teacher and friend and of the unselfish life he lived, and the noble work he wrought; that they, their children, and their children's children might beblessed." this was the gift of new england to the freed negro: not alms, but a friend; not cash, but character. it was not and is not money these seething millions want, but love and sympathy, the pulse of hearts beating with red blood;  a gift which to day only their own kindred and race can bring to the masses, but which once saintly souls brought to their favored children in the crusade of the sixties, that finest thing in american history, and one of the few things untainted by sordid greed and cheap vainglory. the teachers in these institutions came not to keep the negroes in their place, but to raise them out of the defilement of the places where slavery had wallowed them. the colleges they founded were social settlements; homes where the best of the sons of the freedmen came in close and sympathetic touch with the best traditions of new england. they lived and ate together, studied and worked, hoped and harkened in the dawning light. in actual formal content their curriculum was doubtless old fashioned, but in educational power it was supreme, for it was the contact of living souls. from such schools about two thousand negroes have gone forth with the bachelor's degree. the number in itself is enough to put at rest the argument that too large a proportion of negroes are receiving higher training. if the ratio to population of all negro students throughout the land, in both college and secondary training, be counted, commissioner harris assures us "it must be increased to five times its present average" to equal the average of the land. fifty years ago the ability of negro students in any appreciable numbers to master a modern college course would have been difficult to prove. to day it is proved by the fact that four hundred negroes, many of whom have been reported as brilliant students, have received the bachelor's degree from harvard, yale, oberlin, and seventy other leading colleges. here we have, then, nearly twenty five hundred negro graduates, of whom the crucial query must be made, how far did their training fit them for life? it is of course extremely difficult to collect satisfactory data on such a point,  difficult to reach the men, to get trustworthy testimony, and to gauge that testimony by any generally acceptable criterion of success. in 1900, the conference at atlanta university undertook to study these graduates, and published the results. first they sought to know what these graduates were doing, and succeeded in getting answers from nearly two thirds of the living. the direct testimony was in almost all cases corroborated by the reports of the colleges where they graduated, so that in the main the reports were worthy of credence fifty tree per cent of these graduates were teachers,  presidents of institutions, heads of normal schools, principals of city school systems, and the like. seventeen per cent were clergymen; another seventeen per cent were in the professions, chiefly as physicians. over six per cent were merchants, farmers, and artisans, and four per cent were in the government civil service. granting even that a considerable proportion of the third unheard from are unsuccessful, this is a record of usefulness. personally i know many hundreds of these graduates, and have corresponded with more than a thousand; through others i have followed carefully the lifework of scores; i have taught some of them and some of the pupils whom they have taught, lived in homes which they have builded, and looked at life through their eyes. comparing them as a class with my fellow students in new england and in europe, i cannot hesitate in saying that nowhere have i met men and women with a broader spirit of helpfulness, with deeper devotion to their life work, or with more consecrated determination to succeed in the face of bitter difficulties than among negro college bred men. they have, to be sure, their proportion of ne'er do weels, their pedants and lettered fools, but they have a surprisingly small proportion of them; they have not that culture of manner which we instinctively associate with university men, forgetting that in reality it is the heritage from cultured homes, and that no people a generation removed from slavery can escape a certain unpleasant rawness and gaucherie, despite the best of training. with all their larger vision and deeper sensibility, these men have usually been conservative, careful leaders. they have seldom been agitators, have withstood the temptation to head the mob, and have worked steadily and faithfully in a thousand communities in the south. as teachers, they have given the south a commendable system of city schools and large numbers of private normal schools and academies. colored college bred men have worked side by side with white college graduates at hampton; almost from the beginning the backbone of tuskegee's teaching force has been formed of graduates from fisk and atlanta. and to day the institute is filled with college graduates, from the energetic wife of the principal down to the teacher of agriculture, including nearly half of the executive council and a majority of the heads of departments. in the professions, college men are slowly but surely leavening the negro church, are healing and preventing the devastations of disease, and beginning to furnish legal protection for the liberty and property of the toiling masses. all this is needful work. who would do it if negroes did not? how could negroes do it if they were not trained carefully for it? if white people need colleges to furnish teachers, ministers, lawyers, and doctors, do black people need nothing of the sort? if it is true that there are an appreciable number of negro youth in the land capable by character and talent to receive that higher training, the end of which is culture, and if the two and a half thousand who have had something of this training in the past have in the main proved themselves useful to their race and generation, the question then comes, what place in the future development of the south ought the negro college and college bred man to occupy? that the present social separation and acute race sensitiveness must eventually yield to the influences of culture, as the south grows civilized, is clear. but such transformation calls for singular wisdom and patience. if, while the healing of this vast sore is progressing, the races are to live for many years side by side, united in economic effort, obeying a common government, sensitive to mutual thought and feeling, yet subtly and silently separate in many matters of deeper human intimacy,  if this unusual and dangerous development is to progress amid peace and order, mutual respect and growing intelligence, it will call for social surgery at once the delicatest and nicest in modern history. it will demand broad minded, upright men, both white and black, and in its final accomplishment american civilization will triumph. so far as white men are concerned, this fact is to day being recognized in the south, and a happy renaissance of university education seems imminent. but the very voices that cry bail to this good work are, strange to relate, largely silent or antagonistic to the higher education of the negro. strange to relate! for this is certain, no secure civilization can be built in the south with the negro as an ignorant, turbulent proletariat. suppose we seek to remedy this by making them laborers and nothing more: they are not fools, they have tasted of the tree of life, and they will not cease to think, will not cease attempting to read the riddle of the world. by taking away their best equipped teachers and leaders, by slamming the door of opportunity in the faces of their bolder and brighter minds, will you make them satisfied with their lot? or will you not rather transfer their leading from the hands of men taught to think to the hands of untrained demagogues? we ought not to forget that despite the pressure of poverty, and despite the active discouragement and even ridicule of friends, the demand for higher training steadily increases among negro youth: there were, in the years from 1875 to 1880, 22 negro graduates from northern colleges; from 1885 to 1890 there were 43, and from 1895 to 1900, nearly 100 graduates. from southern negro colleges there were, in the same three periods, 143, 413, and over 500 graduates. here, then, is the plain thirst for training; by refusing to give this talented tenth the key to knowledge, can any sane man imagine that they will lightly lay aside their yearning and contentedly become hewers of wood and drawers of water? no. the dangerously clear logic of the negro's position will more and more loudly assert itself in that day when increasing wealth and more intricate social organization preclude the south from being, as it so largely is, simply an armed camp for intimidating black folk. such waste of energy cannot be spared if the south is to catch up with civilization. and as the black third of the land grows in thrift and skill, unless skilfully guided in its larger philosophy, it must more and more brood over the red past and the creeping, crooked present, until it grasps a gospel of revolt and revenge and throws its new found energies athwart the current of advance. even to day the masses of the negroes see all too clearly the anomalies of their position and the moral crookedness of yours. you may marshal strong indictments against them, but their counter cries, lacking though they be in formal logic, have burning truths within them which you may not wholly ignore, o southern gentlemen! if you deplore their presence here, they ask, who brought us? when you cry, deliver us from the vision of intermarriage, they answer that legal marriage is infinitely better than systematic concubinage and prostitution. and if in just fury you accuse their vagabonds of violating women, they also in fury quite as just may reply: the rape which your gentlemen have done against helpless black women in defiance of your own laws is written on the foreheads of two millions of mulattoes, and written in ineffaceable blood. and finally, when you fasten crime upon this race as its peculiar trait, they answer that slavery was the arch crime, and lynching and lawlessness its twin abortion; that color and race are not crimes, and yet they it is which in this land receives most unceasing condemnation, north, east, south, and west. i will not say such arguments are wholly justified,  i will not insist that there is no other side to the shield; but i do say that of the nine millions of negroes in this nation, there is scarcely one out of the cradle to whom these arguments do not daily present themselves in the guise of terrible truth. i insist that the question of the future is how best to keep these millions from brooding over the wrongs of the past and the difficulties of the present, so that all their energies may be bent toward a cheerful striving and co operation with their white neighbors toward a larger, juster, and fuller future. that one wise method of doing this lies in the closer knitting of the negro to the great industrial possibilities of the south is a great truth. and this the common schools and the manual training and trade schools are working to accomplish. but these alone are not enough. the foundations of knowledge in this race, as in others, must be sunk deep in the college and university if we would build a solid, permanent structure. internal problems of social advance must inevitably come,  problems of work and wages, of families and homes, of morals and the true valuing of the things of life; and all these and other inevitable problems of civilization the negro must meet and solve largely for himself, by reason of his isolation; and can there be any possible solution other than by study and thought and an appeal to the rich experience of the past? is there not, with such a group and in such a crisis, infinitely more danger to be apprehended from half trained minds and shallow thinking than from over education and over refinement? surely we have wit enough to found a negro college so manned and equipped as to steer successfully between the dilettante and the fool. we shall hardly induce black men to believe that if their stomachs be full, it matters little about their brains. they already dimly perceive that the paths of peace winding between honest toil and dignified manhood call for the guidance of skilled thinkers, the loving, reverent comradeship between the black lowly and the black men emancipated by training and culture. the function of the negro college, then, is clear: it must maintain the standards of popular education, it must seek the social regeneration of the negro, and it must help in the solution of problems of race contact and co operation. and finally, beyond all this, it must develop men. above our modern socialism, and out of the worship of the mass, must persist and evolve that higher individualism which the centres of culture protect; there must come a loftier respect for the sovereign human soul that seeks to know itself and the world about it; that seeks a freedom for expansion and self development; that will love and hate and labor in its own way, untrammeled alike by old and new. such souls aforetime have inspired and guided worlds, and if we be not wholly bewitched by our rhine gold, they shall again. herein the longing of black men must have respect: the rich and bitter depth of their experience, the unknown treasures of their inner life, the strange rendings of nature they have seen, may give the world new points of view and make their loving, living, and doing precious to all human hearts. and to themselves in these the days that try their souls, the chance to soar in the dim blue air above the smoke is to their finer spirits boon and guerdon for what they lose on earth by being black. i sit with shakespeare and he winces not. across the color line i move arm in arm with balzac and dumas, where smiling men and welcoming women glide in gilded halls. from out the eaves of evening that swing between the strong limbed earth and the tracery of the stars, i summon aristotle and aurelius and what soul i will, and they come all graciously with no scorn nor condescension. so, wed with truth, i dwell above the veil. is this the life you grudge us, o knightly america? is this the life you long to change into the dull red hideousness of georgia? are you so afraid lest peering from this high pisgah, between philistine and amalekite, we sight the promised land? i am black but comely, o ye daughters of jerusalem, as the tents of kedar, as the curtains of solomon. look not upon me, because i am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have i not kept. the song of solomon. out of the north the train thundered, and we woke to see the crimson soil of georgia stretching away bare and monotonous right and left. here and there lay straggling, unlovely villages, and lean men loafed leisurely at the depots; then again came the stretch of pines and clay. yet we did not nod, nor weary of the scene; for this is historic ground. right across our track, three hundred and sixty years ago, wandered the cavalcade of hernando de soto, looking for gold and the great sea; and he and his foot sore captives disappeared yonder in the grim forests to the west. here sits atlanta, the city of a hundred hills, with something western, something southern, and something quite its own, in its busy life. just this side atlanta is the land of the cherokees and to the southwest, not far from where sam hose was crucified, you may stand on a spot which is to day the centre of the negro problem,  the centre of those nine million men who are america's dark heritage from slavery and the slave trade. not only is georgia thus the geographical focus of our negro population, but in many other respects, both now and yesterday, the negro problems have seemed to be centered in this state. no other state in the union can count a million negroes among its citizens,  a population as large as the slave population of the whole union in 1800; no other state fought so long and strenuously to gather this host of africans. oglethorpe thought slavery against law and gospel; but the circumstances which gave georgia its first inhabitants were not calculated to furnish citizens over nice in their ideas about rum and slaves. despite the prohibitions of the trustees, these georgians, like some of their descendants, proceeded to take the law into their own hands; and so pliant were the judges, and so flagrant the smuggling, and so earnest were the prayers of whitefield, that by the middle of the eighteenth century all restrictions were swept away, and the slave trade went merrily on for fifty years and more. down in darien, where the delegal riots took place some summers ago, there used to come a strong protest against slavery from the scotch highlanders; and the moravians of ebenezer did not like the system. but not till the haytian terror of toussaint was the trade in men even checked; while the national statute of 1808 did not suffice to stop it. how the africans poured in!  fifty thousand between 1790 and 1810, and then, from virginia and from smugglers, two thousand a year for many years more. so the thirty thousand negroes of georgia in 1790 were doubled in a decade,  were over a hundred thousand in 1810, had reached two hundred thousand in 1820, and half a million at the time of the war. thus like a snake the black population writhed upward. but we must hasten on our journey. this that we pass as we near atlanta is the ancient land of the cherokees,  that brave indian nation which strove so long for its fatherland, until fate and the united states government drove them beyond the mississippi. if you wish to ride with me you must come into the "jim crow car." there will be no objection,  already four other white men, and a little white girl with her nurse, are in there. usually the races are mixed in there; but the white coach is all white. of course this car is not so good as the other, but it is fairly clean and comfortable. the discomfort lies chiefly in the hearts of those four black men yonder  and in mine. we rumble south in quite a business like way. the bare red clay and pines of northern georgia begin to disappear, and in their place appears a rich rolling land, luxuriant, and here and there well tilled. this is the land of the creek indians; and a hard time the georgians had to seize it. the towns grow more frequent and more interesting, and brand new cotton mills rise on every side. below macon the world grows darker; for now we approach the black belt,  that strange land of shadows, at which even slaves paled in the past, and whence come now only faint and half intelligible murmurs to the world beyond. the "jim crow car" grows larger and a shade better; three rough field hands and two or three white loafers accompany us, and the newsboy still spreads his wares at one end. the sun is setting, but we can see the great cotton country as we enter it,  the soil now dark and fertile, now thin and gray, with fruit trees and dilapidated buildings,  all the way to albany. at albany, in the heart of the black belt, we stop. two hundred miles south of atlanta, two hundred miles west of the atlantic, and one hundred miles north of the great gulf lies dougherty county, with ten thousand negroes and two thousand whites. the flint river winds down from andersonville, and, turning suddenly at albany, the county seat, hurries on to join the chattahoochee and the sea. andrew jackson knew the flint well, and marched across it once to avenge the indian massacre at fort mims. that was in 1814, not long before the battle of new orleans; and by the creek treaty that followed this campaign, all dougherty county, and much other rich land, was ceded to georgia. still, settlers fought shy of this land, for the indians were all about, and they were unpleasant neighbors in those days. the panic of 1837, which jackson bequeathed to van buren, turned the planters from the impoverished lands of virginia, the carolinas, and east georgia, toward the west. the indians were removed to indian territory, and settlers poured into these coveted lands to retrieve their broken fortunes. for a radius of a hundred miles about albany, stretched a great fertile land, luxuriant with forests of pine, oak, ash, hickory, and poplar; hot with the sun and damp with the rich black swamp land; and here the corner stone of the cotton kingdom was laid. albany is to day a wide streeted, placid, southern town, with a broad sweep of stores and saloons, and flanking rows of homes,  whites usually to the north, and blacks to the south. six days in the week the town looks decidedly too small for itself, and takes frequent and prolonged naps. but on saturday suddenly the whole county disgorges itself upon the place, and a perfect flood of black peasantry pours through the streets, fills the stores, blocks the sidewalks, chokes the thoroughfares, and takes full possession of the town. they are black, sturdy, uncouth country folk, good natured and simple, talkative to a degree, and yet far more silent and brooding than the crowds of the rhine pfalz, or naples, or cracow. they drink considerable quantities of whiskey, but do not get very drunk; they talk and laugh loudly at times, but seldom quarrel or fight. they walk up and down the streets, meet and gossip with friends, stare at the shop windows, buy coffee, cheap candy, and clothes, and at dusk drive home  happy? well no, not exactly happy, but much happier than as though they had not come. thus albany is a real capital,  a typical southern county town, the centre of the life of ten thousand souls; their point of contact with the outer world, their centre of news and gossip, their market for buying and selling, borrowing and lending, their fountain of justice and law. once upon a time we knew country life so well and city life so little, that we illustrated city life as that of a closely crowded country district. now the world has well nigh forgotten what the country is, and we must imagine a little city of black people scattered far and wide over three hundred lonesome square miles of land, without train or trolley, in the midst of cotton and corn, and wide patches of sand and gloomy soil. it gets pretty hot in southern georgia in july,  a sort of dull, determined heat that seems quite independent of the sun; so it took us some days to muster courage enough to leave the porch and venture out on the long country roads, that we might see this unknown world. finally we started. it was about ten in the morning, bright with a faint breeze, and we jogged leisurely southward in the valley of the flint. we passed the scattered box like cabins of the brick yard hands, and the long tenement row facetiously called "the ark," and were soon in the open country, and on the confines of the great plantations of other days. there is the "joe fields place"; a rough old fellow was he, and had killed many a "nigger" in his day. twelve miles his plantation used to run,  a regular barony. it is nearly all gone now; only straggling bits belong to the family, and the rest has passed to jews and negroes. even the bits which are left are heavily mortgaged, and, like the rest of the land, tilled by tenants. here is one of them now,  a tall brown man, a hard worker and a hard drinker, illiterate, but versed in farm lore, as his nodding crops declare. this distressingly new board house is his, and he has just moved out of yonder moss grown cabin with its one square room. from the curtains in benton's house, down the road, a dark comely face is staring at the strangers; for passing carriages are not every day occurrences here. benton is an intelligent yellow man with a good sized family, and manages a plantation blasted by the war and now the broken staff of the widow. he might be well to do, they say; but he carouses too much in albany. and the half desolate spirit of neglect born of the very soil seems to have settled on these acres. in times past there were cotton gins and machinery here; but they have rotted away. the whole land seems forlorn and forsaken. here are the remnants of the vast plantations of the sheldons, the pellots, and the rensons; but the souls of them are passed. the houses lie in half ruin, or have wholly disappeared; the fences have flown, and the families are wandering in the world. strange vicissitudes have met these whilom masters. yonder stretch the wide acres of bildad reasor; he died in war time, but the upstart overseer hastened to wed the widow. then he went, and his neighbors too, and now only the black tenant remains; but the shadow hand of the master's grand nephew or cousin or creditor stretches out of the gray distance to collect the rack rent remorselessly, and so the land is uncared for and poor. only black tenants can stand such a system, and they only because they must. ten miles we have ridden to day and have seen no white face. a resistless feeling of depression falls slowly upon us, despite the gaudy sunshine and the green cottonfields. this, then, is the cotton kingdom,  the shadow of a marvellous dream. and where is the king? perhaps this is he,  the sweating ploughman, tilling his eighty acres with two lean mules, and fighting a hard battle with debt. so we sit musing, until, as we turn a corner on the sandy road, there comes a fairer scene suddenly in view, a neat cottage snugly ensconced by the road, and near it a little store. a tall bronzed man rises from the porch as we hail him, and comes out to our carriage. he is six feet in height, with a sober face that smiles gravely. he walks too straight to be a tenant,  yes, he owns two hundred and forty acres. "the land is run down since the boom days of eighteen hundred and fifty," he explains, and cotton is low. three black tenants live on his place, and in his little store he keeps a small stock of tobacco, snuff, soap, and soda, for the neighborhood. here is his ginhouse with new machinery just installed. three hundred bales of cotton went through it last year. two children he has sent away to school. yes, he says sadly, he is getting on, but cotton is down to four cents; i know how debt sits staring at him. wherever the king may be, the parks and palaces of the cotton kingdom have not wholly disappeared. we plunge even now into great groves of oak and towering pine, with an undergrowth of myrtle and shrubbery. this was the "home house" of the thompsons,  slave barons who drove their coach and four in the merry past. all is silence now, and ashes, and tangled weeds. the owner put his whole fortune into the rising cotton industry of the fifties, and with the falling prices of the eighties he packed up and stole away. yonder is another grove, with unkempt lawn, great magnolias, and grass grown paths. the big house stands in half ruin, its great front door staring blankly at the street, and the back part grotesquely restored for its black tenant. a shabby, well built negro he is, unlucky and irresolute. he digs hard to pay rent to the white girl who owns the remnant of the place. she married a policeman, and lives in savannah. now and again we come to churches. here is one now,  shepherd's, they call it,  a great whitewashed barn of a thing, perched on stilts of stone, and looking for all the world as though it were just resting here a moment and might be expected to waddle off down the road at almost any time. and yet it is the centre of a hundred cabin homes; and sometimes, of a sunday, five hundred persons from far and near gather here and talk and eat and sing. there is a school house near,  a very airy, empty shed; but even this is an improvement, for usually the school is held in the church. the churches vary from log huts to those like shepherd's, and the schools from nothing to this little house that sits demurely on the county line. it is a tiny plank house, perhaps ten by twenty, and has within a double row of rough unplaned benches, resting mostly on legs, sometimes on boxes. opposite the door is a square home made desk. in one corner are the ruins of a stove, and in the other a dim blackboard. it is the cheerfulest schoolhouse i have seen in dougherty, save in town. back of the schoolhouse is a lodgehouse two stories high and not quite finished. societies meet there,  societies "to care for the sick and bury the dead "; and these societies grow and flourish. we had come to the boundaries of dougherty, and were about to turn west along the county line, when all these sights were pointed out to us by a kindly old man, black, white haired, and seventy. forty five years he had lived here, and now supports himself and his old wife by the help of the steer tethered yonder and the charity of his black neighbors. he shows us the farm of the hills just across the county line in baker,  a widow and two strapping sons, who raised ten bales (one need not add "cotton" down here) last year. there are fences and pigs and cows, and the soft voiced, velvet skinned young memnon, who sauntered half bashfully over to greet the strangers, is proud of his home. we turn now to the west along the county line. great dismantled trunks of pines tower above the green cotton fields, cracking their naked gnarled fingers toward the border of living forest beyond. there is little beauty in this region, only a sort of crude abandon that suggests power,  a naked grandeur, as it were. the houses are bare and straight; there are no hammocks or easy chairs, and few flowers. so when, as here at rawdon's, one sees a vine clinging to a little porch, and home like windows peeping over the fences, one takes a long breath. i think i never before quite realized the place of the fence in civilization. this is the land of the unfenced, where crouch on either hand scores of ugly one room cabins, cheerless and dirty. here lies the negro problem in its naked dirt and penury. and here are no fences. but now and then the criss cross rails or straight palings break into view, and then we know a touch of culture is near. of course harrison gohagen,  a quiet yellow man, young, smooth faced, and diligent,  of course he is lord of some hundred acres, and we expect to see a vision of well kept rooms and fat beds and laughing children. for has he not fine fences? and those over yonder, why should they build fences on the rack rented land? it will only increase their rent. on we wind, through sand and pines and glimpses of old plantations, till there creeps into sight a cluster of buildings,  wood and brick, mills and houses, and scattered cabins. it seemed quite a village. as it came nearer and nearer, however, the aspect changed: the buildings were rotten, the bricks were falling out, the mills were silent, and the store was closed. only in the cabins appeared now and then a bit of lazy life. i could imagine the place under some weird spell, and was half minded to search out the princess. an old ragged black man, honest, simple, and improvident, told us the tale. the wizard of the north  the capitalist  had rushed down in the seventies to woo this coy dark soil. he bought a square mile or more, and for a time the field hands sang, the gins groaned, and the mills buzzed. then came a change. the agent's son embezzled the funds and ran off with them. then the agent himself disappeared. finally the new agent stole even the books, and the company in wrath closed its business and its houses, refused to sell, and let houses and furniture and machinery rust and rot. so the waters loring plantation was stilled by the spell of dishonesty, and stands like some gaunt rebuke to a scarred land. somehow that plantation ended our day's journey; for i could not shake off the influence of that silent scene. back toward town we glided, past the straight and thread like pines, past a dark tree dotted pond where the air was heavy with a dead sweet perfume. white slender legged curlews flitted by us, and the garnet blooms of the cotton looked gay against the green and purple stalks. a peasant girl was hoeing in the field, white turbaned and black limbed. all this we saw, but the spell still lay upon us. how curious a land is this,  how full of untold story, of tragedy and laughter, and the rich legacy of human life; shadowed with a tragic past, and big with future promise! this is the black belt of georgia. dougherty county is the west end of the black belt, and men once called it the egypt of the confederacy. it is full of historic interest. first there is the swamp, to the west, where the chickasawhatchee flows sullenly southward. the shadow of an old plantation lies at its edge, forlorn and dark. then comes the pool; pendent gray moss and brackish waters appear, and forests filled with wildfowl. in one place the wood is on fire, smouldering in dull red anger; but nobody minds. then the swamp grows beautiful; a raised road, built by chained negro convicts, dips down into it, and forms a way walled and almost covered in living green. spreading trees spring from a prodigal luxuriance of undergrowth; great dark green shadows fade into the black background, until all is one mass of tangled semi tropical foliage, marvellous in its weird savage splendor. once we crossed a black silent stream, where the sad trees and writhing creepers, all glinting fiery yellow and green, seemed like some vast cathedral,  some green milan builded of wildwood. and as i crossed, i seemed to see again that fierce tragedy of seventy years ago. osceola, the indian negro chieftain, had risen in the swamps of florida, vowing vengeance. his war cry reached the red creeks of dougherty, and their war cry rang from the chattahoochee to the sea. men and women and children fled and fell before them as they swept into dougherty. in yonder shadows a dark and hideously painted warrior glided stealthily on,  another and another, until three hundred had crept into the treacherous swamp. then the false slime closing about them called the white men from the east. waist deep, they fought beneath the tall trees, until the war cry was hushed and the indians glided back into the west. small wonder the wood is red. then came the black slaves. day after day the clank of chained feet marching from virginia and carolina to georgia was heard in these rich swamp lands. day after day the songs of the callous, the wail of the motherless, and the muttered curses of the wretched echoed from the flint to the chickasawhatchee, until by 1860 there had risen in west dougherty perhaps the richest slave kingdom the modern world ever knew. a hundred and fifty barons commanded the labor of nearly six thousand negroes, held sway over farms with ninety thousand acres of tilled land, valued even in times of cheap soil at three millions of dollars. twenty thousand bales of ginned cotton went yearly to england, new and old; and men that came there bankrupt made money and grew rich. in a single decade the cotton output increased four fold and the value of lands was tripled. it was the heyday of the nouveau riche, and a life of careless extravagance reigned among the masters. four and six bob tailed thoroughbreds rolled their coaches to town; open hospitality and gay entertainment were the rule. parks and groves were laid out, rich with flower and vine, and in the midst stood the low wide halled "big house," with its porch and columns and great fire places. and yet with all this there was something sordid, something forced,  a certain feverish unrest and recklessness; for was not all this show and tinsel built upon a groan? "this land was a little hell," said a ragged, brown, and grave faced man to me. we were seated near a roadside blacksmith shop, and behind was the bare ruin of some master's home. "i've seen niggers drop dead in the furrow, but they were kicked aside, and the plough never stopped. and down in the guard house, there's where the blood ran." with such foundations a kingdom must in time sway and fall. the masters moved to macon and augusta, and left only the irresponsible overseers on the land. and the result is such ruin as this, the lloyd "home place ":  great waving oaks, a spread of lawn, myrtles and chestnuts, all ragged and wild; a solitary gate post standing where once was a castle entrance; an old rusty anvil lying amid rotting bellows and wood in the ruins of a blacksmith shop; a wide rambling old mansion, brown and dingy, filled now with the grandchildren of the slaves who once waited on its tables; while the family of the master has dwindled to two lone women, who live in macon and feed hungrily off the remnants of an earldom. so we ride on, past phantom gates and falling homes,  past the once flourishing farms of the smiths, the gandys, and the lagores,  and find all dilapidated and half ruined, even there where a solitary white woman, a relic of other days, sits alone in state among miles of negroes and rides to town in her ancient coach each day. this was indeed the egypt of the confederacy,  the rich granary whence potatoes and corn and cotton poured out to the famished and ragged confederate troops as they battled for a cause lost long before 1861. sheltered and secure, it became the place of refuge for families, wealth, and slaves. yet even then the hard ruthless rape of the land began to tell. the red clay sub soil already had begun to peer above the loam. the harder the slaves were driven the more careless and fatal was their farming. then came the revolution of war and emancipation, the bewilderment of reconstruction,  and now, what is the egypt of the confederacy, and what meaning has it for the nation's weal or woe? it is a land of rapid contrasts and of curiously mingled hope and pain. here sits a pretty blue eyed quadroon hiding her bare feet; she was married only last week, and yonder in the field is her dark young husband, hoeing to support her, at thirty cents a day without board. across the way is gatesby, brown and tall, lord of two thousand acres shrewdly won and held. there is a store conducted by his black son, a blacksmith shop, and a ginnery. five miles below here is a town owned and controlled by one white new englander. he owns almost a rhode island county, with thousands of acres and hundreds of black laborers. their cabins look better than most, and the farm, with machinery and fertilizers, is much more business like than any in the county, although the manager drives hard bargains in wages. when now we turn and look five miles above, there on the edge of town are five houses of prostitutes,  two of blacks and three of whites; and in one of the houses of the whites a worthless black boy was harbored too openly two years ago; so he was hanged for rape. and here, too, is the high whitewashed fence of the "stockade," as the county prison is called; the white folks say it is ever full of black criminals,  the black folks say that only colored boys are sent to jail, and they not because they are guilty, but because the state needs criminals to eke out its income by their forced labor. the jew is the heir of the slave baron in dougherty; and as we ride westward, by wide stretching cornfields and stubby orchards of peach and pear, we see on all sides within the circle of dark forest a land of canaan. here and there are tales of projects for money getting, born in the swift days of reconstruction,  "improvement" companies, wine companies, mills and factories; nearly all failed, and the jew fell heir. it is a beautiful land, this dougherty, west of the flint. the forests are wonderful, the solemn pines have disappeared, and this is the "oakey woods," with its wealth of hickories, beeches, oaks, and palmettos. but a pall of debt hangs over the beautiful land; the merchants are in debt to the wholesalers, the planters are in debt to the merchants, the tenants owe the planters, and laborers bow and bend beneath the burden of it all. here and there a man has raised his head above these murky waters. we passed one fenced stock farm, with grass and grazing cattle, that looked very homelike after endless corn and cotton. here and there are black freeholders: there is the gaunt dull black jackson, with his hundred acres. "i says, 'look up! if you don't look up you can't get up,'" remarks jackson, philosophically. and he's gotten up. dark carter's neat barns would do credit to new england. his master helped him to get a start, but when the black man died last fall the master's sons immediately laid claim to the estate. "and them white folks will get it, too," said my yellow gossip. i turn from these well tended acres with a comfortable feeling that the negro is rising. even then, however, the fields, as we proceed, begin to redden and the trees disappear. rows of old cabins appear filled with renters and laborers,  cheerless, bare, and dirty, for the most part, although here and there the very age and decay makes the scene picturesque. a young black fellow greets us. he is twenty two, and just married. until last year he had good luck renting; then cotton fell, and the sheriff seized and sold all he had. so he moved here, where the rent is higher, the land poorer, and the owner inflexible; he rents a forty dollar mule for twenty dollars a year. poor lad!  a slave at twenty two. this plantation, owned now by a russian jew, was a part of the famous bolton estate. after the war it was for many years worked by gangs of negro convicts,  and black convicts then were even more plentiful than now; it was a way of "making negroes work, and the question of guilt was a minor one. hard tales of cruelty and mistreatment of the chained freemen are told, but the county authorities were deaf until the free labor market was nearly ruined by wholesale migration. then they took the convicts from the plantations, but not until one of the fairest regions of the "oakey woods" had been ruined and ravished into a red waste, out of which only a yankee or a jew could squeeze more blood from debt cursed tenants. no wonder that luke black, slow, dull, and discouraged, shuffles to our carriage and talks hopelessly. why should he strive? every year finds him deeper in debt. how strange that georgia, the world heralded refuge of poor debtors, should bind her own to sloth and misfortune as ruthlessly as ever england did! the poor land groans with its birthpains, and brings forth scarcely a hundred pounds of cotton to the acre, where fifty years ago it yielded eight times as much. of this meagre yield the tenant pays from a quarter to a third in rent, and most of the rest in interest on food and supplies bought on credit. twenty years yonder sunken cheeked, old black man has labored under that system, and now, turned day laborer, is supporting his wife and boarding himself on his wages of a dollar and a half a week, received only part of the year. the bolton convict farm formerly included the neighboring plantation. here it was that the convicts were lodged in the great log prison still standing. a dismal place it still remains, with rows of ugly huts filled with surly ignorant tenants. "what rent do you pay here?" i inquired. "i don't know, what is it, sam?" "all we make," answered sam. it is a depressing place,  bare, unshaded, with no charm of past association, only a memory of forced human toil,  now, then, and before the war. they are not happy, these black men whom we meet throughout this region. there is little of the joyous abandon and playfulness which we are wont to associate with the plantation negro. at best, the natural good nature is edged with complaint or has changed into sullenness and gloom. and now and then it blazes forth in veiled but hot anger. i remember one big red eyed black whom we met by the roadside. forty five years he had labored on this farm, beginning with nothing, and still having nothing. to be sure, he had given four children a common school training, and perhaps if the new fence law had not allowed unfenced crops in west dougherty he might have raised a little stock and kept ahead. as it is, he is hopelessly in debt, disappointed, and embittered. he stopped us to inquire after the black boy in albany, whom it was said a policeman had shot and killed for loud talking on the sidewalk. and then he said slowly: "let a white man touch me, and he dies; i don't boast this,  i don't say it around loud, or before the children,  but i mean it. i've seen them whip my father and my old mother in them cotton rows till the blood ran; by  " and we passed on. now sears, whom we met next lolling under the chubby oak trees, was of quite different fibre. happy?  well, yes; he laughed and flipped pebbles, and thought the world was as it was. he had worked here twelve years and has nothing but a mortgaged mule. children? yes, seven; but they hadn't been to school this year,  couldn't afford books and clothes, and couldn't spare their work. there go part of them to the fields now,   three big boys astride mules, and a strapping girl with bare brown legs. careless ignorance and laziness here, fierce hate and vindictiveness there;  these are the extremes of the negro problem which we met that day, and we scarce knew which we preferred. here and there we meet distinct characters quite out of the ordinary. one came out of a piece of newly cleared ground, making a wide detour to avoid the snakes. he was an old, hollow cheeked man, with a drawn and characterful brown face. he had a sort of self contained quaintness and rough humor impossible to describe; a certain cynical earnestness that puzzled one. "the niggers were jealous of me over on the other place," he said, "and so me and the old woman begged this piece of woods, and i cleared it up myself. made nothing for two years, but i reckon i've got a crop now." the cotton looked tall and rich, and we praised it. he curtsied low, and then bowed almost to the ground, with an imperturbable gravity that seemed almost suspicious. then he continued, "my mule died last week,"  a calamity in this land equal to a devastating fire in town,  "but a white man loaned me another." then he added, eyeing us, "oh, i gets along with white folks." we turned the conversation. "bears? deer?" he answered, "well, i should say there were," and he let fly a string of brave oaths, as he told hunting tales of the swamp. we left him standing still in the middle of the road looking after us, and yet apparently not noticing us. the whistle place, which includes his bit of land, was bought soon after the war by an english syndicate, the "dixie cotton and corn company." a marvellous deal of style their factor put on, with his servants and coach and six; so much so that the concern soon landed in inextricable bankruptcy. nobody lives in the old house now, but a man comes each winter out of the north and collects his high rents. i know not which are the more touching,  such old empty houses, or the homes of the masters' sons. sad and bitter tales lie hidden back of those white doors,  tales of poverty, of struggle, of disappointment. a revolution such as that of '63 is a terrible thing; they that rose rich in the morning often slept in paupers' beds. beggars and vulgar speculators rose to rule over them, and their children went astray. see yonder sad colored house, with its cabins and fences and glad crops! it is not glad within; last month the prodigal son of the struggling father wrote home from the city for money. money! where was it to come from? and so the son rose in the night and killed his baby, and killed his wife, and shot himself dead. and the world passed on. i remember wheeling around a bend in the road beside a graceful bit of forest and a singing brook. a long low house faced us, with porch and flying pillars, great oaken door, and a broad lawn shining in the evening sun. but the window panes were gone, the pillars were worm eaten, and the mossgrown roof was falling in. half curiously i peered through the unhinged door, and saw where, on the wall across the hall, was written in once gay letters a faded "welcome." quite a contrast to the southwestern part of dougherty county is the northwest. soberly timbered in oak and pine, it has none of that half tropical luxuriance of the southwest. then, too, there are fewer signs of a romantic past, and more of systematic modern land grabbing and money getting. white people are more in evidence here, and farmer and hired labor replace to some extent the absentee landlord and rack rented tenant. the crops have neither the luxuriance of the richer land nor the signs of neglect so often seen, and there were fences and meadows here and there. most of this land was poor, and beneath the notice of the slave baron, before the war. since then his nephews and the poor whites and the jews have seized it. the returns of the farmer are too small to allow much for wages, and yet he will not sell off small farms. there is the negro sanford; he has worked fourteen years as overseer on the ladson place, and "paid out enough for fertilizers to have bought a farm," but the owner will not sell off a few acres. two children  a boy and a girl  are hoeing sturdily in the fields on the farm where corliss works. he is smooth faced and brown, and is fencing up his pigs. he used to run a successful cotton gin, but the cotton seed oil trust has forced the price of ginning so low that he says it hardly pays him. he points out a stately old house over the way as the home of "pa willis." we eagerly ride over, for "pa willis" was the tall and powerful black moses who led the negroes for a generation, and led them well. he was a baptist preacher, and when he died two thousand black people followed him to the grave; and now they preach his funeral sermon each year. his widow lives here,  a weazened, sharp featured little woman, who curtsied quaintly as we greeted her. further on lives jack delson, the most prosperous negro farmer in the county. it is a joy to meet him,  a great broad shouldered, handsome black man, intelligent and jovial. six hundred and fifty acres he owns, and has eleven black tenants. a neat and tidy home nestled in a flower garden, and a little store stands beside it. we pass the munson place, where a plucky white widow is renting and struggling; and the eleven hundred acres of the sennet plantation, with its negro overseer. then the character of the farms begins to change. nearly all the lands belong to russian jews; the overseers are white, and the cabins are bare board houses scattered here and there. the rents are high, and day laborers and "contract" hands abound. it is a keen, hard struggle for living here, and few have time to talk. tired with the long ride, we gladly drive into gillonsville. it is a silent cluster of farm houses standing on the crossroads, with one of its stores closed and the other kept by a negro preacher. they tell great tales of busy times at gillonsville before all the railroads came to albany; now it is chiefly a memory. riding down the street, we stop at the preacher's and seat ourselves before the door. it was one of those scenes one cannot soon forget:  a wide, low, little house, whose motherly roof reached over and sheltered a snug little porch. there we sat, after the long hot drive, drinking cool water,  the talkative little storekeeper who is my daily companion; the silent old black woman patching pantaloons and saying never a word; the ragged picture of helpless misfortune who called in just to see the preacher; and finally the neat matronly preacher's wife, plump, yellow, and intelligent. "own land?" said the wife; "well, only this house." then she added quietly, "we did buy seven hundred acres up yonder, and paid for it; but they cheated us out of it. sells was the owner." "sells!" echoed the ragged misfortune, who was leaning against the balustrade and listening, "he's a regular cheat. i worked for him thirty seven days this spring, and he paid me in cardboard checks which were to be cashed at the end of the month. but he never cashed them,  kept putting me off. then the sheriff came and took my mule and corn and furniture  " "furniture?" i asked; "but furniture is exempt from seizure by law." "well, he took it just the same," said the hard faced man. but the brute said in his breast, "till the mills i grind have ceased, the riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast! "on the strong and cunning few cynic favors i will strew; i will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies; from the patient and the low i will take the joys they know; they shall hunger after vanities and still an hungered go. madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise; brother's blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies." william vaughn moody. have you ever seen a cotton field white with the harvest,  its golden fleece hovering above the black earth like a silvery cloud edged with dark green, its bold white signals waving like the foam of billows from carolina to texas across that black and human sea? i have sometimes half suspected that here the winged ram chrysomallus left that fleece after which jason and his argonauts went vaguely wandering into the shadowy east three thousand years ago; and certainly one might frame a pretty and not far fetched analogy of witchery and dragon's teeth, and blood and armed men, between the ancient and the modern quest of the golden fleece in the black sea. and now the golden fleece is found; not only found, but, in its birthplace, woven. for the hum of the cotton mills is the newest and most significant thing in the new south to day. all through the carolinas and georgia, away down to mexico, rise these gaunt red buildings, bare and homely, and yet so busy and noisy withal that they scarce seem to belong to the slow and sleepy land. perhaps they sprang from dragons' teeth. so the cotton kingdom still lives; the world still bows beneath her sceptre. even the markets that once defied the parvenu have crept one by one across the seas, and then slowly and reluctantly, but surely, have started toward the black belt. to be sure, there are those who wag their heads knowingly and tell us that the capital of the cotton kingdom has moved from the black to the white belt,  that the negro of to day raises not more than half of the cotton crop. such men forget that the cotton crop has doubled, and more than doubled, since the era of slavery, and that, even granting their contention, the negro is still supreme in a cotton kingdom larger than that on which the confederacy builded its hopes. so the negro forms to day one of the chief figures in a great world industry; and this, for its own sake, and in the light of historic interest, makes the field hands of the cotton country worth studying. we seldom study the condition of the negro today honestly and carefully. it is so much easier to assume that we know it all. or perhaps, having already reached conclusions in our own minds, we are loth to have them disturbed by facts. and yet how little we really know of these millions,  of their daily lives and longings, of their homely joys and sorrows, of their real shortcomings and the meaning of their crimes! all this we can only learn by intimate contact with the masses, and not by wholesale arguments covering millions separate in time and space, and differing widely in training and culture. to day, then, my reader, let us turn our faces to the black belt of georgia and seek simply to know the condition of the black farm laborers of one county there. here in 1890 lived ten thousand negroes and two thousand whites. the country is rich, yet the people are poor. the keynote of the black belt is debt; not commercial credit, but debt in the sense of continued inability on the part of the mass of the population to make income cover expense. this is the direct heritage of the south from the wasteful economies of the slave régime; but it was emphasized and brought to a crisis by the emancipation of the slaves. in 1860, dougherty county had six thousand slaves, worth at least two and a half millions of dollars; its farms were estimated at three millions,  making five and a half millions of property, the value of which depended largely on the slave system, and on the speculative demand for land once marvellously rich but already partially devitalized by careless and exhaustive culture. the war then meant a financial crash; in place of the five and a half millions of 1860, there remained in 1870 only farms valued at less than two millions. with this came increased competition in cotton culture from the rich lands of texas; a steady fall in the normal price of cotton followed, from about fourteen cents a pound in 1860 until it reached four cents in 1898. such a financial revolution was it that involved the owners of the cottonbelt in debt. and if things went ill with the master, how fared it with the man? the plantations of dougherty county in slavery days were not as imposing and aristocratic as those of virginia. the big house was smaller and usually one storied, and sat very near the slave cabins. sometimes these cabins stretched off on either side like wings; sometimes only on one side, forming a double row, or edging the road that turned into the plantation from the main thoroughfare. the form and disposition of the laborers' cabins throughout the black belt is to day the same as in slavery days. some live in the self same cabins, others in cabins rebuilt on the sites of the old. all are sprinkled in little groups over the face of the land, centering about some dilapidated big house where the head tenant or agent lives. the general character and arrangement of these dwellings remains on the whole unaltered. there were in the county, outside the corporate town of albany, about fifteen hundred negro families in 1898. out of all these, only a single family occupied a house with seven rooms; only fourteen have five rooms or more. the mass live in one  and two room homes. the size and arrangements of a people's homes are no unfair index of their condition. if, then, we inquire more carefully into these negro homes, we find much that is unsatisfactory. all over the face of the land is the one room cabin,  now standing in the shadow of the big house, now staring at the dusty road, now rising dark and sombre amid the green of the cotton fields. it is nearly always old and bare, built of rough boards, and neither plastered nor ceiled. light and ventilation are supplied by the single door and by the square hole in the wall with its wooden shutter. there is no glass, porch, or ornamentation without. within is a fireplace, black and smoky, and usually unsteady with age. a bed or two, a table, a wooden chest, and a few chairs compose the furniture; while a stray show bill or a newspaper makes up the decorations for the walls. now and then one may find such a cabin kept scrupulously neat, with merry steaming fireplace and hospitable door; but the majority are dirty and dilapidated, smelling of eating and sleeping, poorly ventilated, and anything but homes. above all, the cabins are crowded. we have come to associate crowding with homes in cities almost exclusively. this is primarily because we have so little accurate knowledge of country life. here in dougherty county one may find families of eight and ten occupying one or two rooms, and for every ten rooms of house accommodation for the negroes there are twenty five persons. the worst tenement abominations of new york do not have above twenty two persons for every ten rooms. of course, one small, close room in a city, without a yard, is in many respects worse than the larger, single country room. in other respects it is better; it has glass windows, a decent chimney, and a trustworthy floor. the single great advantage of the negro peasant is that he may spend most of his life outside his hovel, in the open fields. there are four chief causes of these wretched homes: first, long custom born of slavery has assigned such homes to negroes; white laborers would be offered better accommodations, and might, for that and similar reasons, give better work. secondly, the negroes, used to such accommodations, do not as a rule demand better; they do not know what better houses mean. thirdly, the landlords as a class have not yet come to realize that it is a good business investment to raise the standard of living among labor by slow and judicious methods; that a negro laborer who demands three rooms and fifty cents a day would give more efficient work and leave a larger profit than a discouraged toiler herding his family in one room and working for thirty cents. lastly, among such conditions of life there are few incentives to make the laborer become a better farmer. if he is ambitious, he moves to town or tries other labor; as a tenant farmer his outlook is almost hopeless, and following it as a makeshift, he takes the house that is given him without protest. in such homes, then, these negro peasants live. the families are both small and large; there are many single tenants,  widows and bachelors, and remnants of broken groups. the system of labor and the size of the houses both tend to the breaking up of family groups: the grown children go away as contract hands or migrate to town, the sister goes into service; and so one finds many families with hosts of babies, and many newly married couples, but comparatively few families with half grown and grown sons and daughters. the average size of negro families has undoubtedly decreased since the war, primarily from economic stress. in russia over a third of the bridegroom and over half the brides are under twenty; the same was true of the ante bellum negroes. to day, however, very few of the boys and less than a fifth of the negro girls under twenty are married. the young men marry between the ages of twenty five and thirty five; the young women between twenty and thirty. such postponement is due to the difficulty of earning sufficient to rear and support a family; and it undoubtedly leads, in the country districts, to sexual immorality. the form of this immorality, however, is very seldom that of prostitution, and less frequently that of illegitimacy than one would imagine. rather, it takes the form of separation and desertion after a family group has been formed. the number of separated persons is thirty five to the thousand,  a very large number. it would of course be unfair to compare this number with divorce statistics, for many of these separated women are in reality widowed, were the truth known, and in other cases the separation is not permanent. nevertheless, here lies the seat of greatest moral danger. there is little or no prostitution among these negroes, and over three fourths of the families, as found by house to house investigation, deserve to be classed as decent people with considerable regard for female chastity. to be sure, the ideas of the mass would not suit new england, and there are many loose habits and notions. yet the rate of illegitimacy is undoubtedly lower than in austria or italy, and the women as a class are modest. the plague spot in sexual relations is easy marriage and easy separation. this is no sudden development, nor the fruit of emancipation. it is the plain heritage from slavery. in those days sam, with his master's consent, "took up" with mary. no ceremony was necessary, and in the busy life of the great plantations of the black belt it was usually dispensed with. if now the master needed sam's work in another plantation or in another part of the same plantation, or if he took a notion to sell the slave, sam's married life with mary was usually unceremoniously broken, and then it was clearly to the master's interest to have both of them take new mates. this widespread custom of two centuries has not been eradicated in thirty years. to day sam's grandson "takes up" with a woman without license or ceremony; they live together decently and honestly, and are, to all intents and purposes, man and wife. sometimes these unions are never broken until death; but in too many cases family quarrels, a roving spirit, a rival suitor, or perhaps more frequently the hopeless battle to support a family, lead to separation, and a broken household is the result. the negro church has done much to stop this practice, and now most marriage ceremonies are performed by the pastors. nevertheless, the evil is still deep seated, and only a general raising of the standard of living will finally cure it. looking now at the county black population as a whole, it is fair to characterize it as poor and ignorant. perhaps ten per cent compose the well to do and the best of the laborers, while at least nine per cent are thoroughly lewd and vicious. the rest, over eighty per cent, are poor and ignorant, fairly honest and well meaning, plodding, and to a degree shiftless, with some but not great sexual looseness. such class lines are by no means fixed; they vary, one might almost say, with the price of cotton. the degree of ignorance cannot easily be expressed. we may say, for instance, that nearly two thirds of them cannot read or write. this but partially expresses the fact. they are ignorant of the world about them, of modern economic organization, of the function of government, of individual worth and possibilities,  of nearly all those things which slavery in self defence had to keep them from learning. much that the white boy imbibes from his earliest social atmosphere forms the puzzling problems of the black boy's mature years. america is not another word for opportunity to all her sons. it is easy for us to lose ourselves in details in endeavoring to grasp and comprehend the real condition of a mass of human beings. we often forget that each unit in the mass is a throbbing human soul. ignorant it may be, and poverty stricken, black and curious in limb and ways and thought; and yet it loves and hates, it toils and tires, it laughs and weeps its bitter tears, and looks in vague and awful longing at the grim horizon of its life,  all this, even as you and i. these black thousands are not in reality lazy; they are improvident and careless; they insist on breaking the monotony of toil with a glimpse at the great town world on saturday; they have their loafers and their rascals; but the great mass of them work continuously and faithfully for a return, and under circumstances that would call forth equal voluntary effort from few if any other modern laboring class. over eighty eight per cent of them  men, women, and children  are farmers. indeed, this is almost the only industry. most of the children get their schooling after the "crops are laid by," and very few there are that stay in school after the spring work has begun. child labor is to be found here in some of its worst phases, as fostering ignorance and stunting physical development. with the grown men of the county there is little variety in work: thirteen hundred are farmers, and two hundred are laborers, teamsters, etc., including twenty four artisans, ten merchants, twenty one preachers, and four teachers. this narrowness of life reaches its maximum among the women: thirteen hundred and fifty of these are farm laborers, one hundred are servants and washerwomen, leaving sixty five housewives, eight teachers, and six seamstresses. among the people there is no leisure class. we often forget that in the united states over half the youth and adults are not in the world earning incomes, but are making homes, learning of the world, or resting after the heat of the strife. but here ninety six per cent are toiling; no one with leisure to turn the bare and cheerless cabin into a home, no old folks to sit beside the fire and hand down traditions of the past; little of careless happy childhood and dreaming youth. the dull monotony of daily toil is broken only by the gayety of the thoughtless and the saturday trip to town. the toil, like all farm toil, is monotonous, and here there are little machinery and few tools to relieve its burdensome drudgery. but with all this, it is work in the pure open air, and this is something in a day when fresh air is scarce. the land on the whole is still fertile, despite long abuse. for nine or ten months in succession the crops will come if asked: garden vegetables in april, grain in may, melons in june and july, hay in august, sweet potatoes in september, and cotton from then to christmas. and yet on two thirds of the land there is but one crop, and that leaves the toilers in debt. why is this? away down the baysan road, where the broad flat fields are flanked by great oak forests, is a plantation; many thousands of acres it used to run, here and there, and beyond the great wood. thirteen hundred human beings here obeyed the call of one,  were his in body, and largely in soul. one of them lives there yet,  a short, stocky man, his dull brown face seamed and drawn, and his tightly curled hair gray white. the crops? just tolerable, he said; just tolerable. getting on? no  he wasn't getting on at all. smith of albany "furnishes" him, and his rent is eight hundred pounds of cotton. can't make anything at that. why didn't he buy land? humph! takes money to buy land. and he turns away. free! the most piteous thing amid all the black ruin of war time, amid the broken fortunes of the masters, the blighted hopes of mothers and maidens, and the fall of an empire,  the most piteous thing amid all this was the black freedman who threw down his hoe because the world called him free. what did such a mockery of freedom mean? not a cent of money, not an inch of land, not a mouthful of victuals,  not even ownership of the rags on his back. free! on saturday, once or twice a month, the old master, before the war, used to dole out bacon and meal to his negroes. and after the first flush of freedom wore off, and his true helplessness dawned on the freedman, he came back and picked up his hoe, and old master still doled out his bacon and meal. the legal form of service was theoretically far different; in practice, task work or "cropping" was substituted for daily toil in gangs; and the slave gradually became a metayer, or tenant on shares, in name, but a laborer with indeterminate wages in fact. still the price of cotton fell, and gradually the landlords deserted their plantations, and the reign of the merchant began. the merchant of the black belt is a curious institution,  part banker, part landlord, part contractor, and part despot. his store, which used most frequently to stand at the cross roads and become the centre of a weekly village, has now moved to town; and thither the negro tenant follows him. the merchant keeps everything,  clothes and shoes, coffee and sugar, pork and meal, canned and dried goods, wagons and ploughs, seed and fertilizer,  and what he has not in stock he can give you an order for at the store across the way. here, then, comes the tenant, sam scott, after he has contracted with some absent landlord's agent for hiring forty acres of land; he fingers his hat nervously until the merchant finishes his morning chat with colonel sanders, and calls out, "well, sam, what do you want?" sam wants him to "furnish" him,  i.e., to advance him food and clothing for the year, and perhaps seed and tools, until his crop is raised and sold. if sam seems a favorable subject, he and the merchant go to a lawyer, and sam executes a chattel mortgage on his mule and wagon in return for seed and a week's rations. as soon as the green cotton leaves appear above the ground, another mortgage is given on the "crop." every saturday, or at longer intervals, sam calls upon the merchant for his "rations"; a family of five usually gets about thirty pounds of fat side pork and a couple of bushels of corn meal a month. besides this, clothing and shoes must be furnished; if sam or his family is sick, there are orders on the druggist and doctor; if the mule wants shoeing, an order on the blacksmith, etc. if sam is a hard worker and crops promise well, he is often encouraged to buy more,  sugar, extra clothes, perhaps a buggy. but he is seldom encouraged to save. when cotton rose to ten cents last fall, the shrewd merchants of dougherty county sold a thousand buggies in one season, mostly to black men. the security offered for such transactions  a crop and chattel mortgage  may at first seem slight. and, indeed, the merchants tell many a true tale of shiftlessness and cheating; of cotton picked at night, mules disappearing, and tenants absconding. but on the whole the merchant of the black belt is the most prosperous man in the section. so skilfully and so closely has he drawn the bonds of the law about the tenant, that the black man has often simply to choose between pauperism and crime; he "waives" all homestead exemptions in his contract; he cannot touch his own mortgaged crop, which the laws put almost in the full control of the land owner and of the merchant. when the crop is growing the merchant watches it like a hawk; as soon as it is ready for market he takes possession of it, sells it, pays the land owner his rent, subtracts his bill for supplies, and if, as sometimes happens, there is anything left, he hands it over to the black serf for his christmas celebration. the direct result of this system is an all cotton scheme of agriculture and the continued bankruptcy of the tenant. the currency of the black belt is cotton. it is a crop always salable for ready money, not usually subject to great yearly fluctuations in price, and one which the negroes know how to raise. the landlord therefore demands his rent in cotton, and the merchant will accept mortgages on no other crop. there is no use asking the black tenant, then, to diversify his crops,  he cannot under this system. moreover, the system is bound to bankrupt the tenant. i remember once meeting a little one mule wagon on the river road. a young black fellow sat in it driving listlessly, his elbows on his knees. his dark faced wife sat beside him, stolid, silent. "hello!" cried my driver,  he has a most impudent way of addressing these people, though they seem used to it,  "what have you got there?" "meat and meal," answered the man, stopping. the meat lay uncovered in the bottom of the wagon,  a great thin side of fat pork covered with salt; the meal was in a white bushel  bag. "what did you pay for that meat?" "ten cents a pound." it could have been bought for six or seven cents cash. "and the meal?" "two dollars." one dollar and ten cents is the cash price in town. here was a man paying five dollars for goods which he could have bought for three dollars cash, and raised for one dollar or one dollar and a half. yet it is not wholly his fault. the negro farmer started behind,  started in debt. this was not his choosing, but the crime of this happy go lucky nation which goes blundering along with its reconstruction tragedies, its spanish war interludes and philippine matinees, just as though god really were dead. once in debt, it is no easy matter for a whole race to emerge. in the year of low priced cotton, 1898, out of three hundred tenant families one hundred and seventy  five ended their year's work in debt to the extent of fourteen thousand dollars; fifty cleared nothing, and the remaining seventy five made a total profit of sixteen hundred dollars. the net indebtedness of the black tenant families of the whole county must have been at least sixty thousand dollars. in a more prosperous year the situation is far better; but on the average the majority of tenants end the year even, or in debt, which means that they work for board and clothes. such an economic organization is radically wrong. whose is the blame? the underlying causes of this situation are complicated but discernible. and one of the chief, outside the carelessness of the nation in letting the slave start with nothing, is the widespread opinion among the merchants and employers of the black belt that only by the slavery of debt can the negro be kept at work. without doubt, some pressure was necessary at the beginning of the free labor system to keep the listless and lazy at work; and even to day the mass of the negro laborers need stricter guardianship than most northern laborers. behind this honest and widespread opinion dishonesty and cheating of the ignorant laborers have a good chance to take refuge. and to all this must be added the obvious fact that a slave ancestry and a system of unrequited toil has not improved the efficiency or temper of the mass of black laborers. nor is this peculiar to sambo; it has in history been just as true of john and hans, of jacques and pat, of all ground down peasantries. such is the situation of the mass of the negroes in the black belt to day; and they are thinking about it. crime, and a cheap and dangerous socialism, are the inevitable results of this pondering. i see now that ragged black man sitting on a log, aimlessly whittling a stick. he muttered to me with the murmur of many ages, when he said: "white man sit down whole year; nigger work day and night and make crop; nigger hardly gits bread and meat; white man sittin' down gits all. it's wrong." and what do the better classes of negroes do to improve their situation? one of two things: if any way possible, they buy land; if not, they migrate to town. just as centuries ago it was no easy thing for the serf to escape into the freedom of town life, even so today there are hindrances laid in the way of county laborers. in considerable parts of all the gulf states, and especially in mississippi, louisiana, and arkansas, the negroes on the plantations in the back country districts are still held at forced labor practically without wages. especially is this true in districts where the farmers are composed of the more ignorant class of poor whites, and the negroes are beyond the reach of schools and intercourse with their advancing fellows. if such a peon should ran away, the sheriff, elected by white suffrage, can usually be depended on to catch the fugitive, return him, and ask no questions. if he escape to another county, a charge of petty thieving, easily true, can be depended upon to secure his return. even if some unduly officious person insist upon a trial, neighborly comity will probably make his conviction sure, and then the labor due the county can easily be bought by the master. such a system is impossible in the more civilized parts of the south, or near the large towns and cities; but in those vast stretches of land beyond the telegraph and the newspaper the spirit of thirteenth amendment is sadly broken. this represents the lowest economic depths of the black american peasant; and in a study of the rise and condition of the negro freeholder we must trace his economic progress from this modern serfdom. even in the better ordered country districts of the south the free movement of agricultural laborers is hindered by the migration agent laws. the "associated press" recently informed the world of the arrest of a young white man in southern georgia who represented the "atlantic naval supplies company," and who "was caught in the act of enticing hands from the turpentine farm of mr. john greer." the crime for which this young man was arrested is taxed five hundred dollars for each county in which the employment agent proposes to gather laborers for work outside the state. thus the negroes' ignorance of the labor market outside his own vicinity is increased rather than diminished by the laws of nearly every southern state. similar to such measures is the unwritten law of the back districts and small towns of the south, that the character of all negroes unknown to the mass of the community must be vouched for by some white man. this is really a revival of the old roman idea of the patron under whose protection the new made freedman was put. in many instances this system has been of great good to the negro, and very often under the protection and guidance of the former master's family, or other white friends, the freedman progressed in wealth and morality. but the same system has in other cases resulted in the refusal of whole communities to recognize the right of a negro to change his habitation and to be waster of his own fortunes. a black stranger in baker county, georgia, for instance, is liable to be stopped anywhere on the public highway and made to state his business to the satisfaction of any white interrogator. if he fails to give a suitable answer, or seems too independent or "sassy," he may be arrested or summarily driven away. thus it is that in the country districts of the south, by written or unwritten law, peonage, hindrances to the migration of labor, and a system of white patronage exists over large areas. besides this, the chance for lawless, oppression and illegal exactions is vastly greater in the country than in the city, and nearly all the more serious race disturbances of the last decade have arisen from disputes in the county between master and man,  as, for instance, the sam hose affair. as a result of such a situation, there arose, first, the black belt; and, second the migration to town. the black belt was not, as many assumed, movement toward fields of labor under more genial climatic conditions; it was primarily a huddling for self protection,  a massing of the black population for mutual defence in order to secure the peace and tranquillity necessary to economic advance. this movement took place between emancipation and 1880, and only partially accomplished the desired results. the rush to town since 1880 is the counter movement of men disappointed in the economic opportunities of the black belt. in dougherty county, georgia, one can see easily the results of this experiment in huddling for protection. only ten per cent of the adult population was born in the county, and yet the blacks outnumber the whites four or five to one. there is undoubtedly a security to the blacks in their very numbers,  a personal freedom from arbitrary treatment, which makes hundreds of laborers cling to dougherty in spite of low wages and economic distress. but a change is coming, and slowly but surely even here the agricultural laborers are drifting to town and leaving the broad acres behind. why is this? why do not the negroes become land owners, and build up the black landed peasantry, which has for a generation and more been the dream of philanthropist and statesman? to the car window sociologist, to the man who seeks to understand and know the south by devoting the few leisure hours of a holiday trip to unravelling the snarl of centuries,  to such men very often the whole trouble with the black field hand may be summed up by aunt ophelia's word, "shiftless!" they have noted repeatedly scenes like one i saw last summer. we were riding along the highroad to town at the close of a long, hot day. a couple of young black fellows passed us in a mule team, with several bushels of loose corn in the ear. one was driving, listlessly bent forward, his elbows on his knees,  a happy go lucky, careless picture of irresponsibility. the other was fast asleep in the bottom of the wagon. as we passed we noticed an ear of corn fall from the wagon. they never saw it,  not they. a rod farther on we noted another ear on the ground; and between that creeping mule and town we counted twenty six ears of corn. shiftless? yes, the personification of shiftlessness. and yet follow those boys: they are not lazy; to morrow morning they'll be up with the sun; they work hard when they do work, and they work willingly. they have no sordid, selfish, money getting ways, but rather a fine disdain for mere cash. they'll loaf before your face and work behind your back with good natured honesty. they'll steal a watermelon, and hand you back your lost purse intact. their great defect as laborers lies in their lack of incentive to work beyond the mere pleasure of physical exertion. they are careless because they have not found that it pays to be careful; they are improvident because the improvident ones of their acquaintance get on about as well as the provident. above all, they cannot see why they should take unusual pains to make the white man's land better, or to fatten his mule, or save his corn. on the other hand, the white land owner argues that any attempt to improve these laborers by increased responsibility, or higher wages, or better homes, or land of their own, would be sure to result in failure. he shows his northern visitor the scarred and wretched land; the ruined mansions, the worn out soil and mortgaged acres, and says, this is negro freedom! now it happens that both master and man have just enough argument on their respective sides to make it difficult for them to understand each other. the negro dimly personifies in the white man all his ills and misfortunes; if he is poor, it is because the white man seizes the fruit of his toil; if he is ignorant, it is because the white man gives him neither time nor facilities to learn; and, indeed, if any misfortune happens to him, it is because of some hidden machinations of "white folks." on the other hand, the masters and the masters' sons have never been able to see why the negro, instead of settling down to be day laborers for bread and clothes, are infected with a silly desire to rise in the world, and why they are sulky, dissatisfied, and careless, where their fathers were happy and dumb and faithful. "why, you niggers have an easier time than i do," said a puzzled albany merchant to his black customer. "yes," he replied, "and so does yo' hogs." taking, then, the dissatisfied and shiftless fieldhand as a starting point, let us inquire how the black thousands of dougherty have struggled from him up toward their ideal, and what that ideal is. all social struggle is evidenced by the rise, first of economic, then of social classes, among a homogeneous population. to day the following economic classes are plainly differentiated among these negroes. a "submerged tenth" of croppers, with a few paupers; forty per cent who are metayers and thirty nine per cent of semi metayers and wage laborers. there are left five per cent of money renters and six per cent of freeholders,  the "upper ten" of the land. the croppers are entirely without capital, even in the limited sense of food or money to keep them from seed time to harvest. all they furnish is their labor; the land owner furnishes land, stock, tools, seed, and house; and at the end of the year the laborer gets from a third to a half of the crop. out of his share, however, comes pay and interest for food and clothing advanced him during the year. thus we have a laborer without capital and without wages, and an employer whose capital is largely his employees' wages. it is an unsatisfactory arrangement, both for hirer and hired, and is usually in vogue on poor land with hard pressed owners. above the croppers come the great mass of the black population who work the land on their own responsibility, paying rent in cotton and supported by the crop mortgage system. after the war this system was attractive to the freedmen on account of its larger freedom and its possibilities for making a surplus. but with the carrying out of the crop lien system, the deterioration of the land, and the slavery of debt, the position of the metayers has sunk to a dead level of practically unrewarded toil. formerly all tenants had some capital, and often considerable; but absentee landlordism, rising rack rent, and falling cotton have stripped them well nigh of all, and probably not over half of them to day own their mules. the change from cropper to tenant was accomplished by fixing the rent. if, now, the rent fixed was reasonable, this was an incentive to the tenant to strive. on the other hand, if the rent was too high, or if the land deteriorated, the result was to discourage and check the efforts of the black peasantry. there is no doubt that the latter case is true; that in dougherty county every economic advantage of the price of cotton in market and of the strivings of the tenant has been taken advantage of by the landlords and merchants, and swallowed up in rent and interest. if cotton rose in price, the rent rose even higher; if cotton fell, the rent remained or followed reluctantly. if a tenant worked hard and raised a large crop, his rent was raised the next year; if that year the crop failed, his corn was confiscated and his mule sold for debt. there were, of course, exceptions to this,  cases of personal kindness and forbearance; but in the vast majority of cases the rule was to extract the uttermost farthing from the mass of the black farm laborers. the average metayer pays from twenty to thirty per cent of his crop in rent. the result of such rack rent can only be evil,  abuse and neglect of the soil, deterioration in the character of the laborers, and a widespread sense of injustice. "wherever the country is poor," cried arthur young, "it is in the hands of metayers," and "their condition is more wretched than that of day laborers." he was talking of italy a century ago; but he might have been talking of dougherty county to day. and especially is that true to day which he declares was true in france before the revolution: "the metayers are considered as little better than menial servants, removable at pleasure, and obliged to conform in all things to the will of the landlords." on this low plane half the black population of dougherty county  perhaps more than half the black millions of this land  are to day struggling. a degree above these we may place those laborers who receive money wages for their work. some receive a house with perhaps a garden spot; then supplies of food and clothing are advanced, and certain fixed wages are given at the end of the year, varying from thirty to sixty dollars, out of which the supplies must be paid for, with interest. about eighteen per cent of the population belong to this class of semi metayers, while twenty two per cent are laborers paid by the month or year, and are either "furnished" by their own savings or perhaps more usually by some merchant who takes his chances of payment. such laborers receive from thirty five to fifty cents a day during the working season. they are usually young unmarried persons, some being women; and when they marry they sink to the class of metayers, or, more seldom, become renters. the renters for fixed money rentals are the first of the emerging classes, and form five per cent of the families. the sole advantage of this small class is their freedom to choose their crops, and the increased responsibility which comes through having money transactions. while some of the renters differ little in condition from the metayers, yet on the whole they are more intelligent and responsible persons, and are the ones who eventually become land owners. their better character and greater shrewdness enable them to gain, perhaps to demand, better terms in rents; rented farms, varying from forty to a hundred acres, bear an average rental of about fifty four dollars a year. the men who conduct such farms do not long remain renters; either they sink to metayers, or with a successful series of harvests rise to be land owners. in 1870 the tax books of dougherty report no negroes as landholders. if there were any such at that time,  and there may have been a few,  their land was probably held in the name of some white patron,  a method not uncommon during slavery. in 1875 ownership of land had begun with seven hundred and fifty acres; ten years later this had increased to over sixty five hundred acres, to nine thousand acres in 1890 and ten thousand in 1900. the total assessed property has in this same period risen from eighty thousand dollars in 1875 to two hundred and forty thousand dollars in 1900. two circumstances complicate this development and make it in some respects difficult to be sure of the real tendencies; they are the panic of 1893, and the low price of cotton in 1898. besides this, the system of assessing property in the country districts of georgia is somewhat antiquated and of uncertain statistical value; there are no assessors, and each man makes a sworn return to a tax receiver. thus public opinion plays a large part, and the returns vary strongly from year to year. certainly these figures show the small amount of accumulated capital among the negroes, and the consequent large dependence of their property on temporary prosperity. they have little to tide over a few years of economic depression, and are at the mercy of the cotton market far more than the whites. and thus the land owners, despite their marvellous efforts, are really a transient class, continually being depleted by those who fall back into the class of renters or metayers, and augmented by newcomers from the masses, of the one hundred land owners in 1898, half had bought their land since 1893, a fourth between 1890 and 1893, a fifth between 1884 and 1890, and the rest between 1870 and 1884. in all, one hundred and eighty five negroes have owned land in this county since 1875. if all the black land owners who had ever held land here had kept it or left it in the hands of black men, the negroes would have owned nearer thirty thousand acres than the fifteen thousand they now hold. and yet these fifteen thousand acres are a creditable showing,  a proof of no little weight of the worth and ability of the negro people. if they had been given an economic start at emancipation, if they had been in an enlightened and rich community which really desired their best good, then we might perhaps call such a result small or even insignificant. but for a few thousand poor ignorant field hands, in the face of poverty, a falling market, and social stress, to save and capitalize two hundred thousand dollars in a generation has meant a tremendous effort. the rise of a nation, the pressing forward of a social class, means a bitter struggle, a hard and soul sickening battle with the world such as few of the more favored classes know or appreciate. out of the hard economic conditions of this portion of the black belt, only six per cent of the population have succeeded in emerging into peasant proprietorship; and these are not all firmly fixed, but grow and shrink in number with the wavering of the cotton market. fully ninety four per cent have struggled for land and failed, and half of them sit in hopeless serfdom. for these there is one other avenue of escape toward which they have turned in increasing numbers, namely, migration to town. a glance at the distribution of land among the black owners curiously reveals this fact. in 1898 the holdings were as follows: under forty acres, forty nine families; forty to two hundred and fifty acres, seventeen families; two hundred and fifty to one thousand acres, thirteen families; one thousand or more acres, two families. now in 1890 there were forty four holdings, but only nine of these were under forty acres. the great increase of holdings, then, has come in the buying of small homesteads near town, where their owners really share in the town life; this is a part of the rush to town. and for every land owner who has thus hurried away from the narrow and hard conditions of country life, how many field hands, how many tenants, how many ruined renters, have joined that long procession? is it not strange compensation? the sin of the country districts is visited on the town, and the social sores of city life to day may, here in dougherty county, and perhaps in many places near and far, look for their final healing without the city walls. life treads on life, and heart on heart; we press too close in church and mart to keep a dream or grave apart. mrs. browning. the world old phenomenon of the contact of diverse races of men is to have new exemplification during the new century. indeed, the characteristic of our age is the contact of european civilization with the world's undeveloped peoples. whatever we may say of the results of such contact in the past, it certainly forms a chapter in human action not pleasant to look back upon. war, murder, slavery, extermination, and debauchery,  this has again and again been the result of carrying civilization and the blessed gospel to the isles of the sea and the heathen without the law. nor does it altogether satisfy the conscience of the modern world to be told complacently that all this has been right and proper, the fated triumph of strength over weakness, of righteousness over evil, of superiors over inferiors. it would certainly be soothing if one could readily believe all this; and yet there are too many ugly facts for everything to be thus easily explained away. we feel and know that there are many delicate differences in race psychology, numberless changes that our crude social measurements are not yet able to follow minutely, which explain much of history and social development. at the same time, too, we know that these considerations have never adequately explained or excused the triumph of brute force and cunning over weakness and innocence. it is, then, the strife of all honorable men of the twentieth century to see that in the future competition of races the survival of the fittest shall mean the triumph of the good, the beautiful, and the true; that we may be able to preserve for future civilization all that is really fine and noble and strong, and not continue to put a premium on greed and impudence and cruelty. to bring this hope to fruition, we are compelled daily to turn more and more to a conscientious study of the phenomena of race contact,  to a study frank and fair, and not falsified and colored by our wishes or our fears. and we have in the south as fine a field for such a study as the world affords,  a field, to be sure, which the average american scientist deems somewhat beneath his dignity, and which the average man who is not a scientist knows all about, but nevertheless a line of study which by reason of the enormous race complications with which god seems about to punish this nation must increasingly claim our sober attention study, and thought, we must ask, what are the actual relations of whites and blacks in the south? and we must be answered, not by apology or faultfinding, but by a plain, unvarnished tale. in the civilized life of to day the contact of men and their relations to each other fall in a few lines of action and communication: there is first, the physical proximity of homes and dwelling places, the way in which neighborhoods group themselves, and the contiguity of neighborhoods. secondly, and in our age chiefest, there are the economic relations,  the methods by which individuals coöperate for earning a living, for the mutual satisfaction of wants, for the production of wealth. next, there are the political relations, the coöperation in social control, in group government, in laying and paying the burden of taxation. in the fourth place there are the less tangible but highly important forms of intellectual contact and commerce, the interchange of ideas through conversation and conference, through periodicals and libraries; and, above all, the gradual formation for each community of that anxious tertium quid which we call public opinion. closely allied with this come the various forms of social contact in everyday life, in travel, in theatres, in house gatherings, in marrying and giving in marriage. finally, there are the varying forms of religious enterprise, of moral teaching and benevolent endeavor. these are the principal ways in which men living in the same communities are brought into contact with each other. it is my present task, therefore, to indicate, from my point of view, how the black race in the south meet and mingle with the whites in these matters of everyday life. first, as to physical dwelling. it is usually possible to draw in nearly every southern community a physical color line on the map, on the one side of which whites dwell and on the other negroes. the winding and intricacy of the geographical color line varies, of course, in different communities. i know some towns where a straight line drawn through the middle of the main street separates nine tenths of the whites from nine tenths of the blacks. in other towns the older settlement of whites has been encircled by a broad band of blacks; in still other cases little settlements or nuclei of blacks have sprung up amid surrounding whites. usually in cities each street has its distinctive color, and only now and then do the colors meet in close proximity. even in the country something of this segregation is manifest in the smaller areas, and of course in the larger phenomena of the black belt. all this segregation by color is largely independent of that natural clustering by social grades common to all communities. a negro slum may be in dangerous proximity to a white residence quarter, while it is quite common to find a white slum planted in the heart of a respectable negro district. one thing, however, seldom occurs: the best of the whites and the best of the negroes almost never live in anything like close proximity. it thus happens that in nearly every southern town and city, both whites and blacks see commonly the worst of each other. this is a vast change from the situation in the past, when, through the close contact of master and house servant in the patriarchal big house, one found the best of both races in close contact and sympathy, while at the same time the squalor and dull round of toil among the field hands was removed from the sight and hearing of the family. one can easily see how a person who saw slavery thus from his father's parlors, and sees freedom on the streets of a great city, fails to grasp or comprehend the whole of the new picture. on the other hand, the settled belief of the mass of the negroes that the southern white people do not have the black man's best interests at heart has been intensified in later years by this continual daily contact of the better class of blacks with the worst representatives of the white race. coming now to the economic relations of the races, we are on ground made familiar by study, much discussion, and no little philanthropic effort. and yet with all this there are many essential elements in the coöperation of negroes and whites for work and wealth that are too readily overlooked or not thoroughly understood. the average american can easily conceive of a rich land awaiting development and filled with black laborers. to him the southern problem is simply that of making efficient workingmen out of this material, by giving them the requisite technical skill and the help of invested capital. the problem, however, is by no means as simple as this, from the obvious fact that these workingmen have been trained for centuries as slaves. they exhibit, therefore, all the advantages and defects of such training; they are willing and good natured, but not self reliant, provident, or careful. if now the economic development of the south is to be pushed to the verge of exploitation, as seems probable, then we have a mass of workingmen thrown into relentless competition with the workingmen of the world, but handicapped by a training the very opposite to that of the modern self reliant democratic laborer. what the black laborer needs is careful personal guidance, group leadership of men with hearts in their bosoms, to train them to foresight, carefulness, and honesty. nor does it require any fine spun theories of racial differences to prove the necessity of such group training after the brains of the race have been knocked out by two hundred and fifty years of assiduous education in submission, carelessness, and stealing. after emancipation, it was the plain duty of some one to assume this group leadership and training of the negro laborer. i will not stop here to inquire whose duty it was,  whether that of the white ex master who had profited by unpaid toil, or the northern philanthropist whose persistence brought on the crisis, or the national government whose edict freed the bondmen; i will not stop to ask whose duty it was, but i insist it was the duty of some one to see that these workingmen were not left alone and unguided, without capital, without land, without skill, without economic organization, without even the bald protection of law, order, and decency,  left in a great land, not to settle down to slow and careful internal development, but destined to be thrown almost immediately into relentless and sharp competition with the best of modern workingmen under an economic system where every participant is fighting for himself, and too often utterly regardless of the rights or welfare of his neighbor. for we must never forget that the economic system of the south to day which has succeeded the old régime is not the same system as that of the old industrial north, of england, or of france, with their trades unions, their restrictive laws, their written and unwritten commercial customs, and their long experience. it is, rather, a copy of that england of the early nineteenth century, before the factory acts,  the england that wrung pity from thinkers and fired the wrath of carlyle. the rod of empire that passed from the hands of southern gentlemen in 1865, partly by force, partly by their own petulance, has never returned to them. rather it has passed to those men who have come to take charge of the industrial exploitation of the new south,  the sons of poor whites fired with a new thirst for wealth and power, thrifty and avaricious yankees, shrewd and unscrupulous jews. into the hands of these men the southern laborers, white and black, have fallen; and this to their sorrow. for the laborers as such there is in these new captains of industry neither love nor hate, neither sympathy nor romance; it is a cold question of dollars and dividends. under such a system all labor is bound to suffer. even the white laborers are not yet intelligent, thrifty, and well trained enough to maintain themselves against the powerful inroads of organized capital. the results among them, even, are long hours of toil, low wages, child labor, and lack of protection against usury and cheating. but among the black laborers all this is aggravated, first, by a race prejudice which varies from a doubt and distrust among the best element of whites to a frenzied hatred among the worst; and, secondly, it is aggravated, as i have said before, by the wretched economic heritage of the freedmen from slavery. with this training it is difficult for the freedman to learn to grasp the opportunities already opened to him, and the new opportunities are seldom given him, but go by favor to the whites. left by the best elements of the south with little protection or oversight, he has been made in law and custom the victim of the worst and most unscrupulous men in each community. the crop lien system which is depopulating the fields of the south is not simply the result of shiftlessness on the part of negroes, but is also the result of cunningly devised laws as to mortgages, liens, and misdemeanors, which can be made by conscienceless men to entrap and snare the unwary until escape is impossible, further toil a farce, and protest a crime. i have seen, in the black belt of georgia, an ignorant, honest negro buy and pay for a farm in installments three separate times, and then in the face of law and decency the enterprising russian jew who sold it to him pocketed money and deed and left the black man landless, to labor on his own land at thirty cents a day. i have seen a black farmer fall in debt to a white storekeeper, and that storekeeper go to his farm and strip it of every single marketable article,  mules, ploughs, stored crops, tools, furniture, bedding, clocks, looking glass,  and all this without a warrant, without process of law, without a sheriff or officer, in the face of the law for homestead exemptions, and without rendering to a single responsible person any account or reckoning. and such proceedings can happen, and will happen, in any community where a class of ignorant toilers are placed by custom and race prejudice beyond the pale of sympathy and race brotherhood. so long as the best elements of a community do not feel in duty bound to protect and train and care for the weaker members of their group, they leave them to be preyed upon by these swindlers and rascals. this unfortunate economic situation does not mean the hindrance of all advance in the black south, or the absence of a class of black landlords and mechanics who, in spite of disadvantages, are accumulating property and making good citizens. but it does mean that this class is not nearly so large as a fairer economic system might easily make it, that those who survive in the competition are handicapped so as to accomplish much less than they deserve to, and that, above all, the personnel of the successful class is left to chance and accident, and not to any intelligent culling or reasonable methods of selection. as a remedy for this, there is but one possible procedure. we must accept some of the race prejudice in the south as a fact,  deplorable in its intensity, unfortunate in results, and dangerous for the future, but nevertheless a hard fact which only time can efface. we cannot hope, then, in this generation, or for several generations, that the mass of the whites can be brought to assume that close sympathetic and self sacrificing leadership of the blacks which their present situation so eloquently demands. such leadership, such social teaching and example, must come from the blacks themselves. for some time men doubted as to whether the negro could develop such leaders; but to day no one seriously disputes the capability of individual negroes to assimilate the culture and common sense of modern civilization, and to pass it on, to some extent at least, to their fellows. if this is true, then here is the path out of the economic situation, and here is the imperative demand for trained negro leaders of character and intelligence,  men of skill, men of light and leading, college bred men, black captains of industry, and missionaries of culture; men who thoroughly comprehend and know modern civilization, and can take hold of negro communities and raise and train them by force of precept and example, deep sympathy, and the inspiration of common blood and ideals. but if such men are to be effective they must have some power,  they must be backed by the best public opinion of these communities, and able to wield for their objects and aims such weapons as the experience of the world has taught are indispensable to human progress. of such weapons the greatest, perhaps, in the modern world is the power of the ballot; and this brings me to a consideration of the third form of contact between whites and blacks in the south,  political activity. in the attitude of the american mind toward negro suffrage can be traced with unusual accuracy the prevalent conceptions of government. in the fifties we were near enough the echoes of the french revolution to believe pretty thoroughly in universal suffrage. we argued, as we thought then rather logically, that no social class was so good, so true, and so disinterested as to be trusted wholly with the political destiny of its neighbors; that in every state the best arbiters of their own welfare are the persons directly affected; consequently that it is only by arming every hand with a ballot,  with the right to have a voice in the policy of the state,  that the greatest good to the greatest number could be attained. to be sure, there were objections to these arguments, but we thought we had answered them tersely and convincingly; if some one complained of the ignorance of voters, we answered, "educate them." if another complained of their venality, we replied, "disfranchise them or put them in jail." and, finally, to the men who feared demagogues and the natural perversity of some human beings we insisted that time and bitter experience would teach the most hardheaded. it was at this time that the question of negro suffrage in the south was raised. here was a defenceless people suddenly made free. how were they to be protected from those who did not believe in their freedom and were determined to thwart it? not by force, said the north; not by government guardianship, said the south; then by the ballot, the sole and legitimate defence of a free people, said the common sense of the nation. no one thought, at the time, that the ex slaves could use the ballot intelligently or very effectively; but they did think that the possession of so great power by a great class in the nation would compel their fellows to educate this class to its intelligent use. meantime, new thoughts came to the nation: the inevitable period of moral retrogression and political trickery that ever follows in the wake of war overtook us. so flagrant became the political scandals that reputable men began to leave politics alone, and politics consequently became disreputable. men began to pride themselves on having nothing to do with their own government, and to agree tacitly with those who regarded public office as a private perquisite. in this state of mind it became easy to wink at the suppression of the negro vote in the south, and to advise self respecting negroes to leave politics entirely alone. the decent and reputable citizens of the north who neglected their own civic duties grew hilarious over the exaggerated importance with which the negro regarded the franchise. thus it easily happened that more and more the better class of negroes followed the advice from abroad and the pressure from home, and took no further interest in politics, leaving to the careless and the venal of their race the exercise of their rights as voters. the black vote that still remained was not trained and educated, but further debauched by open and unblushing bribery, or force and fraud; until the negro voter was thoroughly inoculated with the idea that politics was a method of private gain by disreputable means. and finally, now, to day, when we are awakening to the fact that the perpetuity of republican institutions on this continent depends on the purification of the ballot, the civic training of voters, and the raising of voting to the plane of a solemn duty which a patriotic citizen neglects to his peril and to the peril of his children's children,  in this day, when we are striving for a renaissance of civic virtue, what are we going to say to the black voter of the south? are we going to tell him still that politics is a disreputable and useless form of human activity? are we going to induce the best class of negroes to take less and less interest in government, and to give up their right to take such an interest, without a protest? i am not saying a word against all legitimate efforts to purge the ballot of ignorance, pauperism, and crime. but few have pretended that the present movement for disfranchisement in the south is for such a purpose; it has been plainly and frankly declared in nearly every case that the object of the disfranchising laws is the elimination of the black man from politics. now, is this a minor matter which has no influence on the main question of the industrial and intellectual development of the negro? can we establish a mass of black laborers and artisans and landholders in the south who, by law and public opinion, have absolutely no voice in shaping the laws under which they live and work? can the modern organization of industry, assuming as it does free democratic government and the power and ability of the laboring classes to compel respect for their welfare,  can this system be carried out in the south when half its laboring force is voiceless in the public councils and powerless in its own defence? to day the black, man of the south has almost nothing to say as to how much he shall be taxed, or how those taxes shall be expended; as to who shall execute the laws, and how they shall do it; as to who shall make the laws, and how they shall be made. it is pitiable that frantic efforts must be made at critical times to get law makers in some states even to listen to the respectful presentation of the black man's side of a current controversy. daily the negro is coming more and more to look upon law and justice, not as protecting safeguards, but as sources of humiliation and oppression. the laws are made by men who have little interest in him; they are executed by men who have absolutely no motive for treating the black people with courtesy or consideration; and, finally, the accused law breaker is tried, not by his peers, but too often by men who would rather punish ten innocent negroes than let one guilty one escape. i should be the last one to deny the patent weaknesses and shortcomings of the negro people; i should be the last to withhold sympathy from the white south in its efforts to solve its intricate social problems. i freely acknowledge that it is possible, and sometimes best, that a partially undeveloped people should be ruled by the best of their stronger and better neighbors for their own good, until such time as they can start and fight the world's battles alone. i have already pointed out how sorely in need of such economic and spiritual guidance the emancipated negro was, and i am quite willing to admit that if the representatives of the best white southern public opinion were the ruling and guiding powers in the south to day the conditions indicated would be fairly well fulfilled. but the point i have insisted upon, and now emphasize again, is that the best opinion of the south to day is not the ruling opinion. that to leave the negro helpless and without a ballot to day is to leave him, not to the guidance of the best, but rather to the exploitation and debauchment of the worst; that this is no truer of the south than of the north,  of the north than of europe: in any land, in any country under modern free competition, to lay any class of weak and despised people, be they white, black, or blue, at the political mercy of their stronger, richer, and more resourceful fellows, is a temptation which human nature seldom has withstood and seldom will withstand. moreover, the political status of the negro in the south is closely connected with the question of negro crime. there can be no doubt that crime among negroes has sensibly increased in the last thirty years, and that there has appeared in the slums of great cities a distinct criminal class among the blacks. in explaining this unfortunate development, we must note two things: (1) that the inevitable result of emancipation was to increase crime and criminals, and (2) that the police system of the south was primarily designed to control slaves. as to the first point, we must not forget that under a strict slave system there can scarcely be such a thing as crime. but when these variously constituted human particles are suddenly thrown broadcast on the sea of life, some swim, some sink, and some hang suspended, to be forced up or down by the chance currents of a busy hurrying world. so great an economic and social revolution as swept the south in '63 meant a weeding out among the negroes of the incompetents and vicious, the beginning of a differentiation of social grades. now a rising group of people are not lifted bodily from the ground like an inert solid mass, but rather stretch upward like a living plant with its roots still clinging in the mould. the appearance, therefore, of the negro criminal was a phenomenon to be awaited; and while it causes anxiety, it should not occasion surprise. here again the hope for the future depended peculiarly on careful and delicate dealing with these criminals. their offences at first were those of laziness, carelessness, and impulse, rather than of malignity or ungoverned viciousness. such misdemeanors needed discriminating treatment, firm but reformatory, with no hint of injustice, and full proof of guilt. for such dealing with criminals, white or black, the south had no machinery, no adequate jails or reformatories; its police system was arranged to deal with blacks alone, and tacitly assumed that every white man was ipso facto a member of that police. thus grew up a double system of justice, which erred on the white side by undue leniency and the practical immunity of red handed criminals, and erred on the black side by undue severity, injustice, and lack of discrimination. for, as i have said, the police system of the south was originally designed to keep track of all negroes, not simply of criminals; and when the negroes were freed and the whole south was convinced of the impossibility of free negro labor, the first and almost universal device was to use the courts as a means of reënslaving the blacks. it was not then a question of crime, but rather one of color, that settled a man's conviction on almost any charge. thus negroes came to look upon courts as instruments of injustice and oppression, and upon those convicted in them as martyrs and victims. when, now, the real negro criminal appeared, and instead of petty stealing and vagrancy we began to have highway robbery, burglary, murder, and rape, there was a curious effect on both sides the color line: the negroes refused to believe the evidence of white witnesses or the fairness of white juries, so that the greatest deterrent to crime, the public opinion of one's own social caste, was lost, and the criminal was looked upon as crucified rather than hanged. on the other hand, the whites, used to being careless as to the guilt or innocence of accused negroes, were swept in moments of passion beyond law, reason, and decency. such a situation is bound to increase crime, and has increased it. to natural viciousness and vagrancy are being daily added motives of revolt and revenge which stir up all the latent savagery of both races and make peaceful attention to economic development often impossible. but the chief problem in any community cursed with crime is not the punishment of the criminals, but the preventing of the young from being trained to crime. and here again the peculiar conditions of the south have prevented proper precautions. i have seen twelve year old boys working in chains on the public streets of atlanta, directly in front of the schools, in company with old and hardened criminals; and this indiscriminate mingling of men and women and children makes the chain gangs perfect schools of crime and debauchery. the struggle for reformatories, which has gone on in virginia, georgia, and other states, is the one encouraging sign of the awakening of some communities to the suicidal results of this policy. it is the public schools, however, which can be made, outside the homes, the greatest means of training decent self respecting citizens. we have been so hotly engaged recently in discussing trade schools and the higher education that the pitiable plight of the public school system in the south has almost dropped from view. of every five dollars spent for public education in the state of georgia, the white schools get four dollars and the negro one dollar; and even then the white public school system, save in the cities, is bad and cries for reform. if this is true of the whites, what of the blacks? i am becoming more and more convinced, as i look upon the system of common school training in the south, that the national government must soon step in and aid popular education in some way. to day it has been only by the most strenuous efforts on the part of the thinking men of the south that the negro's share of the school fund has not been cut down to a pittance in some half dozen states; and that movement not only is not dead, but in many communities is gaining strength. what in the name of reason does this nation expect of a people, poorly trained and hard pressed in severe economic competition, without political rights, and with ludicrously inadequate common school facilities? what can it expect but crime and listlessness, offset here and there by the dogged struggles of the fortunate and more determined who are themselves buoyed by the hope that in due time the country will come to its senses? i have thus far sought to make clear the physical, economic, and political relations of the negroes and whites in the south, as i have conceived them, including, for the reasons set forth, crime and education. but after all that has been said on these more tangible matters of human contact, there still remains a part essential to a proper description of the south which it is difficult to describe or fix in terms easily understood by strangers. it is, in fine, the atmosphere of the land, the thought and feeling, the thousand and one little actions which go to make up life. in any community or nation it is these little things which are most elusive to the grasp and yet most essential to any clear conception of the group life taken as a whole. what is thus true of all communities is peculiarly true of the south, where, outside of written history and outside of printed law, there has been going on for a generation as deep a storm and stress of human souls, as intense a ferment of feeling, as intricate a writhing of spirit, as ever a people experienced. within and without the sombre veil of color vast social forces have been at work,  efforts for human betterment, movements toward disintegration and despair, tragedies and comedies in social and economic life, and a swaying and lifting and sinking of human hearts which have made this land a land of mingled sorrow and joy, of change and excitement and unrest. the centre of this spiritual turmoil has ever been the millions of black freedmen and their sons, whose destiny is so fatefully bound up with that of the nation. and yet the casual observer visiting the south sees at first little of this. he notes the growing frequency of dark faces as he rides along,  but otherwise the days slip lazily on, the sun shines, and this little world seems as happy and contented as other worlds he has visited. indeed, on the question of questions  the negro problem  he hears so little that there almost seems to be a conspiracy of silence; the morning papers seldom mention it, and then usually in a far fetched academic way, and indeed almost every one seems to forget and ignore the darker half of the land, until the astonished visitor is inclined to ask if after all there is any problem here. but if he lingers long enough there comes the awakening: perhaps in a sudden whirl of passion which leaves him gasping at its bitter intensity; more likely in a gradually dawning sense of things he had not at first noticed. slowly but surely his eyes begin to catch the shadows of the color line: here he meets crowds of negroes and whites; then he is suddenly aware that he cannot discover a single dark face; or again at the close of a day's wandering he may find himself in some strange assembly, where all faces are tinged brown or black, and where he has the vague, uncomfortable feeling of the stranger. he realizes at last that silently, resistlessly, the world about flows by him in two great streams: they ripple on in the same sunshine, they approach and mingle their waters in seeming carelessness,  then they divide and flow wide apart. it is done quietly; no mistakes are made, or if one occurs, the swift arm of the law and of public opinion swings down for a moment, as when the other day a black man and a white woman were arrested for talking together on whitehall street in atlanta. now if one notices carefully one will see that between these two worlds, despite much physical contact and daily intermingling, there is almost no community of intellectual life or point of transference where the thoughts and feelings of one race can come into direct contact and sympathy with the thoughts and feelings of the other. before and directly after the war, when all the best of the negroes were domestic servants in the best of the white families, there were bonds of intimacy, affection, and sometimes blood relationship, between the races. they lived in the same home, shared in the family life, often attended the same church, and talked and conversed with each other. but the increasing civilization of the negro since then has naturally meant the development of higher classes: there are increasing numbers of ministers, teachers, physicians, merchants, mechanics, and independent farmers, who by nature and training are the aristocracy and leaders of the blacks. between them, however, and the best element of the whites, there is little or no intellectual commerce. they go to separate churches, they live in separate sections, they are strictly separated in all public gatherings, they travel separately, and they are beginning to read different papers and books. to most libraries, lectures, concerts, and museums, negroes are either not admitted at all, or on terms peculiarly galling to the pride of the very classes who might otherwise be attracted. the daily paper chronicles the doings of the black world from afar with no great regard for accuracy; and so on, throughout the category of means for intellectual communication,  schools, conferences, efforts for social betterment, and the like,  it is usually true that the very representatives of the two races, who for mutual benefit and the welfare of the land ought to be in complete understanding and sympathy, are so far strangers that one side thinks all whites are narrow and prejudiced, and the other thinks educated negroes dangerous and insolent. moreover, in a land where the tyranny of public opinion and the intolerance of criticism is for obvious historical reasons so strong as in the south, such a situation is extremely difficult to correct. the white man, as well as the negro, is bound and barred by the color line, and many a scheme of friendliness and philanthropy, of broad minded sympathy and generous fellowship between the two has dropped still born because some busybody has forced the color question to the front and brought the tremendous force of unwritten law against the innovators. it is hardly necessary for me to add very much in regard to the social contact between the races. nothing has come to replace that finer sympathy and love between some masters and house servants which the radical and more uncompromising drawing of the color line in recent years has caused almost completely to disappear. in a world where it means so much to take a man by the hand and sit beside him, to look frankly into his eyes and feel his heart beating with red blood; in a world where a social cigar or a cup of tea together means more than legislative halls and magazine articles and speeches,  one can imagine the consequences of the almost utter absence of such social amenities between estranged races, whose separation extends even to parks and streetcars. here there can be none of that social going down to the people,  the opening of heart and hand of the best to the worst, in generous acknowledgment of a common humanity and a common destiny. on the other hand, in matters of simple almsgiving, where there can be no question of social contact, and in the succor of the aged and sick, the south, as if stirred by a feeling of its unfortunate limitations, is generous to a fault. the black beggar is never turned away without a good deal more than a crust, and a call for help for the unfortunate meets quick response. i remember, one cold winter, in atlanta, when i refrained from contributing to a public relief fund lest negroes should be discriminated against, i afterward inquired of a friend: "were any black people receiving aid? why," said he, "they were all black." and yet this does not touch the kernel of the problem. human advancement is not a mere question of almsgiving, but rather of sympathy and co operation among classes who would scorn charity. and here is a land where, in the higher walks of life, in all the higher striving for the good and noble and true, the color line comes to separate natural friends and co workers; while at the bottom of the social group, in the saloon, the gambling hell, and the brothel, that same line wavers and disappears. i have sought to paint an average picture of real relations between the sons of master and man in the south. i have not glossed over matters for policy's sake, for i fear we have already gone too far in that sort of thing. on the other hand, i have sincerely sought to let no unfair exaggerations creep in. i do not doubt that in some southern communities conditions are better than those i have indicated; while i am no less certain that in other communities they are far worse. nor does the paradox and danger of this situation fail to interest and perplex the best conscience of the south. deeply religious and intensely democratic as are the mass of the whites, they feel acutely the false position in which the negro problems place them. such an essentially honest hearted and generous people cannot cite the caste levelling precepts of christianity, or believe in equality of opportunity for all men, without coming to feel more and more with each generation that the present drawing of the color line is a flat contradiction to their beliefs and professions. but just as often as they come to this point, the present social condition of the negro stands as a menace and a portent before even the most open minded: if there were nothing to charge against the negro but his blackness or other physical peculiarities, they argue, the problem would be comparatively simple; but what can we say to his ignorance, shiftlessness, poverty, and crime? can a self respecting group hold anything but the least possible fellowship with such persons and survive? and shall we let a mawkish sentiment sweep away the culture of our fathers or the hope of our children? the argument so put is of great strength, but it is not a whit stronger than the argument of thinking negroes: granted, they reply, that the condition of our masses is bad; there is certainly on the one hand adequate historical cause for this, and unmistakable evidence that no small number have, in spite of tremendous disadvantages, risen to the level of american civilization. and when, by proscription and prejudice, these same negroes are classed with and treated like the lowest of their people, simply because they are negroes, such a policy not only discourages thrift and intelligence among black men, but puts a direct premium on the very things you complain of,  inefficiency and crime. draw lines of crime, of incompetency, of vice, as tightly and uncompromisingly as you will, for these things must be proscribed; but a colorline not only does not accomplish this purpose, but thwarts it. in the face of two such arguments, the future of the south depends on the ability of the representatives of these opposing views to see and appreciate and sympathize with each other's position,  for the negro to realize more deeply than he does at present the need of uplifting the masses of his people, for the white people to realize more vividly than they have yet done the deadening and disastrous effect of a color prejudice that classes phillis wheatley and sam hose in the same despised class. it is not enough for the negroes to declare that color prejudice is the sole cause of their social condition, nor for the white south to reply that their social condition is the main cause of prejudice. they both act as reciprocal cause and effect, and a change in neither alone will bring the desired effect. both must change, or neither can improve to any great extent. the negro cannot stand the present reactionary tendencies and unreasoning drawing of the color line indefinitely without discouragement and retrogression. and the condition of the negro if; ever the excuse for further discrimination. only by a union of intelligence and sympathy across the color line in this critical period of the republic shall justice and right triumph,   "that mind and soul according well, may make one music as before, but vaster." dim face of beauty haunting all the world, fair face of beauty all too fair to see, where the lost stars adown the heavens are hurled,   there, there alone for thee may white peace be. . . . . . . . . beauty, sad face of beauty, mystery, wonder, what are these dreams to foolish babbling men who cry with little noises 'neath the thunder of ages ground to sand, to a little sand. fiona macleod. it was out in the country, far from home, far from my foster home, on a dark sunday night. the road wandered from our rambling log house up the stony bed of a creek, past wheat and corn, until we could hear dimly across the fields a rhythmic cadence of song,  soft, thrilling, powerful, that swelled and died sorrowfully in our ears. i was a country school teacher then, fresh from the east, and had never seen a southern negro revival. to be sure, we in berkshire were not perhaps as stiff and formal as they in suffolk, of olden time; yet we were very quiet and subdued, and i know not what would have happened those clear sabbath mornings had some one punctuated the sermon with a wild scream, or interrupted the long prayer with a loud amen! and so most striking to me, as i approached the village and the little plain church perched aloft, was the air of intense excitement that possessed that mass of black folk. a sort of suppressed terror hung in the air and seemed to seize us,  a pythian madness, a demoniac possession, that lent terrible reality to song and word. the black and massive form of the preacher swayed and quivered as the words crowded to his lips and flew at us in singular eloquence. the people moaned and fluttered, and then the gaunt cheeked brown woman beside me suddenly leaped straight into the air and shrieked like a lost soul, while round about came wail and groan and outcry, and a scene of human passion such as i had never conceived before. those who have not thus witnessed the frenzy of a negro revival in the untouched backwoods of the south can but dimly realize the religious feeling of the slave; as described, such scenes appear grotesque and funny, but as seen they are awful. three things characterized this religion of the slave,  the preacher, the music, and the frenzy. the preacher is the most unique personality developed by the negro on american soil. a leader, a politician, an orator, a "boss," an intriguer, an idealist,  all these he is, and ever, too, the centre of a group of men, now twenty, now a thousand in number. the combination of a certain adroitness with deep seated earnestness, of tact with consummate ability, gave him his preëminence, and helps him maintain it. the type, of course, varies according to time and place, from the west indies in the sixteenth century to new england in the nineteenth, and from the mississippi bottoms to cities like new orleans or new york. the music of negro religion is that plaintive rhythmic melody, with its touching minor cadences, which, despite caricature and defilement, still remains the most original and beautiful expression of human life and longing yet born on american soil. sprung from the african forests, where its counterpart can still be heard, it was adapted, changed, and intensified by the tragic soul life of the slave, until, under the stress of law and whip, it became the one true expression of a people's sorrow, despair, and hope. finally the frenzy or "shouting," when the spirit of the lord passed by, and, seizing the devotee, made him mad with supernatural joy, was the last essential of negro religion and the one more devoutly believed in than all the rest. it varied in expression from the silent rapt countenance or the low murmur and moan to the mad abandon of physical fervor,  the stamping, shrieking, and shouting, the rushing to and fro and wild waving of arms, the weeping and laughing, the vision and the trance. all this is nothing new in the world, but old as religion, as delphi and endor. and so firm a hold did it have on the negro, that many generations firmly believed that without this visible manifestation of the god there could be no true communion with the invisible. these were the characteristics of negro religious life as developed up to the time of emancipation. since under the peculiar circumstances of the black man's environment they were the one expression of his higher life, they are of deep interest to the student of his development, both socially and psychologically. numerous are the attractive lines of inquiry that here group themselves. what did slavery mean to the african savage? what was his attitude toward the world and life? what seemed to him good and evil,  god and devil? whither went his longings and strivings, and wherefore were his heart burnings and disappointments? answers to such questions can come only from a study of negro religion as a development, through its gradual changes from the heathenism of the gold coast to the institutional negro church of chicago. moreover, the religious growth of millions of men even though they be slaves, cannot be without potent influence upon their contemporaries. the methodists and baptists of america owe much of their condition to the silent but potent influence of their millions of negro converts. especially is this noticeable in the south, where theology and religious philosophy are on this account a long way behind the north, and where the religion of the poor whites is a plain copy of negro thought and methods. the mass of "gospel" hymns which has swept through american churches and well nigh ruined our sense of song consists largely of debased imitations of negro melodies made by ears that caught the jingle but not the music, the body but not the soul, of the jubilee songs. it is thus clear that the study of negro religion is not only a vital part of the history of the negro in america, but no uninteresting part of american history. the negro church of to day is the social centre of negro life in the united states, and the most characteristic expression of african character. take a typical church in a small virginian town: it is the "first baptist"  a roomy brick edifice seating five hundred or more persons, tastefully finished in georgia pine, with a carpet, a small organ, and stained glass windows. underneath is a large assembly room with benches. this building is the central club house of a community of a thousand or more negroes. various organizations meet here,  the church proper, the sunday school, two or three insurance societies, women's societies, secret societies, and mass meetings of various kinds. entertainments, suppers, and lectures are held beside the five or six regular weekly religious services. considerable sums of money are collected and expended here, employment is found for the idle, strangers are introduced, news is disseminated and charity distributed. at the same time this social, intellectual and economic centre is a religious centre of great power. depravity, sin, redemption, heaven, hell, and damnation are preached twice a sunday with much fervor, and revivals take place every year after the crops are laid by; and few indeed of the community have the hardihood to withstand conversion. back of this more formal religion, the church often stands as a real conserver of morals, a strengthener of family life, and the final authority on what is good and right. thus one can see in the negro church to day, reproduced in microcosm, all that great world from which the negro is cut off by color prejudice and social condition. in the great city churches the same tendency is noticeable and in many respects emphasized. a great church like the bethel of philadelphia has over eleven hundred members, an edifice seating fifteen hundred persons and valued at one hundred thousand dollars, an annual budget of five thousand dollars, and a government consisting of a pastor with several assisting local preachers, an executive and legislative board, financial boards and tax collectors; general church meetings for making laws; subdivided groups led by class leaders, a company of militia, and twenty four auxiliary societies. the activity of a church like this is immense and far reaching, and the bishops who preside over these organizations throughout the land are among the most powerful negro rulers in the world. such churches are really governments of men, and consequently a little investigation reveals the curious fact that, in the south, at least, practically every american negro is a church member. some, to be sure, are not regularly enrolled, and a few do not habitually attend services; but, practically, a proscribed, people must have a social centre, and that centre for this people is the negro church. the census of 1890 showed nearly twenty four thousand negro churches in the country, with a total enrolled membership of over two and a half millions, or ten actual church members to every twenty eight persons, and in some southern states one in every two persons. besides these there is the large number who, while not enrolled as members, attend and take part in many of the activities of the church. there is an organized negro church for every sixty black families in the nation, and in some states for every forty families, owning, on an average, a thousand dollars' worth of property each, or nearly twenty six million dollars in all. such, then, is the large development of the negro church since emancipation. the question now is, what have been the successive steps of this social history, and what are the present tendencies? first, we must realize that no such institution as the negro church could rear itself without definite historical foundations. these foundations we can find if we remember that the social history of the negro did not start in america. he was brought from a definite social environment,  the polygamous clan life under the headship of the chief and the potent influence of the priest. his religion was nature worship, with profound belief in invisible surrounding influences, good and bad, and his worship was through incantation and sacrifice. the first rude change in this life was the slave ship and the west indian sugar fields. the plantation organization replaced the clan and tribe, and the white master replaced the chief with far greater and more despotic powers. forced and long continued toil became the rule of life, the old ties of blood relationship and kinship disappeared, and instead of the family appeared a new polygamy and polyandry, which, in some cases, almost reached promiscuity. it was a terrific social revolution, and yet some traces were retained of the former group life, and the chief remaining institution was the priest or medicine man. he early appeared on the plantation and found his function as the healer of the sick, the interpreter of the unknown, the comforter of the sorrowing, the supernatural avenger of wrong, and the one who rudely but picturesquely expressed the longing, disappointment, and resentment of a stolen and oppressed people. thus, as bard, physician, judge, and priest, within the narrow limits allowed by the slave system, rose the negro preacher, and under him the first afro american institution, the negro church. this church was not at first by any means christian nor definitely organized; rather it was an adaptation and mingling of heathen rites among the members of each plantation, and roughly designated as voodooism. association with the masters, missionary effort and motives of expediency gave these rites an early veneer of christianity, and after the lapse of many generations the negro church became christian. two characteristic things must be noticed in regard to this church. first, it became almost entirely baptist and methodist in faith; secondly, as a social institution it antedated by many decades the monogamic negro home. from the very circumstances of its beginning, the church was confined to the plantation, and consisted primarily of a series of disconnected units; although, later on, some freedom of movement was allowed, still this geographical limitation was always important and was one cause of the spread of the decentralized and democratic baptist faith among the slaves. at the same time, the visible rite of baptism appealed strongly to their mystic temperament. to day the baptist church is still largest in membership among negroes, and has a million and a half communicants. next in popularity came the churches organized in connection with the white neighboring churches, chiefly baptist and methodist, with a few episcopalian and others. the methodists still form the second greatest denomination, with nearly a million members. the faith of these two leading denominations was more suited to the slave church from the prominence they gave to religious feeling and fervor. the negro membership in other denominations has always been small and relatively unimportant, although the episcopalians and presbyterians are gaining among the more intelligent classes to day, and the catholic church is making headway in certain sections. after emancipation, and still earlier in the north, the negro churches largely severed such affiliations as they had had with the white churches, either by choice or by compulsion. the baptist churches became independent, but the methodists were compelled early to unite for purposes of episcopal government. this gave rise to the great african methodist church, the greatest negro organization in the world, to the zion church and the colored methodist, and to the black conferences and churches in this and other denominations. the second fact noted, namely, that the negro church antedates the negro home, leads to an explanation of much that is paradoxical in this communistic institution and in the morals of its members. but especially it leads us to regard this institution as peculiarly the expression of the inner ethical life of a people in a sense seldom true elsewhere. let us turn, then, from the outer physical development of the church to the more important inner ethical life of the people who compose it. the negro has already been pointed out many times as a religious animal,  a being of that deep emotional nature which turns instinctively toward the supernatural. endowed with a rich tropical imagination and a keen, delicate appreciation of nature, the transplanted african lived in a world animate with gods and devils, elves and witches; full of strange influences,  of good to be implored, of evil to be propitiated. slavery, then, was to him the dark triumph of evil over him. all the hateful powers of the under world were striving against him, and a spirit of revolt and revenge filled his heart. he called up all the resources of heathenism to aid,  exorcism and witchcraft, the mysterious obi worship with its barbarous rites, spells, and blood sacrifice even, now and then, of human victims. weird midnight orgies and mystic conjurations were invoked, the witch woman and the voodoo priest became the centre of negro group life, and that vein of vague superstition which characterizes the unlettered negro even to day was deepened and strengthened. in spite, however, of such success as that of the fierce maroons, the danish blacks, and others, the spirit of revolt gradually died away under the untiring energy and superior strength of the slave masters. by the middle of the eighteenth century the black slave had sunk, with hushed murmurs, to his place at the bottom of a new economic system, and was unconsciously ripe for a new philosophy of life. nothing suited his condition then better than the doctrines of passive submission embodied in the newly learned christianity. slave masters early realized this, and cheerfully aided religious propaganda within certain bounds. the long system of repression and degradation of the negro tended to emphasize the elements in his character which made him a valuable chattel: courtesy became humility, moral strength degenerated into submission, and the exquisite native appreciation of the beautiful became an infinite capacity for dumb suffering. the negro, losing the joy of this world, eagerly seized upon the offered conceptions of the next; the avenging spirit of the lord enjoining patience in this world, under sorrow and tribulation until the great day when he should lead his dark children home,  this became his comforting dream. his preacher repeated the prophecy, and his bards sang,   "children, we all shall be free when the lord shall appear!" this deep religious fatalism, painted so beautifully in "uncle tom," came soon to breed, as all fatalistic faiths will, the sensualist side by side with the martyr. under the lax moral life of the plantation, where marriage was a farce, laziness a virtue, and property a theft, a religion of resignation and submission degenerated easily, in less strenuous minds, into a philosophy of indulgence and crime. many of the worst characteristics of the negro masses of to day had their seed in this period of the slave's ethical growth. here it was that the home was ruined under the very shadow of the church, white and black; here habits of shiftlessness took root, and sullen hopelessness replaced hopeful strife. with the beginning of the abolition movement and the gradual growth of a class of free negroes came a change. we often neglect the influence of the freedman before the war, because of the paucity of his numbers and the small weight he had in the history of the nation. but we must not forget that his chief influence was internal,  was exerted on the black world; and that there he was the ethical and social leader. huddled as he was in a few centres like philadelphia, new york, and new orleans, the masses of the freedmen sank into poverty and listlessness; but not all of them. the free negro leader early arose and his chief characteristic was intense earnestness and deep feeling on the slavery question. freedom became to him a real thing and not a dream. his religion became darker and more intense, and into his ethics crept a note of revenge, into his songs a day of reckoning close at hand. the "coming of the lord" swept this side of death, and came to be a thing to be hoped for in this day. through fugitive slaves and irrepressible discussion this desire for freedom seized the black millions still in bondage, and became their one ideal of life. the black bards caught new notes, and sometimes even dared to sing,   "o freedom, o freedom, o freedom over me! before i'll be a slave i'll be buried in my grave, and go home to my lord and be free." for fifty years negro religion thus transformed itself and identified itself with the dream of abolition, until that which was a radical fad in the white north and an anarchistic plot in the white south had become a religion to the black world. thus, when emancipation finally came, it seemed to the freedman a literal coming of the lord. his fervid imagination was stirred as never before, by the tramp of armies, the blood and dust of battle, and the wail and whirl of social upheaval. he stood dumb and motionless before the whirlwind: what had he to do with it? was it not the lord's doing, and marvellous in his eyes? joyed and bewildered with what came, he stood awaiting new wonders till the inevitable age of reaction swept over the nation and brought the crisis of to day. it is difficult to explain clearly the present critical stage of negro religion. first, we must remember that living as the blacks do in close contact with a great modern nation, and sharing, although imperfectly, the soul life of that nation, they must necessarily be affected more or less directly by all the religious and ethical forces that are to day moving the united states. these questions and movements are, however, overshadowed and dwarfed by the (to them) all important question of their civil, political, and economic status. they must perpetually discuss the "negro problem,"  must live, move, and have their being in it, and interpret all else in its light or darkness. with this come, too, peculiar problems of their inner life,  of the status of women, the maintenance of home, the training of children, the accumulation of wealth, and the prevention of crime. all this must mean a time of intense ethical ferment, of religious heart searching and intellectual unrest. from the double life every american negro must live, as a negro and as an american, as swept on by the current of the nineteenth while yet struggling in the eddies of the fifteenth century,  from this must arise a painful self consciousness, an almost morbid sense of personality and a moral hesitancy which is fatal to self confidence. the worlds within and without the veil of color are changing, and changing rapidly, but not at the same rate, not in the same way; and this must produce a peculiar wrenching of the soul, a peculiar sense of doubt and bewilderment. such a double life, with double thoughts, double duties, and double social classes, must give rise to double words and double ideals, and tempt the mind to pretence or to revolt, to hypocrisy or to radicalism. in some such doubtful words and phrases can one perhaps most clearly picture the peculiar ethical paradox that faces the negro of to day and is tingeing and changing his religious life. feeling that his rights and his dearest ideals are being trampled upon, that the public conscience is ever more deaf to his righteous appeal, and that all the reactionary forces of prejudice, greed, and revenge are daily gaining new strength and fresh allies, the negro faces no enviable dilemma. conscious of his impotence, and pessimistic, he often becomes bitter and vindictive; and his religion, instead of a worship, is a complaint and a curse, a wail rather than a hope, a sneer rather than a faith. on the other hand, another type of mind, shrewder and keener and more tortuous too, sees in the very strength of the anti negro movement its patent weaknesses, and with jesuitic casuistry is deterred by no ethical considerations in the endeavor to turn this weakness to the black man's strength. thus we have two great and hardly reconcilable streams of thought and ethical strivings; the danger of the one lies in anarchy, that of the other in hypocrisy. the one type of negro stands almost ready to curse god and die, and the other is too often found a traitor to right and a coward before force; the one is wedded to ideals remote, whimsical, perhaps impossible of realization; the other forgets that life is more than meat and the body more than raiment. but, after all, is not this simply the writhing of the age translated into black,  the triumph of the lie which to day, with its false culture, faces the hideousness of the anarchist assassin? to day the two groups of negroes, the one in the north, the other in the south, represent these divergent ethical tendencies, the first tending toward radicalism, the other toward hypocritical compromise. it is no idle regret with which the white south mourns the loss of the old time negro,  the frank, honest, simple old servant who stood for the earlier religious age of submission and humility. with all his laziness and lack of many elements of true manhood, he was at least open hearted, faithful, and sincere. to day he is gone, but who is to blame for his going? is it not those very persons who mourn for him? is it not the tendency, born of reconstruction and reaction, to found a society on lawlessness and deception, to tamper with the moral fibre of a naturally honest and straightforward people until the whites threaten to become ungovernable tyrants and the blacks criminals and hypocrites? deception is the natural defence of the weak against the strong, and the south used it for many years against its conquerors; to day it must be prepared to see its black proletariat turn that same two edged weapon against itself. and how natural this is! the death of denmark vesey and nat turner proved long since to the negro the present hopelessness of physical defence. political defence is becoming less and less available, and economic defence is still only partially effective. but there is a patent defence at hand,  the defence of deception and flattery, of cajoling and lying. it is the same defence which the jews of the middle age used and which left its stamp on their character for centuries. to day the young negro of the south who would succeed cannot be frank and outspoken, honest and self assertive, but rather he is daily tempted to be silent and wary, politic and sly; he must flatter and be pleasant, endure petty insults with a smile, shut his eyes to wrong; in too many cases he sees positive personal advantage in deception and lying. his real thoughts, his real aspirations, must be guarded in whispers; he must not criticise, he must not complain. patience, humility, and adroitness must, in these growing black youth, replace impulse, manliness, and courage. with this sacrifice there is an economic opening, and perhaps peace and some prosperity. without this there is riot, migration, or crime. nor is this situation peculiar to the southern united states,  is it not rather the only method by which undeveloped races have gained the right to share modern culture? the price of culture is a lie. on the other hand, in the north the tendency is to emphasize the radicalism of the negro. driven from his birthright in the south by a situation at which every fibre of his more outspoken and assertive nature revolts, he finds himself in a land where he can scarcely earn a decent living amid the harsh competition and the color discrimination. at the same time, through schools and periodicals, discussions and lectures, he is intellectually quickened and awakened. the soul, long pent up and dwarfed, suddenly expands in new found freedom. what wonder that every tendency is to excess,  radical complaint, radical remedies, bitter denunciation or angry silence. some sink, some rise. the criminal and the sensualist leave the church for the gambling hell and the brothel, and fill the slums of chicago and baltimore; the better classes segregate themselves from the group life of both white and black, and form an aristocracy, cultured but pessimistic, whose bitter criticism stings while it points out no way of escape. they despise the submission and subserviency of the southern negroes, but offer no other means by which a poor and oppressed minority can exist side by side with its masters. feeling deeply and keenly the tendencies and opportunities of the age in which they live, their souls are bitter at the fate which drops the veil between; and the very fact that this bitterness is natural and justifiable only serves to intensify it and make it more maddening. between the two extreme types of ethical attitude which i have thus sought to make clear wavers the mass of the millions of negroes, north and south; and their religious life and activity partake of this social conflict within their ranks. their churches are differentiating,  now into groups of cold, fashionable devotees, in no way distinguishable from similar white groups save in color of skin; now into large social and business institutions catering to the desire for information and amusement of their members, warily avoiding unpleasant questions both within and without the black world, and preaching in effect if not in word: dum vivimus, vivamus. but back of this still broods silently the deep religious feeling of the real negro heart, the stirring, unguided might of powerful human souls who have lost the guiding star of the past and are seeking in the great night a new religious ideal. some day the awakening will come, when the pent up vigor of ten million souls shall sweep irresistibly toward the goal, out of the valley of the shadow of death, where all that makes life worth living  liberty, justice, and right  is marked "for white people only." o sister, sister, thy first begotten, the hands that cling and the feet that follow, the voice of the child's blood crying yet, who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten? thou hast forgotten, o summer swallow, but the world shall end when i forget. swinburne. "unto you a child is born," sang the bit of yellow paper that fluttered into my room one brown october morning. then the fear of fatherhood mingled wildly with the joy of creation; i wondered how it looked and how it felt,  what were its eyes, and how its hair curled and crumpled itself. and i thought in awe of her,  she who had slept with death to tear a man child from underneath her heart, while i was unconsciously wandering. i fled to my wife and child, repeating the while to myself half wonderingly, "wife and child? wife and child?"  fled fast and faster than boat and steam car, and yet must ever impatiently await them; away from the hard voiced city, away from the flickering sea into my own berkshire hills that sit all sadly guarding the gates of massachusetts. up the stairs i ran to the wan mother and whimpering babe, to the sanctuary on whose altar a life at my bidding had offered itself to win a life, and won. what is this tiny formless thing, this newborn wail from an unknown world,  all head and voice? i handle it curiously, and watch perplexed its winking, breathing, and sneezing. i did not love it then; it seemed a ludicrous thing to love; but her i loved, my girl mother, she whom now i saw unfolding like the glory of the morning  the transfigured woman. through her i came to love the wee thing, as it grew and waxed strong; as its little soul unfolded itself in twitter and cry and half formed word, and as its eyes caught the gleam and flash of life. how beautiful he was, with his olive tinted flesh and dark gold ringlets, his eyes of mingled blue and brown, his perfect little limbs, and the soft voluptuous roll which the blood of africa had moulded into his features! i held him in my arms, after we had sped far away to our southern home,  held him, and glanced at the hot red soil of georgia and the breathless city of a hundred hills, and felt a vague unrest. why was his hair tinted with gold? an evil omen was golden hair in my life. why had not the brown of his eyes crushed out and killed the blue?  for brown were his father's eyes, and his father's father's. and thus in the land of the color line i saw, as it fell across my baby, the shadow of the veil. within the veil was he born, said i; and there within shall he live,  a negro and a negro's son. holding in that little head  ah, bitterly!  the unbowed pride of a hunted race, clinging with that tiny dimpled hand  ah, wearily!  to a hope not hopeless but unhopeful, and seeing with those bright wondering eyes that peer into my soul a land whose freedom is to us a mockery and whose liberty a lie. i saw the shadow of the veil as it passed over my baby, i saw the cold city towering above the blood red land. i held my face beside his little cheek, showed him the star children and the twinkling lights as they began to flash, and stilled with an even song the unvoiced terror of my life. so sturdy and masterful he grew, so filled with bubbling life, so tremulous with the unspoken wisdom of a life but eighteen months distant from the all life,  we were not far from worshipping this revelation of the divine, my wife and i. her own life builded and moulded itself upon the child; he tinged her every dream and idealized her every effort. no hands but hers must touch and garnish those little limbs; no dress or frill must touch them that had not wearied her fingers; no voice but hers could coax him off to dreamland, and she and he together spoke some soft and unknown tongue and in it held communion. i too mused above his little white bed; saw the strength of my own arm stretched onward through the ages through the newer strength of his; saw the dream of my black fathers stagger a step onward in the wild phantasm of the world; heard in his baby voice the voice of the prophet that was to rise within the veil. and so we dreamed and loved and planned by fall and winter, and the full flush of the long southern spring, till the hot winds rolled from the fetid gulf, till the roses shivered and the still stern sun quivered its awful light over the hills of atlanta. and then one night the little feet pattered wearily to the wee white bed, and the tiny hands trembled; and a warm flushed face tossed on the pillow, and we knew baby was sick. ten days he lay there,  a swift week and three endless days, wasting, wasting away. cheerily the mother nursed him the first days, and laughed into the little eyes that smiled again. tenderly then she hovered round him, till the smile fled away and fear crouched beside the little bed. then the day ended not, and night was a dreamless terror, and joy and sleep slipped away. i hear now that voice at midnight calling me from dull and dreamless trance,  crying, "the shadow of death! the shadow of death!" out into the starlight i crept, to rouse the gray physician,  the shadow of death, the shadow of death. the hours trembled on; the night listened; the ghastly dawn glided like a tired thing across the lamplight. then we two alone looked upon the child as he turned toward us with great eyes, and stretched his string like hands,  the shadow of death! and we spoke no word, and turned away. he died at eventide, when the sun lay like a brooding sorrow above the western hills, veiling its face; when the winds spoke not, and the trees, the great green trees he loved, stood motionless. i saw his breath beat quicker and quicker, pause, and then his little soul leapt like a star that travels in the night and left a world of darkness in its train. the day changed not; the same tall trees peeped in at the windows, the same green grass glinted in the setting sun. only in the chamber of death writhed the world's most piteous thing  a childless mother. i shirk not. i long for work. i pant for a life full of striving. i am no coward, to shrink before the rugged rush of the storm, nor even quail before the awful shadow of the veil. but hearken, o death! is not this my life hard enough,  is not that dull land that stretches its sneering web about me cold enough,  is not all the world beyond these four little walls pitiless enough, but that thou must needs enter here,  thou, o death? about my head the thundering storm beat like a heartless voice, and the crazy forest pulsed with the curses of the weak; but what cared i, within my home beside my wife and baby boy? wast thou so jealous of one little coign of happiness that thou must needs enter there,  thou, o death? a perfect life was his, all joy and love, with tears to make it brighter,  sweet as a summer's day beside the housatonic. the world loved him; the women kissed his curls, the men looked gravely into his wonderful eyes, and the children hovered and fluttered about him. i can see him now, changing like the sky from sparkling laughter to darkening frowns, and then to wondering thoughtfulness as he watched the world. he knew no color line, poor dear,  and the veil, though it shadowed him, had not yet darkened half his sun. he loved the white matron, he loved his black nurse; and in his little world walked souls alone, uncolored and unclothed. i  yea, all men  are larger and purer by the infinite breadth of that one little life. she who in simple clearness of vision sees beyond the stars said when he had flown, "he will be happy there; he ever loved beautiful things." and i, far more ignorant, and blind by the web of mine own weaving, sit alone winding words and muttering, "if still he be, and he be there, and there be a there, let him be happy, o fate!" blithe was the morning of his burial, with bird and song and sweet smelling flowers. the trees whispered to the grass, but the children sat with hushed faces. and yet it seemed a ghostly unreal day,  the wraith of life. we seemed to rumble down an unknown street behind a little white bundle of posies, with the shadow of a song in our ears. the busy city dinned about us; they did not say much, those pale faced hurrying men and women; they did not say much,  they only glanced and said, "niggers!" we could not lay him in the ground there in georgia, for the earth there is strangely red; so we bore him away to the northward, with his flowers and his little folded hands. in vain, in vain!  for where, o god! beneath thy broad blue sky shall my dark baby rest in peace,  where reverence dwells, and goodness, and a freedom that is free? all that day and all that night there sat an awful gladness in my heart,  nay, blame me not if i see the world thus darkly through the veil,  and my soul whispers ever to me, saying, "not dead, not dead, but escaped; not bond, but free." no bitter meanness now shall sicken his baby heart till it die a living death, no taunt shall madden his happy boyhood. fool that i was to think or wish that this little soul should grow choked and deformed within the veil! i might have known that yonder deep unworldly look that ever and anon floated past his eyes was peering far beyond this narrow now. in the poise of his little curl crowned head did there not sit all that wild pride of being which his father had hardly crushed in his own heart? for what, forsooth, shall a negro want with pride amid the studied humiliations of fifty million fellows? well sped, my boy, before the world had dubbed your ambition insolence, had held your ideals unattainable, and taught you to cringe and bow. better far this nameless void that stops my life than a sea of sorrow for you. idle words; he might have borne his burden more bravely than we,  aye, and found it lighter too, some day; for surely, surely this is not the end. surely there shall yet dawn some mighty morning to lift the veil and set the prisoned free. not for me,  i shall die in my bonds,  but for fresh young souls who have not known the night and waken to the morning; a morning when men ask of the workman, not "is he white?" but "can he work?" when men ask artists, not "are they black? " but "do they know?" some morning this may be, long, long years to come. but now there wails, on that dark shore within the veil, the same deep voice, thou shalt forego! and all have i foregone at that command, and with small complaint,  all save that fair young form that lies so coldly wed with death in the nest i had builded. if one must have gone, why not i? why may i not rest me from this restlessness and sleep from this wide waking? was not the world's alembic, time, in his young hands, and is not my time waning? are there so many workers in the vineyard that the fair promise of this little body could lightly be tossed away? the wretched of my race that line the alleys of the nation sit fatherless and unmothered; but love sat beside his cradle, and in his car wisdom waited to speak. perhaps now he knows the all love, and needs not to be wise. sleep, then, child,  sleep till i sleep and waken to a baby voice and the ceaseless patter of little feet  above the veil. then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint as from beyond the limit of the world, like the last echo born of a great cry, sounds, as if some fair city were one voice around a king returning from his wars. tennyson. his is the history of a human heart,  the tale of a black boy who many long years ago began to struggle with life that he might know the world and know himself. three temptations he met on those dark dunes that lay gray and dismal before the wonder eyes of the child: the temptation of hate, that stood out against the red dawn; the temptation of despair, that darkened noonday; and the temptation of doubt, that ever steals along with twilight. above all, you must hear of the vales he crossed,  the valley of humiliation and the valley of the shadow of death. i saw alexander crummell first at a wilberforce commencement season, amid its bustle and crush. tall, frail, and black he stood, with simple dignity and an unmistakable air of good breeding. i talked with him apart, where the storming of the lusty young orators could not harm us. i spoke to him politely, then curiously, then eagerly, as i began to feel the fineness of his character,  his calm courtesy, the sweetness of his strength, and his fair blending of the hope and truth of life. instinctively i bowed before this man, as one bows before the prophets of the world. some seer he seemed, that came not from the crimson past or the gray to come, but from the pulsing now,  that mocking world which seemed to me at once so light and dark, so splendid and sordid. four score years had be wandered in this same world of mine, within the veil. he was born with the missouri compromise and lay a dying amid the echoes of manila and el caney: stirring times for living, times dark to look back upon, darker to look forward to. the black faced lad that paused over his mud and marbles seventy years ago saw puzzling vistas as he looked down the world. the slave ship still groaned across the atlantic, faint cries burdened the southern breeze, and the great black father whispered mad tales of cruelty into those young ears. from the low doorway the mother silently watched her boy at play, and at nightfall sought him eagerly lest the shadows bear him away to the land of slaves. so his young mind worked and winced and shaped curiously a vision of life; and in the midst of that vision ever stood one dark figure alone,  ever with the hard, thick countenance of that bitter father, and a form that fell in vast and shapeless folds. thus the temptation of hate grew and shadowed the growing child,  gliding stealthily into his laughter, fading into his play, and seizing his dreams by day and night with rough, rude turbulence. so the black boy asked of sky and sun and flower the never answered why? and loved, as he grew, neither the world nor the world's rough ways. strange temptation for a child, you may think; and yet in this wide land to day a thousand thousand dark children brood before this same temptation, and feel its cold and shuddering arms. for them, perhaps, some one will some day lift the veil,  will come tenderly and cheerily into those sad little lives and brush the brooding hate away, just as beriah green strode in upon the life of alexander crummell. and before the bluff, kind hearted man the shadow seemed less dark. beriah green had a school in oneida county, new york, with a score of mischievous boys. "i'm going to bring a black boy here to educate," said beriah green, as only a crank and an abolitionist would have dared to say. "oho!" laughed the boys. "ye es," said his wife; and alexander came. once before, the black boy had sought a school, had travelled, cold and hungry, four hundred miles up into free new hampshire, to canaan. but the godly farmers hitched ninety yoke of oxen to the abolition schoolhouse and dragged it into the middle of the swamp. the black boy trudged away. the nineteenth was the first century of human sympathy,  the age when half wonderingly we began to descry in others that transfigured spark of divinity which we call myself; when clodhoppers and peasants, and tramps and thieves, and millionaires and  sometimes  negroes, became throbbing souls whose warm pulsing life touched us so nearly that we half gasped with surprise, crying, "thou too! hast thou seen sorrow and the dull waters of hopelessness? hast thou known life?" and then all helplessly we peered into those other worlds, and wailed, "o world of worlds, how shall man make you one?" so in that little oneida school there came to those schoolboys a revelation of thought and longing beneath one black skin, of which they had not dreamed before. and to the lonely boy came a new dawn of sympathy and inspiration. the shadowy, formless thing  the temptation of hate, that hovered between him and the world  grew fainter and less sinister. it did not wholly fade away, but diffused itself and lingered thick at the edges. through it the child now first saw the blue and gold of life,  the sun swept road that ran 'twixt heaven and earth until in one far off wan wavering line they met and kissed. a vision of life came to the growing boy,  mystic, wonderful. he raised his head, stretched himself, breathed deep of the fresh new air. yonder, behind the forests, he heard strange sounds; then glinting through the trees he saw, far, far away, the bronzed hosts of a nation calling,  calling faintly, calling loudly. he heard the hateful clank of their chains, he felt them cringe and grovel, and there rose within him a protest and a prophecy. and he girded himself to walk down the world. a voice and vision called him to be a priest,  a seer to lead the uncalled out of the house of bondage. he saw the headless host turn toward him like the whirling of mad waters,  he stretched forth his hands eagerly, and then, even as he stretched them, suddenly there swept across the vision the temptation of despair. they were not wicked men,  the problem of life is not the problem of the wicked,  they were calm, good men, bishops of the apostolic church of god, and strove toward righteousness. they said slowly, "it is all very natural  it is even commendable; but the general theological seminary of the episcopal church cannot admit a negro." and when that thin, half grotesque figure still haunted their doors, they put their hands kindly, half sorrowfully, on his shoulders, and said, "now,  of course, we  we know how you feel about it; but you see it is impossible,  that is  well  it is premature. sometime, we trust  sincerely trust  all such distinctions will fade away; but now the world is as it is." this was the temptation of despair; and the young man fought it doggedly. like some grave shadow he flitted by those halls, pleading, arguing, half angrily demanding admittance, until there came the final no; until men hustled the disturber away, marked him as foolish, unreasonable, and injudicious, a vain rebel against god's law. and then from that vision splendid all the glory faded slowly away, and left an earth gray and stern rolling on beneath a dark despair. even the kind hands that stretched themselves toward him from out the depths of that dull morning seemed but parts of the purple shadows. he saw them coldly, and asked, "why should i strive by special grace when the way of the world is closed to me?" all gently yet, the hands urged him on,  the hands of young john jay, that daring father's daring son; the hands of the good folk of boston, that free city. and yet, with a way to the priesthood of the church open at last before him, the cloud lingered there; and even when in old st. paul's the venerable bishop raised his white arms above the negro deacon  even then the burden had not lifted from that heart, for there had passed a glory from the earth. and yet the fire through which alexander crummell went did not burn in vain. slowly and more soberly he took up again his plan of life. more critically he studied the situation. deep down below the slavery and servitude of the negro people he saw their fatal weaknesses, which long years of mistreatment had emphasized the dearth of strong moral character, of unbending righteousness, he felt, was their great shortcoming, and here he would begin. he would gather the best of his people into some little episcopal chapel and there lead, teach, and inspire them, till the leaven spread, till the children grew, till the world hearkened, till  till  and then across his dream gleamed some faint after glow of that first fair vision of youth  only an after glow, for there had passed a glory from the earth. one day  it was in 1842, and the springtide was struggling merrily with the may winds of new england  he stood at last in his own chapel in providence, a priest of the church. the days sped by, and the dark young clergyman labored; he wrote his sermons carefully; he intoned his prayers with a soft, earnest voice; he haunted the streets and accosted the wayfarers; he visited the sick, and knelt beside the dying. he worked and toiled, week by week, day by day, month by month. and yet month by month the congregation dwindled, week by week the hollow walls echoed more sharply, day by day the calls came fewer and fewer, and day by day the third temptation sat clearer and still more clearly within the veil; a temptation, as it were, bland and smiling, with just a shade of mockery in its smooth tones. first it came casually, in the cadence of a voice: "oh, colored folks? yes." or perhaps more definitely: "what do you expect?" in voice and gesture lay the doubt  the temptation of doubt. how he hated it, and stormed at it furiously! "of course they are capable," he cried; "of course they can learn and strive and achieve  " and "of course," added the temptation softly, "they do nothing of the sort." of all the three temptations, this one struck the deepest. hate? he had outgrown so childish a thing. despair? he had steeled his right arm against it, and fought it with the vigor of determination. but to doubt the worth of his life work,  to doubt the destiny and capability of the race his soul loved because it was his; to find listless squalor instead of eager endeavor; to hear his own lips whispering, "they do not care; they cannot know; they are dumb driven cattle,  why cast your pearls before swine?"  this, this seemed more than man could bear; and he closed the door, and sank upon the steps of the chancel, and cast his robe upon the floor and writhed. the evening sunbeams had set the dust to dancing in the gloomy chapel when he arose. he folded his vestments, put away the hymn books, and closed the great bible. he stepped out into the twilight, looked back upon the narrow little pulpit with a weary smile, and locked the door. then he walked briskly to the bishop, and told the bishop what the bishop already knew. "i have failed," he said simply. and gaining courage by the confession, he added: "what i need is a larger constituency. there are comparatively few negroes here, and perhaps they are not of the best. i must go where the field is wider, and try again." so the bishop sent him to philadelphia, with a letter to bishop onderdonk. bishop onderdonk lived at the head of six white steps,  corpulent, red faced, and the author of several thrilling tracts on apostolic succession. it was after dinner, and the bishop had settled himself for a pleasant season of contemplation, when the bell must needs ring, and there must burst in upon the bishop a letter and a thin, ungainly negro. bishop onderdonk read the letter hastily and frowned. fortunately, his mind was already clear on this point; and he cleared his brow and looked at crummell. then he said, slowly and impressively: "i will receive you into this diocese on one condition: no negro priest can sit in my church convention, and no negro church must ask for representation there." i sometimes fancy i can see that tableau: the frail black figure, nervously twitching his hat before the massive abdomen of bishop onderdonk; his threadbare coat thrown against the dark woodwork of the book cases, where fox's "lives of the martyrs" nestled happily beside "the whole duty of man." i seem to see the wide eyes of the negro wander past the bishop's broadcloth to where the swinging glass doors of the cabinet glow in the sunlight. a little blue fly is trying to cross the yawning keyhole. he marches briskly up to it, peers into the chasm in a surprised sort of way, and rubs his feelers reflectively; then he essays its depths, and, finding it bottomless, draws back again. the dark faced priest finds himself wondering if the fly too has faced its valley of humiliation, and if it will plunge into it,  when lo! it spreads its tiny wings and buzzes merrily across, leaving the watcher wingless and alone. then the full weight of his burden fell upon him. the rich walls wheeled away, and before him lay the cold rough moor winding on through life, cut in twain by one thick granite ridge,  here, the valley of humiliation; yonder, the valley of the shadow of death. and i know not which be darker,  no, not i. but this i know: in yonder vale of the humble stand to day a million swarthy men, who willingly would ". . . bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes,"   all this and more would they bear did they but know that this were sacrifice and not a meaner thing. so surged the thought within that lone black breast. the bishop cleared his throat suggestively; then, recollecting that there was really nothing to say, considerately said nothing, only sat tapping his foot impatiently. but alexander crummell said, slowly and heavily: "i will never enter your diocese on such terms." and saying this, he turned and passed into the valley of the shadow of death. you might have noted only the physical dying, the shattered frame and hacking cough; but in that soul lay deeper death than that. he found a chapel in new york,  the church of his father; he labored for it in poverty and starvation, scorned by his fellow priests. half in despair, he wandered across the sea, a beggar with outstretched hands. englishmen clasped them  wilberforce and stanley, thirwell and ingles, and even froude and macaulay; sir benjamin brodie bade him rest awhile at queen's college in cambridge, and there he lingered, struggling for health of body and mind, until he took his degree in '53. restless still and unsatisfied, he turned toward africa, and for long years, amid the spawn of the slave smugglers, sought a new heaven and a new earth. so the man groped for light; all this was not life,  it was the world wandering of a soul in search of itself, the striving of one who vainly sought his place in the world, ever haunted by the shadow of a death that is more than death,  the passing of a soul that has missed its duty. twenty years he wandered,  twenty years and more; and yet the hard rasping question kept gnawing within him, "what, in god's name, am i on earth for?" in the narrow new york parish his soul seemed cramped and smothered. in the fine old air of the english university he heard the millions wailing over the sea. in the wild fever cursed swamps of west africa he stood helpless and alone. you will not wonder at his weird pilgrimage,  you who in the swift whirl of living, amid its cold paradox and marvellous vision, have fronted life and asked its riddle face to face. and if you find that riddle hard to read, remember that yonder black boy finds it just a little harder; if it is difficult for you to find and face your duty, it is a shade more difficult for him; if your heart sickens in the blood and dust of battle, remember that to him the dust is thicker and the battle fiercer. no wonder the wanderers fall! no wonder we point to thief and murderer, and haunting prostitute, and the never ending throng of unhearsed dead! the valley of the shadow of death gives few of its pilgrims back to the world. but alexander crummell it gave back. out of the temptation of hate, and burned by the fire of despair, triumphant over doubt, and steeled by sacrifice against humiliation, he turned at last home across the waters, humble and strong, gentle and determined he bent to all the gibes and prejudices, to all hatred and discrimination, with that rare courtesy which is the armor of pure souls. he fought among his own, the low, the grasping, and the wicked, with that unbending righteousness which is the sword of the just. he never faltered, he seldom complained; he simply worked, inspiring the young, rebuking the old, helping the weak, guiding the strong. so he grew, and brought within his wide influence all that was best of those who walk within the veil. they who live without knew not nor dreamed of that full power within, that mighty inspiration which the dull gauze of caste decreed that most men should not know. and now that he is gone, i sweep the veil away and cry, lo! the soul to whose dear memory i bring this little tribute. i can see his face still, dark and heavy lined beneath his snowy hair; lighting and shading, now with inspiration for the future, now in innocent pain at some human wickedness, now with sorrow at some hard memory from the past. the more i met alexander crummell, the more i felt how much that world was losing which knew so little of him. in another age he might have sat among the elders of the land in purple bordered toga; in another country mothers might have sung him to the cradles. he did his work,  he did it nobly and well; and yet i sorrow that here he worked alone, with so little human sympathy. his name to day, in this broad land, means little, and comes to fifty million ears laden with no incense of memory or emulation. and herein lies the tragedy of the age: not that men are poor,  all men know something of poverty; not that men are wicked,  who is good? not that men are ignorant,  what is truth? nay, but that men know so little of men. he sat one morning gazing toward the sea. he smiled and said, "the gate is rusty on the hinges." that night at star rise a wind came moaning out of the west to blow the gate ajar, and then the soul i loved fled like a flame across the seas, and in its seat sat death. i wonder where he is to day? i wonder if in that dim world beyond, as he came gliding in, there rose on some wan throne a king,  a dark and pierced jew, who knows the writhings of the earthly damned, saying, as he laid those heart wrung talents down, " well done!" while round about the morning stars sat singing. what bring they 'neath the midnight, beside the river sea? they bring the human heart wherein no nightly calm can be; that droppeth never with the wind, nor drieth with the dew; o calm it, god; thy calm is broad to cover spirits too. the river floweth on. mrs. browning. carlisle street runs westward from the centre of johnstown, across a great black bridge, down a hill and up again, by little shops and meat markets, past single storied homes, until suddenly it stops against a wide green lawn. it is a broad, restful place, with two large buildings outlined against the west. when at evening the winds come swelling from the east, and the great pall of the city's smoke hangs wearily above the valley, then the red west glows like a dreamland down carlisle street, and, at the tolling of the supper bell, throws the passing forms of students in dark silhouette against the sky. tall and black, they move slowly by, and seem in the sinister light to flit before the city like dim, warning ghosts. perhaps they are; for this is wells institute, and these black students have few dealings with the white city below. and if you will notice, night after night, there is one dark form that ever hurries last and late toward the twinkling lights of swain hall,  for jones is never on time. a long, straggling fellow he is, brown and hard haired, who seems to be growing straight out of his clothes, and walks with a half apologetic roll. he used perpetually to set the quiet dining room into waves of merriment, as he stole to his place after the bell had tapped for prayers; he seemed so perfectly awkward. and yet one glance at his face made one forgive him much,  that broad, good natured smile in which lay no bit of art or artifice, but seemed just bubbling good nature and genuine satisfaction with the world. he came to us from altamaha, away down there beneath the gnarled oaks of southeastern georgia, where the sea croons to the sands and the sands listen till they sink half drowned beneath the waters, rising only here and there in long, low islands. the white folk of altamaha voted john a good boy,  fine plough hand, good in the rice fields, handy everywhere, and always good natured and respectful. but they shook their heads when his mother wanted to send him off to school. "it'll spoil him,  ruin him," they said; and they talked as though they knew. but full half the black folk followed him proudly to the station, and carried his queer little trunk and many bundles. and there they shook and shook hands, and the girls kissed him shyly and the boys clapped him on the back. so the train came, and he pinched his little sister lovingly, and put his great arms about his mother's neck, and then was away with a puff and a roar into the great yellow world that flamed and flared about the doubtful pilgrim. up the coast they hurried, past the squares and palmettos of savannah, through the cotton fields and through the weary night, to millville, and came with the morning to the noise and bustle of johnstown. and they that stood behind, that morning in altamaha, and watched the train as it noisily bore playmate and brother and son away to the world, had thereafter one ever recurring word,  "when john comes." then what parties were to be, and what speakings in the churches; what new furniture in the front room,  perhaps even a new front room; and there would be a new schoolhouse, with john as teacher; and then perhaps a big wedding; all this and more  when john comes. but the white people shook their heads. at first he was coming at christmas time,  but the vacation proved too short; and then, the next summer,  but times were hard and schooling costly, and so, instead, he worked in johnstown. and so it drifted to the next summer, and the next,  till playmates scattered, and mother grew gray, and sister went up to the judge's kitchen to work. and still the legend lingered,  "when john comes." up at the judge's they rather liked this refrain; for they too had a john  a fair haired, smooth faced boy, who had played many a long summer's day to its close with his darker namesake. "yes, sir! john is at princeton, sir," said the broad shouldered gray haired judge every morning as he marched down to the post office. "showing the yankees what a southern gentleman can do," he added; and strode home again with his letters and papers. up at the great pillared house they lingered long over the princeton letter,  the judge and his frail wife, his sister and growing daughters. "it'll make a man of him," said the judge, "college is the place." and then he asked the shy little waitress, "well, jennie, how's your john?" and added reflectively, "too bad, too bad your mother sent him off,  it will spoil him." and the waitress wondered. thus in the far away southern village the world lay waiting, half consciously, the coming of two young men, and dreamed in an inarticulate way of new things that would be done and new thoughts that all would think. and yet it was singular that few thought of two johns,  for the black folk thought of one john, and he was black; and the white folk thought of another john, and he was white. and neither world thought the other world's thought, save with a vague unrest. up in johnstown, at the institute, we were long puzzled at the case of john jones. for a long time the clay seemed unfit for any sort of moulding. he was loud and boisterous, always laughing and singing, and never able to work consecutively at anything. he did not know how to study; he had no idea of thoroughness; and with his tardiness, carelessness, and appalling good humor, we were sore perplexed. one night we sat in faculty meeting, worried and serious; for jones was in trouble again. this last escapade was too much, and so we solemnly voted "that jones, on account of repeated disorder and inattention to work, be suspended for the rest of the term." it seemed to us that the first time life ever struck jones as a really serious thing was when the dean told him he must leave school. he stared at the gray haired man blankly, with great eyes. "why,  why," he faltered, "but  i haven't graduated!" then the dean slowly and clearly explained, reminding him of the tardiness and the carelessness, of the poor lessons and neglected work, of the noise and disorder, until the fellow hung his head in confusion. then he said quickly, "but you won't tell mammy and sister,  you won't write mammy, now will you? for if you won't i'll go out into the city and work, and come back next term and show you something." so the dean promised faithfully, and john shouldered his little trunk, giving neither word nor look to the giggling boys, and walked down carlisle street to the great city, with sober eyes and a set and serious face. perhaps we imagined it, but someway it seemed to us that the serious look that crept over his boyish face that afternoon never left it again. when he came back to us he went to work with all his rugged strength. it was a hard struggle, for things did not come easily to him,  few crowding memories of early life and teaching came to help him on his new way; but all the world toward which he strove was of his own building, and he builded slow and hard. as the light dawned lingeringly on his new creations, he sat rapt and silent before the vision, or wandered alone over the green campus peering through and beyond the world of men into a world of thought. and the thoughts at times puzzled him sorely; he could not see just why the circle was not square, and carried it out fifty six decimal places one midnight,  would have gone further, indeed, had not the matron rapped for lights out. he caught terrible colds lying on his back in the meadows of nights, trying to think out the solar system; he had grave doubts as to the ethics of the fall of rome, and strongly suspected the germans of being thieves and rascals, despite his text books; he pondered long over every new greek word, and wondered why this meant that and why it couldn't mean something else, and how it must have felt to think all things in greek. so he thought and puzzled along for himself,  pausing perplexed where others skipped merrily, and walking steadily through the difficulties where the rest stopped and surrendered. thus he grew in body and soul, and with him his clothes seemed to grow and arrange themselves; coat sleeves got longer, cuffs appeared, and collars got less soiled. now and then his boots shone, and a new dignity crept into his walk. and we who saw daily a new thoughtfulness growing in his eyes began to expect something of this plodding boy. thus he passed out of the preparatory school into college, and we who watched him felt four more years of change, which almost transformed the tall, grave man who bowed to us commencement morning. he had left his queer thought world and come back to a world of motion and of men. he looked now for the first time sharply about him, and wondered he had seen so little before. he grew slowly to feel almost for the first time the veil that lay between him and the white world; he first noticed now the oppression that had not seemed oppression before, differences that erstwhile seemed natural, restraints and slights that in his boyhood days had gone unnoticed or been greeted with a laugh. he felt angry now when men did not call him "mister," he clenched his hands at the "jim crow" cars, and chafed at the color line that hemmed in him and his. a tinge of sarcasm crept into his speech, and a vague bitterness into his life; and he sat long hours wondering and planning a way around these crooked things. daily he found himself shrinking from the choked and narrow life of his native town. and yet he always planned to go back to altamaha,  always planned to work there. still, more and more as the day approached he hesitated with a nameless dread; and even the day after graduation he seized with eagerness the offer of the dean to send him north with the quartette during the summer vacation, to sing for the institute. a breath of air before the plunge, he said to himself in half apology. it was a bright september afternoon, and the streets of new york were brilliant with moving men. they reminded john of the sea, as he sat in the square and watched them, so changelessly changing, so bright and dark, so grave and gay. he scanned their rich and faultless clothes, the way they carried their hands, the shape of their hats; he peered into the hurrying carriages. then, leaning back with a sigh, he said, "this is the world." the notion suddenly seized him to see where the world was going; since many of the richer and brighter seemed hurrying all one way. so when a tall, light haired young man and a little talkative lady came by, he rose half hesitatingly and followed them. up the street they went, past stores and gay shops, across a broad square, until with a hundred others they entered the high portal of a great building. he was pushed toward the ticket office with the others, and felt in his pocket for the new five dollar bill he had hoarded. there seemed really no time for hesitation, so be drew it bravely out, passed it to the busy clerk, and received simply a ticket but no change. when at last he realized that he had paid five dollars to enter he knew not what, he stood stock still amazed. "be careful," said a low voice behind him; "you must not lynch the colored gentleman simply because he's in your way," and a girl looked up roguishly into the eyes of her fair haired escort. a shade of annoyance passed over the escort's face. "you will not understand us at the south," he said half impatiently, as if continuing an argument. "with all your professions, one never sees in the north so cordial and intimate relations between white and black as are everyday occurrences with us. why, i remember my closest playfellow in boyhood was a little negro named after me, and surely no two,  well!" the man stopped short and flushed to the roots of his hair, for there directly beside his reserved orchestra chairs sat the negro he had stumbled over in the hallway. he hesitated and grew pale with anger, called the usher and gave him his card, with a few peremptory words, and slowly sat down. the lady deftly changed the subject. all this john did not see, for he sat in a half maze minding the scene about him; the delicate beauty of the ball, the faint perfume, the moving myriad of men, the rich clothing and low hum of talking seemed all a part of a world so different from his, so strangely more beautiful than anything he had known, that he sat in dreamland, and started when, after a hush, rose high and clear the music of lohengrin's swan. the infinite beauty of the wail lingered and swept through every muscle of his frame, and put it all a tune. he closed his eyes and grasped the elbows of the chair, touching unwittingly the lady's arm. and the lady drew away. a deep longing swelled in all his heart to rise with that clear music out of the dirt and dust of that low life that held him prisoned and befouled. if he could only live up in the free air where birds sang and setting suns had no touch of blood! who had called him to be the slave and butt of all? and if he had called, what right had he to call when a world like this lay open before men? then the movement changed, and fuller, mightier harmony swelled away. he looked thoughtfully across the hall, and wondered why the beautiful gray haired woman looked so listless, and what the little man could be whispering about. he would not like to be listless and idle, he thought, for he felt with the music the movement of power within him. if he but had some master work, some life service, hard,  aye, bitter hard, but without the cringing and sickening servility, without the cruel hurt that hardened his heart and soul. when at last a soft sorrow crept across the violins, there came to him the vision of a far off home,  the great eyes of his sister, and the dark drawn face of his mother. and his heart sank below the waters, even as the sea sand sinks by the shores of altamaha, only to be lifted aloft again with that last ethereal wail of the swan that quivered and faded away into the sky. it left john sitting so silent and rapt that he did not for some time notice the usher tapping him lightly on the shoulder and saying politely, "will you step this way, please, sir?" a little surprised, he arose quickly at the last tap, and, turning to leave his seat, looked full into the face of the fair haired young man. for the first time the young man recognized his dark boyhood playmate, and john knew that it was the judge's son. the white john started, lifted his hand, and then froze into his chair; the black john smiled lightly, then grimly, and followed the usher down the aisle. the manager was sorry, very, very sorry,  but he explained that some mistake had been made in selling the gentleman a seat already disposed of; he would refund the money, of course,  and indeed felt the matter keenly, and so forth, and  before he had finished john was gone, walking hurriedly across the square and down the broad streets, and as he passed the park he buttoned his coat and said, "john jones, you 're a natural born fool." then he went to his lodgings and wrote a letter, and tore it up; he wrote another, and threw it in the fire. then he seized a scrap of paper and wrote: "dear mother and sister  i am coming  john." "perhaps," said john, as he settled himself on the train, "perhaps i am to blame myself in struggling against my manifest destiny simply because it looks hard and unpleasant. here is my duty to altamaha plain before me; perhaps they'll let me help settle the negro problems there,  perhaps they won't. i will go in to the king, which is not according to the law; and if i perish, i perish." and then he mused and dreamed, and planned a life work; and the train flew south. down in altamaha, after seven long years, all the world knew john was coming. the homes were scrubbed and scoured,  above all, one; the gardens and yards had an unwonted trimness, and jennie bought a new gingham. with some finesse and negotiation, all the dark methodists and presbyterians were induced to join in a monster welcome at the baptist church; and as the day drew near, warm discussions arose on every corner as to the exact extent and nature of john's accomplishments. it was noontide on a gray and cloudy day when he came. the black town flocked to the depot, with a little of the white at the edges,  a happy throng, with "good mawnings" and "howdys" and laughing and joking and jostling. mother sat yonder in the window watching; but sister jennie stood on the platform, nervously fingering her dress,  tall and lithe, with soft brown skin and loving eyes peering from out a tangled wilderness of hair. john rose gloomily as the train stopped, for he was thinking of the "jim crow" car; he stepped to the platform, and paused: a little dingy station, a black crowd gaudy and dirty, a half mile of dilapidated shanties along a straggling ditch of mud. an overwhelming sense of the sordidness and narrowness of it all seized him; he looked in vain for his mother, kissed coldly the tall, strange girl who called him brother, spoke a short, dry word here and there; then, lingering neither for hand shaking nor gossip, started silently up the street, raising his hat merely to the last eager old aunty, to her open mouthed astonishment. the people were distinctly bewildered. this silent, cold man,  was this john? where was his smile and hearty hand grasp? "'peared kind o' down in the mouf," said the methodist preacher thoughtfully. "seemed monstus stuck up," complained a baptist sister. but the white postmaster from the edge of the crowd expressed the opinion of his folks plainly. "that damn nigger," said he, as he shouldered the mail and arranged his tobacco, "has gone north and got plum full o' fool notions; but they won't work in altamaha." and the crowd melted away. the meeting of welcome at the baptist church was a failure. rain spoiled the barbecue, and thunder turned the milk in the ice cream. when the speaking came at night, the house was crowded to overflowing. the three preachers had especially prepared themselves, but somehow john's manner seemed to throw a blanket over everything,  he seemed so cold and preoccupied, and had so strange an air of restraint that the methodist brother could not warm up to his theme and elicited not a single "amen"; the presbyterian prayer was but feebly responded to, and even the baptist preacher, though he wakened faint enthusiasm, got so mixed up in his favorite sentence that he had to close it by stopping fully fifteen minutes sooner than he meant. the people moved uneasily in their seats as john rose to reply. he spoke slowly and methodically. the age, he said, demanded new ideas; we were far different from those men of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,  with broader ideas of human brotherhood and destiny. then he spoke of the rise of charity and popular education, and particularly of the spread of wealth and work. the question was, then, he added reflectively, looking at the low discolored ceiling, what part the negroes of this land would take in the striving of the new century. he sketched in vague outline the new industrial school that might rise among these pines, he spoke in detail of the charitable and philanthropic work that might be organized, of money that might be saved for banks and business. finally he urged unity, and deprecated especially religious and denominational bickering. "to day," he said, with a smile, "the world cares little whether a man be baptist or methodist, or indeed a churchman at all, so long as he is good and true. what difference does it make whether a man be baptized in river or washbowl, or not at all? let's leave all that littleness, and look higher." then, thinking of nothing else, he slowly sat down. a painful hush seized that crowded mass. little had they understood of what he said, for he spoke an unknown tongue, save the last word about baptism; that they knew, and they sat very still while the clock ticked. then at last a low suppressed snarl came from the amen corner, and an old bent man arose, walked over the seats, and climbed straight up into the pulpit. he was wrinkled and black, with scant gray and tufted hair; his voice and hands shook as with palsy; but on his face lay the intense rapt look of the religious fanatic. he seized the bible with his rough, huge hands; twice he raised it inarticulate, and then fairly burst into words, with rude and awful eloquence. he quivered, swayed, and bent; then rose aloft in perfect majesty, till the people moaned and wept, wailed and shouted, and a wild shrieking arose from the corners where all the pent up feeling of the hour gathered itself and rushed into the air. john never knew clearly what the old man said; he only felt himself held up to scorn and scathing denunciation for trampling on the true religion, and he realized with amazement that all unknowingly he had put rough, rude hands on something this little world held sacred. he arose silently, and passed out into the night. down toward the sea he went, in the fitful starlight, half conscious of the girl who followed timidly after him. when at last he stood upon the bluff, he turned to his little sister and looked upon her sorrowfully, remembering with sudden pain how little thought he had given her. he put his arm about her and let her passion of tears spend itself on his shoulder. long they stood together, peering over the gray unresting water. "john," she said, "does it make every one  unhappy when they study and learn lots of things?" he paused and smiled. "i am afraid it does," he said. "and, john, are you glad you studied?" "yes," came the answer, slowly but positively. she watched the flickering lights upon the sea, and said thoughtfully, "i wish i was unhappy,  and  and," putting both arms about his neck, "i think i am, a little, john." it was several days later that john walked up to the judge's house to ask for the privilege of teaching the negro school. the judge himself met him at the front door, stared a little hard at him, and said brusquely, "go 'round to the kitchen door, john, and wait." sitting on the kitchen steps, john stared at the corn, thoroughly perplexed. what on earth had come over him? every step he made offended some one. he had come to save his people, and before he left the depot he had hurt them. he sought to teach them at the church, and had outraged their deepest feelings. he had schooled himself to be respectful to the judge, and then blundered into his front door. and all the time he had meant right,  and yet, and yet, somehow he found it so hard and strange to fit his old surroundings again, to find his place in the world about him. he could not remember that he used to have any difficulty in the past, when life was glad and gay. the world seemed smooth and easy then. perhaps,  but his sister came to the kitchen door just then and said the judge awaited him. the judge sat in the dining room amid his morning's mail, and he did not ask john to sit down. he plunged squarely into the business. "you've come for the school, i suppose. well, john, i want to speak to you plainly. you know i'm a friend to your people. i've helped you and your family, and would have done more if you hadn't got the notion of going off. now i like the colored people, and sympathize with all their reasonable aspirations; but you and i both know, john, that in this country the negro must remain subordinate, and can never expect to be the equal of white men. in their place, your people can be honest and respectful; and god knows, i'll do what i can to help them. but when they want to reverse nature, and rule white men, and marry white women, and sit in my parlor, then, by god! we'll hold them under if we have to lynch every nigger in the land. now, john, the question is, are you, with your education and northern notions, going to accept the situation and teach the darkies to be faithful servants and laborers as your fathers were,  i knew your father, john, he belonged to my brother, and he was a good nigger. well  well, are you going to be like him, or are you going to try to put fool ideas of rising and equality into these folks' heads, and make them discontented and unhappy?" "i am going to accept the situation, judge henderson," answered john, with a brevity that did not escape the keen old man. he hesitated a moment, and then said shortly, "very well,  we'll try you awhile. good morning." it was a full month after the opening of the negro school that the other john came home, tall, gay, and headstrong. the mother wept, the sisters sang. the whole white town was glad. a proud man was the judge, and it was a goodly sight to see the two swinging down main street together. and yet all did not go smoothly between them, for the younger man could not and did not veil his contempt for the little town, and plainly had his heart set on new york. now the one cherished ambition of the judge was to see his son mayor of altamaha, representative to the legislature, and  who could say?  governor of georgia. so the argument often waxed hot between them. "good heavens, father," the younger man would say after dinner, as he lighted a cigar and stood by the fireplace, "you surely don't expect a young fellow like me to settle down permanently in this  this god forgotten town with nothing but mud and negroes?" "i did," the judge would answer laconically; and on this particular day it seemed from the gathering scowl that he was about to add something more emphatic, but neighbors had already begun to drop in to admire his son, and the conversation drifted. "heah that john is livenin' things up at the darky school," volunteered the postmaster, after a pause. "what now? " asked the judge, sharply. "oh, nothin' in particulah,  just his almighty air and uppish ways. b'lieve i did heah somethin' about his givin' talks on the french revolution, equality, and such like. he's what i call a dangerous nigger." "have you heard him say anything out of the way?" "why, no,  but sally, our girl, told my wife a lot of rot. then, too, i don't need to heah a nigger what won't say 'sir' to a white man, or  " "who is this john?" interrupted the son. "why, it's little black john, peggy's son,  your old playfellow." the young man's face flushed angrily, and then he laughed. "oh," said he, "it's the darky that tried to force himself into a seat beside the lady i was escorting  " but judge henderson waited to hear no more. he had been nettled all day, and now at this he rose with a half smothered oath, took his hat and cane, and walked straight to the schoolhouse. for john, it had been a long, hard pull to get things started in the rickety old shanty that sheltered his school. the negroes were rent into factions for and against him, the parents were careless, the children irregular and dirty, and books, pencils, and slates largely missing. nevertheless, he struggled hopefully on, and seemed to see at last some glimmering of dawn. the attendance was larger and the children were a shade cleaner this week. even the booby class in reading showed a little comforting progress. so john settled himself with renewed patience this afternoon. "now, mandy," he said cheerfully, "that's better; but you mustn't chop your words up so: 'if  the  man  goes.' why, your little brother even wouldn't tell a story that way, now would he?" "naw, suh, he cain't talk." "all right; now let's try again: 'if the man  '" "john!" the whole school started in surprise, and the teacher half arose, as the red, angry face of the judge appeared in the open doorway. "john, this school is closed. you children can go home and get to work. the white people of altamaha are not spending their money on black folks to have their heads crammed with impudence and lies. clear out! i'll lock the door myself." up at the great pillared house the tall young son wandered aimlessly about after his father's abrupt departure. in the house there was little to interest him; the books were old and stale, the local newspaper flat, and the women had retired with headaches and sewing. he tried a nap, but it was too warm. so he sauntered out into the fields, complaining disconsolately, "good lord! how long will this imprisonment last!" he was not a bad fellow,  just a little spoiled and self indulgent, and as headstrong as his proud father. he seemed a young man pleasant to look upon, as he sat on the great black stump at the edge of the pines idly swinging his legs and smoking. "why, there isn't even a girl worth getting up a respectable flirtation with," he growled. just then his eye caught a tall, willowy figure hurrying toward him on the narrow path. he looked with interest at first, and then burst into a laugh as he said, "well, i declare, if it isn't jennie, the little brown kitchen maid! why, i never noticed before what a trim little body she is. hello, jennie! why, you haven't kissed me since i came home," he said gaily. the young girl stared at him in surprise and confusion,  faltered something inarticulate, and attempted to pass. but a wilful mood had seized the young idler, and he caught at her arm. frightened, she slipped by; and half mischievously he turned and ran after her through the tall pines. yonder, toward the sea, at the end of the path, came john slowly, with his head down. he had turned wearily homeward from the schoolhouse; then, thinking to shield his mother from the blow, started to meet his sister as she came from work and break the news of his dismissal to her. "i'll go away," he said slowly; "i'll go away and find work, and send for them. i cannot live here longer." and then the fierce, buried anger surged up into his throat. he waved his arms and hurried wildly up the path. the great brown sea lay silent. the air scarce breathed. the dying day bathed the twisted oaks and mighty pines in black and gold. there came from the wind no warning, not a whisper from the cloudless sky. there was only a black man hurrying on with an ache in his heart, seeing neither sun nor sea, but starting as from a dream at the frightened cry that woke the pines, to see his dark sister struggling in the arms of a tall and fair haired man. he said not a word, but, seizing a fallen limb, struck him with all the pent up hatred of his great black arm; and the body lay white and still beneath the pines, all bathed in sunshine and in blood. john looked at it dreamily, then walked back to the house briskly, and said in a soft voice, "mammy, i'm going away,  i'm going to be free." she gazed at him dimly and faltered, "no'th, honey, is yo' gwine no'th agin?" he looked out where the north star glistened pale above the waters, and said, "yes, mammy, i'm going  north." then, without another word, he went out into the narrow lane, up by the straight pines, to the same winding path, and seated himself on the great black stump, looking at the blood where the body had lain. yonder in the gray past he had played with that dead boy, romping together under the solemn trees. the night deepened; he thought of the boys at johnstown. he wondered how brown had turned out, and carey? and jones,  jones? why, he was jones, and he wondered what they would all say when they knew, when they knew, in that great long dining room with its hundreds of merry eyes. then as the sheen of the starlight stole over him, he thought of the gilded ceiling of that vast concert hall, and heard stealing toward him the faint sweet music of the swan. hark! was it music, or the hurry and shouting of men? yes, surely! clear and high the faint sweet melody rose and fluttered like a living thing, so that the very earth trembled as with the tramp of horses and murmur of angry men. he leaned back and smiled toward the sea, whence rose the strange melody, away from the dark shadows where lay the noise of horses galloping, galloping on. with an effort he roused himself, bent forward, and looked steadily down the pathway, softly humming the "song of the bride,"   "freudig geführt, ziehet dahin." amid the trees in the dim morning twilight he watched their shadows dancing and heard their horses thundering toward him, until at last they came sweeping like a storm, and he saw in front that haggard white haired man, whose eyes flashed red with fury. oh, how he pitied him,  pitied him,  and wondered if he had the coiling twisted rope. then, as the storm burst round him, he rose slowly to his feet and turned his closed eyes toward the sea. and the world whistled in his ears. i walk through the churchyard to lay this body down; i know moon rise, i know star rise; i walk in the moonlight, i walk in the starlight; i'll lie in the grave and stretch out my arms, i'll go to judgment in the evening of the day, and my soul and thy soul shall meet that day, when i lay this body down. negro song. they that walked in darkness sang songs in the olden days  sorrow songs  for they were weary at heart. and so before each thought that i have written in this book i have set a phrase, a haunting echo of these weird old songs in which the soul of the black slave spoke to men. ever since i was a child these songs have stirred me strangely. they came out of the south unknown to me, one by one, and yet at once i knew them as of me and of mine. then in after years when i came to nashville i saw the great temple builded of these songs towering over the pale city. to me jubilee hall seemed ever made of the songs themselves, and its bricks were red with the blood and dust of toil. out of them rose for me morning, noon, and night, bursts of wonderful melody, full of the voices of my brothers and sisters, full of the voices of the past. little of beauty has america given the world save the rude grandeur god himself stamped on her bosom; the human spirit in this new world has expressed itself in vigor and ingenuity rather than in beauty. and so by fateful chance the negro folk song  rhythmic cry of the slave  stands to day not simply as the sole american music, but as the most beautiful expression of human experience born this side the seas. it has been neglected, it has been, and is half despised, and above all it has been persistently mistaken and misunderstood; but notwithstanding, it still remains as the singular spiritual heritage of the nation and the greatest gift of the negro people. away back in the thirties the melody of these slave songs stirred the nation, but the songs were soon half forgotten. some, like "near the lake where drooped the willow," passed into current airs and their source was forgotten; others were caricatured on the "minstrel" stage and their memory died away. then in war time came the singular port royal experiment after the capture of hilton head, and perhaps for the first time the north met the southern slave face to face and heart to heart with no third witness. the sea islands of the carolinas, where they met, were filled with a black folk of primitive type, touched and moulded less by the world about them than any others outside the black belt. their appearance was uncouth, their language funny, but their hearts were human and their singing stirred men with a mighty power. thomas wentworth higginson hastened to tell of these songs, and miss mckim and others urged upon the world their rare beauty. but the world listened only half credulously until the fisk jubilee singers sang the slave songs so deeply into the world's heart that it can never wholly forget them again. there was once a blacksmith's son born at cadiz, new york, who in the changes of time taught school in ohio and helped defend cincinnati from kirby smith. then he fought at chancellorsville and gettysburg and finally served in the freedman's bureau at nashville. here he formed a sunday school class of black children in 1866, and sang with them and taught them to sing. and then they taught him to sing, and when once the glory of the jubilee songs passed into the soul of george l. white, he knew his life work was to let those negroes sing to the world as they had sung to him. so in 1871 the pilgrimage of the fisk jubilee singers began. north to cincinnati they rode,  four half clothed black boys and five girl women,  led by a man with a cause and a purpose. they stopped at wilberforce, the oldest of negro schools, where a black bishop blessed them. then they went, fighting cold and starvation, shut out of hotels, and cheerfully sneered at, ever northward; and ever the magic of their song kept thrilling hearts, until a burst of applause in the congregational council at oberlin revealed them to the world. they came to new york and henry ward beecher dared to welcome them, even though the metropolitan dailies sneered at his "nigger minstrels." so their songs conquered till they sang across the land and across the sea, before queen and kaiser, in scotland and ireland, holland and switzerland. seven years they sang, and brought back a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to found fisk university. since their day they have been imitated  sometimes well, by the singers of hampton and atlanta, sometimes ill, by straggling quartettes. caricature has sought again to spoil the quaint beauty of the music, and has filled the air with many debased melodies which vulgar ears scarce know from the real. but the true negro folk song still lives in the hearts of those who have heard them truly sung and in the hearts of the negro people. what are these songs, and what do they mean? i know little of music and can say nothing in technical phrase, but i know something of men, and knowing them, i know that these songs are the articulate message of the slave to the world. they tell us in these eager days that life was joyous to the black slave, careless and happy. i can easily believe this of some, of many. but not all the past south, though it rose from the dead, can gainsay the heart touching witness of these songs. they are the music of an unhappy people, of the children of disappointment; they tell of death and suffering and unvoiced longing toward a truer world, of misty wanderings and hidden ways. the songs are indeed the siftings of centuries; the music is far more ancient than the words, and in it we can trace here and there signs of development. my grandfather's grandmother was seized by an evil dutch trader two centuries ago; and coming to the valleys of the hudson and housatonic, black, little, and lithe, she shivered and shrank in the harsh north winds, looked longingly at the hills, and often crooned a heathen melody to the child between her knees, thus: do bana coba, gene me, gene me! do bana coba, gene me, gene me! ben d' nuli, nuli, nuli, nuli, ben d' le. the child sang it to his children and they to their children's children, and so two hundred years it has travelled down to us and we sing it to our children, knowing as little as our fathers what its words may mean, but knowing well the meaning of its music. this was primitive african music; it may be seen in larger form in the strange chant which heralds "the coming of john": "you may bury me in the east, you may bury me in the west, but i'll hear the trumpet sound in that morning,"   the voice of exile. ten master songs, more or less, one may pluck from this forest of melody  songs of undoubted negro origin and wide popular currency, and songs peculiarly characteristic of the slave. one of these i have just mentioned. another whose strains begin this book is "nobody knows the trouble i've seen." when, struck with a sudden poverty, the united states refused to fulfil its promises of land to the freedmen, a brigadier general went down to the sea islands to carry the news. an old woman on the outskirts of the throng began singing this song; all the mass joined with her, swaying. and the soldier wept. the third song is the cradle song of death which all men know,  "swing low, sweet chariot,"  whose bars begin the life story of "alexander crummell." then there is the song of many waters, "roll, jordan, roll," a mighty chorus with minor cadences. there were many songs of the fugitive like that which opens "the wings of atalanta," and the more familiar "been a listening." the seventh is the song of the end and the beginning  "my lord, what a mourning! when the stars begin to fall"; a strain of this is placed before "the dawn of freedom." the song of groping  "my way's cloudy"  begins "the meaning of progress"; the ninth is the song of this chapter  "wrestlin' jacob, the day is a breaking,"  a pæan of hopeful strife. the last master song is the song of songs  "steal away,"  sprung from "the faith of the fathers." there are many others of the negro folk songs as striking and characteristic as these, as, for instance, the three strains in the third, eighth, and ninth chapters; and others i am sure could easily make a selection on more scientific principles. there are, too, songs that seem to me a step removed from the more primitive types: there is the maze like medley, "bright sparkles," one phrase of which heads "the black belt"; the easter carol, "dust, dust and ashes"; the dirge, "my mother's took her flight and gone home"; and that burst of melody hovering over "the passing of the first born"  "i hope my mother will be there in that beautiful world on high." these represent a third step in the development of the slave song, of which "you may bury me in the east" is the first, and songs like "march on" (chapter six) and "steal away" are the second. the first is african music, the second afro american, while the third is a blending of negro music with the music heard in the foster land. the result is still distinctively negro and the method of blending original, but the elements are both negro and caucasian. one might go further and find a fourth step in this development, where the songs of white america have been distinctively influenced by the slave songs or have incorporated whole phrases of negro melody, as "swanee river" and "old black joe." side by side, too, with the growth has gone the debasements and imitations  the negro "minstrel" songs, many of the "gospel" hymns, and some of the contemporary "coon" songs,  a mass of music in which the novice may easily lose himself and never find the real negro melodies. in these songs, i have said, the slave spoke to the world. such a message is naturally veiled and half articulate. words and music have lost each other and new and cant phrases of a dimly understood theology have displaced the older sentiment. once in a while we catch a strange word of an unknown tongue, as the "mighty myo, " which figures as a river of death; more often slight words or mere doggerel are joined to music of singular sweetness. purely secular songs are few in number, partly because many of them were turned into hymns by a change of words, partly because the frolics were seldom heard by the stranger, and the music less often caught. of nearly all the songs, however, the music is distinctly sorrowful. the ten master songs i have mentioned tell in word and music of trouble and exile, of strife and hiding; they grope toward some unseen power and sigh for rest in the end. the words that are left to us are not without interest, and, cleared of evident dross, they conceal much of real poetry and meaning beneath conventional theology and unmeaning rhapsody. like all primitive folk, the slave stood near to nature's heart. life was a "rough and rolling sea" like the brown atlantic of the sea islands; the "wilderness" was the home of god, and the "lonesome valley" led to the way of life. "winter'll soon be over," was the picture of life and death to a tropical imagination. the sudden wild thunder storms of the south awed and impressed the negroes,  at times the rumbling seemed to them "mournful," at times imperious: "my lord calls me, he calls me by the thunder, the trumpet sounds it in my soul." the monotonous toil and exposure is painted in many words. one sees the ploughmen in the hot, moist furrow, singing: "dere's no rain to wet you, dere's no sun to burn you, oh, push along, believer, i want to go home." the bowed and bent old man cries, with thrice repeated wail: "o lord, keep me from sinking down," and he rebukes the devil of doubt who can whisper: "jesus is dead and god's gone away." yet the soul hunger is there, the restlessness of the savage, the wail of the wanderer, and the plaint is put in one little phrase: my soul wants something that's new, that's new over the inner thoughts of the slaves and their relations one with another the shadow of fear ever hung, so that we get but glimpses here and there, and also with them, eloquent omissions and silences. mother and child are sung, but seldom father; fugitive and weary wanderer call for pity and affection, but there is little of wooing and wedding; the rocks and the mountains are well known, but home is unknown. strange blending of love and helplessness sings through the refrain: "yonder's my ole mudder, been waggin' at de hill so long; 'bout time she cross over, git home bime by." elsewhere comes the cry of the "motherless" and the "farewell, farewell, my only child." love songs are scarce and fall into two categories  the frivolous and light, and the sad. of deep successful love there is ominous silence, and in one of the oldest of these songs there is a depth of history and meaning: poor rosy, poor gal; poor rosy, poor gal; rosy break my poor heart, heav'n shall a be my home. a black woman said of the song, "it can't be sung without a full heart and a troubled sperrit." the same voice sings here that sings in the german folksong: "jetz geh i' an's brunele, trink' aber net." of death the negro showed little fear, but talked of it familiarly and even fondly as simply a crossing of the waters, perhaps  who knows?  back to his ancient forests again. later days transfigured his fatalism, and amid the dust and dirt the toiler sang: "dust, dust and ashes, fly over my grave, but the lord shall bear my spirit home." the things evidently borrowed from the surrounding world undergo characteristic change when they enter the mouth of the slave. especially is this true of bible phrases. "weep, o captive daughter of zion," is quaintly turned into "zion, weep a low," and the wheels of ezekiel are turned every way in the mystic dreaming of the slave, till he says: "there's a little wheel a turnin' in a my heart." as in olden time, the words of these hymns were improvised by some leading minstrel of the religious band. the circumstances of the gathering, however, the rhythm of the songs, and the limitations of allowable thought, confined the poetry for the most part to single or double lines, and they seldom were expanded to quatrains or longer tales, although there are some few examples of sustained efforts, chiefly paraphrases of the bible. three short series of verses have always attracted me,  the one that heads this chapter, of one line of which thomas wentworth higginson has fittingly said, "never, it seems to me, since man first lived and suffered was his infinite longing for peace uttered more plaintively." the second and third are descriptions of the last judgment,  the one a late improvisation, with some traces of outside influence: "oh, the stars in the elements are falling, and the moon drips away into blood, and the ransomed of the lord are returning unto god, blessed be the name of the lord." and the other earlier and homelier picture from the low coast lands: "michael, haul the boat ashore, then you'll hear the horn they blow, then you'll hear the trumpet sound, trumpet sound the world around, trumpet sound for rich and poor, trumpet sound the jubilee, trumpet sound for you and me." through all the sorrow of the sorrow songs there breathes a hope  a faith in the ultimate justice of things. the minor cadences of despair change often to triumph and calm confidence. sometimes it is faith in life, sometimes a faith in death, sometimes assurance of boundless justice in some fair world beyond. but whichever it is, the meaning is always clear: that sometime, somewhere, men will judge men by their souls and not by their skins. is such a hope justified? do the sorrow songs sing true? the silently growing assumption of this age is that the probation of races is past, and that the backward races of to day are of proven inefficiency and not worth the saving. such an assumption is the arrogance of peoples irreverent toward time and ignorant of the deeds of men. a thousand years ago such an assumption, easily possible, would have made it difficult for the teuton to prove his right to life. two thousand years ago such dogmatism, readily welcome, would have scouted the idea of blond races ever leading civilization. so wofully unorganized is sociological knowledge that the meaning of progress, the meaning of "swift" and "slow" in human doing, and the limits of human perfectability, are veiled, unanswered sphinxes on the shores of science. why should æschylus have sung two thousand years before shakespeare was born? why has civilization flourished in europe, and flickered, flamed, and died in africa? so long as the world stands meekly dumb before such questions, shall this nation proclaim its ignorance and unhallowed prejudices by denying freedom of opportunity to those who brought the sorrow songs to the seats of the mighty? your country? how came it yours? before the pilgrims landed we were here. here we have brought our three gifts and mingled them with yours: a gift of story and song  soft, stirring melody in an ill harmonized and unmelodious land; the gift of sweat and brawn to beat back the wilderness, conquer the soil, and lay the foundations of this vast economic empire two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done it; the third, a gift of the spirit. around us the history of the land has centred for thrice a hundred years; out of the nation's heart we have called all that was best to throttle and subdue all that was worst; fire and blood, prayer and sacrifice, have billowed over this people, and they have found peace only in the altars of the god of right. nor has our gift of the spirit been merely passive. actively we have woven ourselves with the very warp and woof of this nation,  we fought their battles, shared their sorrow, mingled our blood with theirs, and generation after generation have pleaded with a headstrong, careless people to despise not justice, mercy, and truth, lest the nation be smitten with a curse. our song, our toil, our cheer, and warning have been given to this nation in blood brotherhood. are not these gifts worth the giving? is not this work and striving? would america have been america without her negro people? even so is the hope that sang in the songs of my fathers well sung. if somewhere in this whirl and chaos of things there dwells eternal good, pitiful yet masterful, then anon in his good time america shall rend the veil and the prisoned shall go free. free, free as the sunshine trickling down the morning into these high windows of mine, free as yonder fresh young voices welling up to me from the caverns of brick and mortar below  swelling with song, instinct with life, tremulous treble and darkening bass. my children, my little children, are singing to the sunshine, and thus they sing: let us cheer the weary traveller, cheer the weary traveller, let us cheer the weary traveller, along the heavenly way. and the traveller girds himself, and sets his face toward the morning, and goes his way. hear my cry, o god the reader; vouchsafe that this my book fall not still born into the world wilderness. let there spring, gentle one, from out its leaves vigor of thought and thoughtful deed to reap the harvest wonderful. let the ears of a guilty people tingle with truth, and seventy millions sigh for the righteousness which exalteth nations, in this drear day when human brotherhood is mockery and a snare. thus in thy good time may infinite reason turn the tangle straight, and these crooked marks on a fragile leaf be not indeed the end return to menu page for the souls of black folk; essays and sketches. by w. e. b. du bois return to the church in the southern black community home page return to documenting the american south home page

chuck berry performing at the hollywood palladium on march 24, 1980. guitarists bo diddley (with his trademark square gretsch electric guitar on the left) and chuck berry (on the right) perform at madison square garden in the concert movie ‘let the good times roll’ on may 6, 1972 in new york city. rock and roll guitarist chuck berry performs his “duck walk” as he plays his electric hollowbody guitar at the tami show on december 29, 1964 at the santa monica civic auditorium in santa monica, california. other performers included james browm, the rolling stones, the beatles and jan & dean. chuck berry during rehearsals in st louis while filming of the documentary “hail! hail! rock ‘n’ roll.” a hollywood tour bus displays ‘we love chuck’ signs as it drives past a ceremony giving chuck berry his hollywood walk of fame star on oct. 8, 1987. berry, left, can be seen performing the “duck walk” he made famous. chuck berry headlined the long beach blues festival on sept. 21, 1992. chuck berry shares a moment onstage in 1995 with bruce springsteen, one of countless rockers influenced by berry’s career. rock and roll pioneers, from left, chuck berry, bo diddley and little richard at the 50th annual bmi pop awards on may 14, 2002, in beverly hills. the trio received the inaugural bmi icon award. at 83, chuck berry headlined the hootenany festival at live oak canyon in silverado canyon on july 3, 2010. chuck berry, seen performing at the 2009 monte carlo rock’ n rose ball in monte carlo, monaco. berry was born oct. 18, 1926 in st. louis. he found success after visiting chicago in 1955 and recording for the legendary chess records label. reporting from st. louis   editor’s note: chuck berry died march 18, 2017 at the age of 90. this article, in which berry sat down with times music critic robert hilburn to talk about his musical influences, “difficult” reputation and encounters with racial prejudice throughout his career, was first published on oct. 4, 1987. chuck berry has been prized by rock musicians and fans for four decades as a symbol of the revolution that chased away big band music and other dull adult sounds. in hits like “roll over beethoven” and “sweet little sixteen,” berry reflected the frisky independence and innocence of ‘50s teens with such unwavering accuracy that they remain anthems of the era. you know my temp’rature’s risin’ and the juke box blowin’ a fuse. my heart’s beatin’ rhythm and my soul keeps a singin’ the blues. roll over, beethoven and tell tchaikovsky the news. so, here is chuck berry sitting in a restaurant reminiscing about tommy dorsey’s “boogie woogie” and glenn miller’s “in the mood” and telling how much he adored singers like nat cole and frank sinatra. “the big band era is my era,” he says, recalling his own heroes. “people say, where did you get your style from. i did the big band era on guitar. that’s the best way i could explain it. “let’s put it down frank. rock had more passion to (kids in the ‘50s) because (they) were in school. i was in school when the big bands (were popular), so it had passion to me.” the reporter wanted to make sure he was hearing berry right. was this rock ‘n’ roll legend saying he would have been just as happy spending his life singing ballads like nat cole? “oh, i’d have been (ecstatic),” berry beams. “i never would have touched rock ‘n’ roll. i’m sorry. ...” seeing the surprise on the reporter’s face, berry smiled sheepishly. he felt bad about breaking illusions. “rock ‘n’ roll accepted me and paid me, even though i loved the big bands ... i went that way because i wanted a home of my own. i had a family. i had to raise them. let’s don’t leave out the economics. no way. ...” chuck berry and big bands? chuck berry smiling? joe edwards doesn’t understand why many rock observers in recent years have used the word bitter to describe his friend, chuck berry. “see that guitar.” edwards points to the gold guitar in a display case near the entrance to funky blueberry hill restaurant. “that’s the guitar chuck played on ‘maybellene’ and all the early hits. “the fact that that guitar is here tells you more about him than i ever could. it was an act of friendship that blew me away.” the blueberry hill, in the rejuvenated university city district of town, has a great selection on the juke box: patsy cline and lou reed to u2 and talking heads. the walls of the sprawling restaurant also showcase hundreds of photos and records by ‘50s rockers   even a complete elvis presley room. edwards told berry a couple of years ago that he was going to add some display cases and berry casually mentioned that he might give edwards a guitar. “that just the way he phrased it, ‘a guitar,’ ” the restaurant owner continues. “so, i assumed it would just be some old guitar  the kind every guitar player has laying around. but when he brought out the case, i knew right away that it was the guitar. ... when he opened it, i was so (touched) that i couldn’t even speak. think about it: a lot of rock ‘n’ roll began in that guitar. “now, tell me, would a bitter man give that away?” to most critics, chuck berry, 60, is rivaled only by elvis presley as the most influential figure of the first decade of rock ‘n’ roll   a man whose memorable guitar oriented rhythm and perfectly sculptured lyrics established him in the ‘50s as the music’s first great songwriter performer. he brought his classic songs to life on stage with such an energetic show   highlighted by a zany, low strutting duck walk   that no one in the audience seemed to notice that berry was in his 30s, ancient by rock standards at the time, and almost a full decade older than elvis and buddy holly. if berry’s music is widely known, his own story is not. one reason is that berry, for most of his career, has avoided interviews. he was angered years ago by what he feels were attempts to “sensationalize” his remarks. the only thing most fans know about him is what they have seen on stage the past two decades   and that hasn’t always worked in berry’s favor. many observers have been disillusioned by berry’s refusal to do encores, which they see as a sign that the singer no longer enjoys performing. they grumble, too, about his practice of using “pick up” bands hired by the promoter in each city and introduced to berry only minutes before going on stage. though hiring “pick up” bands is cheaper than employing your own full time band, it sometimes results in sloppy shows that leave fans thinking of berry as simply a cold hearted businessman with no respect for his music or his history. in the absence of interviews over the last dozen years, it is easy to look at berry’s history and build the scenario of a bitter man. after all, berry spent time in reform school as a teenager, served two prison terms (one for a mann act conviction and one for income tax evasion), no doubt saw millions of dollars slip through his hands because of the one sided recording and publishing contracts rock performers routinely signed in the ‘50s, and experienced the sting of racial discrimination   including seeing doors open much faster for many far less talented white rock musicians. but berry’s story is finally about to be told. “chuck berry hail! hail! rock ‘n’ roll,” a documentary film directed by taylor hackford (“an officer and a gentleman,” “against all odds”), will open friday in los angeles. the film, which includes interviews with berry, is built around a concert last october for a 60th birthday salute at the ornate fox theatre in st. louis. he was joined by an all star band featuring the rolling stones’ keith richards, eric clapton, robert cray and linda ronstadt. in addition, berry’s long promised autobiography has just been released by harmony books. “chuck berry: the autobiography” deals at length with many of the controversial moments in berry’s life, including his 1961 conviction for violating the mann act (transporting a minor across state lines for immoral purposes) and a 1979 sentence in california for income tax evasion. equally important, berry   to promote the book and film   has agreed to a few interviews. but the early signals from a man already saddled with a “difficult” reputation weren’t good. the best that publicists for the film and the book could guarantee writers was 20 minutes. restaurant owner edwards, 41, is so in love with rock that he owns his own rock & roll beer co., complete with a limited “heroes” series. so far, he’s only made deals with berry and fellow rock legend jerry lee lewis to have their drawings on the cans, but he’s planning to add other stars. he explains all this while hosting the reporter from california   a job he inherited because berry was running late. at the last minute, berry said he wanted copies of any interview tapes. after the first interview, he went to edwards’ house to make a duplicate of the 45 minute conversation. since edwards didn’t have a high speed machine, it took the full 45 minutes to transfer the interview to a second tape. by the time he and edwards returned, the schedule was off by an hour. to avoid further delay, edwards borrowed a second tape recorder from one of his employees so that berry and the reporter from california could both tape the conversation at the same time. during the interview, the two tape recorders sat before them like pistols in an old fashioned poker game. given his reputation, it was easy imagining berry   a muscular man with jet black hair who could easily pass for someone in his 40s   picking up his tape recorder if offended by a hostile question and heading out the door. the whole incident seemed like yet another piece of evidence that berry is a guarded, cantankerous guy. the santa barbara writer created one of the first modern hard boiled female private eyes and topped bestseller lists for decades, inspiring loyal readers to name their daughters after the series’ heroine, kinsey millhone. she was 77. full obituary the veteran sports broadcaster 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struck down parts of a federal law that banned same sex marriage and led to federal recognition for gay spouses. she was 88. full obituary stomping over miniature bridges and buildings in a rubber suit, nakajima portrayed godzilla, the fire breathing, screeching monster that became japan’s star cultural export and an enduring symbol of the pathos and destruction of the atomic age. nakajima said he invented the character from scratch, and developed it by going to a zoo to study how elephants and bears moved. he was 88. full obituary kanno spent what should have been his final high school years confined to a world war ii era internment camp. he went on to become one of america’s first japanese american mayors as an early day politician in orange county. he was 91. full obituary romero will be remembered best for co writing and directing “night of the living dead.” the “living dead” franchise went on to create a subgenre of horror movies whose influence across the decades has endured, seen in films like “the purge” and tv shows such as “the walking dead.” he was 77. full obituary the oscar winning actor appeared in classic films such as alfred hitchcock’s “north by northwest” and starred in the “mission: impossible” television series in the 1960s. he won his academy award for his portrayal of washed up bela lugosi in tim burton’s “ed wood.” he was 89. full obituary the french survivor of nazi concentration camps and a european parliament president was one of france’s most prominent female politicians. she was best known in france for leading the heated battle to legalize abortion in the 1970s. france’s abortion rights law is still known four decades later as the “loi veil.” she was 89. full obituary the british author created paddington bear, the marmalade loving teddy in a duffel coat and floppy hat. his creation become an icon immortalized in print, on screens and as countless stuffed toys. bond was 91. full obituary pressman, center, was an emmy winning 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humanities medal. in 2013, president obama honored him for “transforming how we think about sports.” he was 78. full obituary perenchio deftly pulled the levers of power to create culturally defining media events, propel political candidates, collect masterpiece artworks and become one of the richest men in los angeles. in late 2014, he announced that he would leave much of his collection   at least 47 works valued at more than $500 million   to the los angeles county museum of art. he was 86. full obituary the polarizing fox news founder was credited with turning the news channel into a ratings powerhouse over his 20 years at the helm. he was ousted from the network following sexual harassment charges. he was 77. full obituary the former child star played joanie cunningham in the sitcoms “happy days” and “joanie loves chachi.” her more recent credits included “the love boat” and “murder, she wrote.” she was 56. full obituary using insult as his weapon of choice and a quick, knowing smirk as his defense, rickles delighted audiences with his brand of aggressively caustic humor that targeted everyone from unknown “hockey pucks” to big name celebrities. he was 90. full obituary a close confidante of nelson mandela, kathrada dedicated his life to opposing apartheid and racism. an african national congress activist, he played a major role in south africa’s liberation struggle. he was 87. full obituary the billionaire businessman and philanthropist was the last in his generation of one of the country’s most famously philanthropic families. he was 101. full obituary the pulitzer prize winning newspaper columnist was part of the wave of practitioners of what came to be known as new journalism: a group of gifted writers that included tom wolfe, gay talese, hunter s. thompson, joan didion and others who reported on the social and cultural upheavals of the 1960s and ’70s. his writing made him a new york city institution for more than 40 years. he was 88. full obituary one of the founding fathers of rock ’n’ roll, berry was an innovator who designed much of the music’s sonic blueprint and became his era’s most creative lyricist. he was 90. full obituary the nobel prize winning poet was known for capturing the essence of his native caribbean. his work was widely praised for its depth and bold use of metaphor, and its mix of sensuousness and technical prowess. he was 87. full obituary the boxing hall of fame trainer and manager handled the careers of 19 champions including heavyweight evander holyfield. duva with his family built the promotional company main events into one of boxing’s powerhouses. he was 94. full obituary the silver haired and dapper osborne was a bona fide movie connoisseur who displayed his wide knowledge of films as the genial host on turner classic movies since its launch in 1994. osborne was a longtime columnist for the hollywood reporter and the “official biographer” of the academy awards. he was 84. full obituary dubbed the “acrobat of scat” for his vocal delivery, jarreau was admired by fans for his imaginative and improvisational qualities. he is best known for his single “we’re in this love together” from 1981. he is the only grammy vocalist to win in the jazz, pop and r&b categories. he was 76. full obituary mansfield won the nobel prize for helping to invent mri scanners. in 1978, he was the first person to step inside a whole body mri scanner so it could be tested on a human subject. his work, alongside chemist paul lauterbur, revolutionized the detection of disease by revealing internal organs without the need for surgery. he was 83. full obituary riva’s portrayal of an elderly woman in the 2012 end of life drama “amour” earned her international acclaim and the distinction of being the oldest nominee for a lead actress oscar. she was 89. full obituary moore rose to stardom on “the dick van dyke show” in the 1960s and went on to headline “the mary tyler moore show,” a highly successful sitcom in the 1970s (pictured). the actress and her television character became so entwined that moore became a role model for women who sought to challenge the conventions of marriage and family. she was 80. full obituary cernan, commander of nasa’s apollo 17 mission, set foot on the moon in december 1972 during his third space flight. he was the last of only a dozen men to walk on the moon. he returned to earth with a message of “peace and hope for all mankind.” he died at 82. full obituary the former california state librarian wrote rich cultural, economic and political histories on the birth, growth and maturation of the golden state. he captured the state’s rise in influence and its singular hold on the public imagination in his sweeping “americans and the california dream” series. full obituary youguang was a linguist considered to be the father of modern china’s pinyin romanization writing system. adopted by the people’s republic in 1958, pinyin has virtually become the global standard because of its simplicity and consistency. he was 111. full obituary dutton was the owner of dutton’s books, a los angeles landmark with its overflowing shelves and hard to find titles. dutton’s books on laurel canyon boulevard, along with sister locations in burbank and downtown los angeles, was at the very center of literary l.a. when it opened in 1961. he was 79. full obituary kamae was one of the most influential hawaiian musicians of the last half century and a filmmaker who painstakingly documented the culture and history of the islands. he had long been the face of the sons of hawaii, a popular recording group and a pioneering force in traditional island music. he was 89. full obituary the british war correspondent was the first journalist to report the nazi invasion of poland that marked the beginning of world war ii. she won major british journalism awards, and was made an officer of the order of the british empire by queen elizabeth ii. she was 105. full obituary the former iranian president was an aide to iran’s revolutionary supreme leader, the late ayatollah ruhollah khomeini. although rafsanjani’s legacy was tarnished by allegations of corruption and authoritarianism, his backing helped moderate president hassan rouhani win election in 2013, setting the islamic republic on a path to ending its disputed nuclear program and easing its isolation from the west. he was 82. full obituary a scholar of world religions, smith is best known for his work “the religions of man,” first published in 1958. it was reissued as “the world’s religions” in 1991 and has sold about 2 million copies. his informed yet accessible prose led many laymen to read his books as their introduction to religions of the east and west. he was 97. full obituary but berry proved to be as agreeable as edwards had predicted. when his 90 minute tape ran out, he didn’t bother stopping the interview to get another. he simply let the conversation continue. “forget it,” he said. “yeah, i suppose i’d like to have the tape in case someone twists some of my words. that’s what (soured me) on doing interviews years ago. no matter what i said, they would write what they wanted to. after a while, i didn’t see any value in talking to people. but the main reason i want the tapes is that it helps me remember things (in my life), things that i might say and want to use in another book.” much like john lennon, whose straight forwardness was much admired by berry, there is little pause or sense of self censorship in berry’s conversation. while surprisingly refreshing, this frankness makes it easy for him to be misunderstood. asked how he feels about awards   specifically the 1986 rock and roll hall of fame induction, he said, bluntly, “those don’t mean a thing to me.” that answer, in a 20 second tv bite, could do much to re enforce the bitterness doctrine surrounding berry. but berry, in almost zen fashion, has worked to maintain what might be described as an “emotional neutrality” in his life. “i don’t want the bottom, so i have to sacrifice the top...,” he says, matter of factly. “rather than have joy, i would rather be absent of pain. … i think it is better that way because people have killed themselves over the lack of glory. they have also killed themselves from the depths of degradation.” berry grew up in a working class black neighborhood in st. louis, son of a carpenter. he sang in church and began playing guitar and piano in his teens. he had eclectic musical interests and influences   from the blues of muddy waters and the swing of count basie to country and mainstream pop. he was in his late 20s by the time he joined the johnnie johnson trio at the cosmopolitan club in east st. louis. until then, he had worked a variety of odd jobs and had studied cosmetology. music was more of a recreation than a career obsession   until he learned that he could make money at it. after becoming known on the local scene, berry signed with chess records in chicago and released his first single in 1956. “maybellene,” an upbeat novelty that appealed to the teenage rock audience, was a smash   the first of berry’s nine top 40 singles over the next three years. berry’s songs   others include “johnny b. goode,” “back in the u.s.a.,” “school day” and “too much monkey business”   are such simple, yet enduring statements that virtually every aspiring rock band since the beatles and rolling stones has included at least one in its repertoire. in trying to reflect the attitudes and aspirations of his teen audience, berry moved beyond the novelties to touch on some of the frustrations and aspirations of young people. “the promised land” is a richly appealing look at a young man’s travel across the country from norfolk, va., to hollywood in search of the big time. (berry wrote the song in prison, consulting an atlas to make sure the route outlined in the song was accurate). berry made more money than most ‘50s performers because he had so many hits and he was in constant demand as a live act. besides, he gained a reputation as a hard nosed businessman. with his profits, he opened a club in st. louis briefly in the early ‘60s and a more ambitious recreation park on his farm in wentzville, 35 miles west of here. but he eventually concentrated on real estate. among his properties: homes in st. louis, hollywood and several in the wentzville area. now that the book and movie are coming out, berry is not about to take it easy. he is working on a new studio album and will tour next year with his own band for the first time in years. berry said he stopped using a regular band years ago for two reasons: his booking agency told him it was easier to book him as a solo artist and it meant more money for him. it also meant he didn’t have to be responsible for watching over the musicians, whose drinking habits, he said, bothered him. he dislikes encores, saying he prefers to put his “all” into the show itself. through it all, berry felt no need to explain himself   though he admits the back up bands were sometimes ragged. his only obligation, he felt, was to live up to the contract. to him, it was never bitterness or indifference, only business. berry is co producer (with stephanie bennett) of the film, but it doesn’t mean it is a glossy portrait of him. he gets in a heated exchange with keith richards during a rehearsal sequence, telling richards that he is going to do it his way   not richards’  because his way has worked for 60 years. he talks repeatedly about music in terms of the money, not art. during the interview at the blueberry hill, berry smiles when asked about art. “(to me, art) was drawing,” he replies. “to sing was not art. in fact, i first heard the word artist (applied to music) when they said, ‘the artist go in here.’ to me, that meant the painters go in here. that was my sense of it. i grew up thinking art was pictures until i got into music and found i was an artist and didn’t paint.” big band music wasn’t all that berry liked in the ‘40s and ‘50s. he was also a big fan of blues singer muddy waters, and he listened a lot to country music. his own music would seem much closer to those styles than to big band music. still, the big band singers hold a special place in his heart. here are excepts from the interview with berry (some of the questions have been revised to better reflect the flow of the conversation): teenagers in the ‘50s saw your music as a revolt against the big band era, which seemed so formal, so less spontaneous and real. “that’s because of the lyrics. the lyrics (of the big band songs) were not today, not right now (like rock ‘n’ roll). everybody went to school. i directed my music to the teenagers. i was 30 years old when i did ‘maybellene.’ my school days had long been over when i did ‘school day,’ but i was thinking of them. (teenagers) were the ones i was singing to, so why not sing lyrics of their life?” most people thought rock was just a passing fad. did you think your career might be over quickly? oh yes, i can give you an example. tim gayle at gayle agency told me (after “maybellene”): ‘you can ride on this three years.’ you play the big cities, then the middle cities, then go overseas. ... but i came up with another hit six months later, so (i figured) that this is three and a half years now. then, i had another hit, so it was four years. i could see myself having a house by then.” you were very frank in the book about some relationships with other women over the years. did your wife feel uncomfortable about some of the things you wrote in the book? “this wife of mine. i don’t even care to talk about it too much because it is not anybody’s affair, but this woman i married once and for all. my father married once. i married once. this is a conviction of ours. this is the way we grew up. nobody can bring us apart. ... “we lived in the basement of our first home in order to rent out the upstairs. we came up together and sacrificed. i slept in the hertz cars when i didn’t have but four hours before catching the morning plane, going from gig to gig rather than pay $18 to holiday inn. this was when i was making a $100, $150, $125 a night. i’d sleep in the car and the security at the airport would tap on the window when he came to work so i wouldn’t miss my plane.” a lot of black performers were bitter about the discrimination they experienced, especially in the south, during the early tours. you don’t seem to share that anger. “no, i saw why (there was prejudice). before i even went (into) music, i knew black people made bread for white people with their black hands, but to go and touch a white woman ... on the arm was forbidden, taboo. these were the things that intrigued me. why do you eat out of my hands, but do not want me to pat you on the back? (i saw it was) a tradition ... a belief that (the whites) had.” elvis and you were the most important of the early rock stars, but elvis, being white, got much more media exposure. did you feel cheated? “again, i knew why. television stations were owned by whites. ... besides, i never saw we were rivals. ...” but didn’t it seem unfair? “no, it is not unfair that six people have on gray suits and i have on a blue suit or it’s not unfair that seven people are eating turkey and i chose to have chili or whatever. that’s what it was. more people chose his music than chose mine ... or my records. “there were so many avenues that lead up to that . . . tradition, acceptance. it is more comfortable to be around your own than a foreign element. all this had to do with it (and i could see it). now who is going to change all of that ... tradition ... just to sell a record. ...” how about the money? did you feel cheated the way a lot of other ‘50s artists do? “i keep thinking about the positive side. ... i’d say, ‘look how much money i made from writing my songs and singing them, both of which i like to do.’ ... i remember the rolling stones getting $50,000 in miami on the ‘ed sullivan show’ and i was making $500 a night and they were playing my song ... but (i thought) about the $500 that was coming every night. in 100 nights, i’d have $50,000.” what’s your view of the mann act conviction? “a lot of extenuating circumstances go along with it. one, i had a nightclub in st. louis that was predominately catered to by the white populace of st louis ... and shortly before that whites weren’t allowed into the fox (movie theater), which was just two blocks away. now here you’ve got what they called a mixed racial club that was catered to by whites ... and here, down the street we just are trying to see what it is like to let blacks in the fox. “(you could picture people saying) ‘now this is going too fast, let’s shut the club down ... (and) in order to shut the club down, you have to (shut the owner down). that wasn’t the only thing that happened   getting me into jail from the mann act. many things happened. they made us paint the walls, fix the pipes ... made us do all kinds of fire protection. but i knew why. i wasn’t wanted on grand avenue. i was the instigator.” (berry writes in the book that he met a woman in juarez and brought her back to st. louis to be a hostess in his club, but the woman, who told him she was 21, turned out to be a teenager.) let’s talk about your honors again. isn’t it gratifying to walk into a place like this and see your pictures on the wall and your guitar in the display case, and to think how much your music has meant to people over the years? “i swear it does not mean a thing. ... i am telling you i don’t have the good feelings or the bad feelings either. i have bad physical feelings. in other words, someone can rub my neck with a feather and that feels good. someone kicks me on my leg, that feels bad. but if somebody says anything derogatory or someone says you are the best performer i have ever seen in my life, that doesn’t mean a thing.” what about your music. if you had room for only three or four chuck berry songs on your juke box, which ones would you put? “for rhythm and lyrics, it would be ‘back to memphis.’ i think it is a heck of a story ... a fellow went up north to make it and (finds) there is no place like home. it is the grown boy talking to his mother rather than little ‘johnny b. goode.’ “for heart throbbing, tear dropping, it is ‘memphis, tenn.,’ which is the tenderest. for novelty, it is ‘no money down.’ for teachings, it is ‘downbound train,’ because it is spiritual and it shows if you really need to do well, you will do well.” what are the rewards now? just money? ”... i wouldn’t be out there (anymore) if it was money only. ... my money is making enough money for me to live on (for the last) five to eight years ... not only me but all my people. the money is never (ignored). i wouldn’t work benefit after benefit the rest of my life. but it isn’t the main reason i go out anymore.” what do you think about the film? the ending, where you are alone at the piano singing “cottage for sale,” is quite touching. “i am hoping (the film) makes it into the hearts of many people, which will mean box office ... but if i had directed that film i would have had a flair of an ending instead of the quiet ending. i would have ended it like my show. i would never stop my show with ‘cottage for sale’ or anything like it. i want to leave sweating, hot and happy and hearing (the applause).” also late musician tony conrad in the documentary ‘completely in the present’: ‘i wanted to end composing   get rid of it’ exclusive: stevie wonder to give keynote address at 2017 ascap expo blues harmonica player james cotton, mr. superharp, dies at 81 entertainment & arts hollywood inc. entertainment & arts music music hollywood inc. music follow us more from the l.a. times
by brent staples editorial board member elected officials who prefer not to discuss the fact that new york city has one of the most segregated school systems in the united states could soon have no choice. a state appellate court has said that an anti discrimination lawsuit can move forward. the suit charges new york with maintaining a “racialized pipeline” through which gifted and talented programs and screening practices condemn many students of color to “neglected schools that deliver inferior and unacceptable outcomes.” if successful, this landmark legal challenge could remake admissions practices at selective public schools. at the same time, in brooklyn, a public school district that covers both poor and affluent neighborhoods has shown it is possible to integrate schools   without rancor or a mass exodus of white families   when parents and school officials value integration as a benefit in itself. as my colleague troy closson explained last week, the remaking of brooklyn’s district 15 began several years ago, when parents expressed a desire to integrate middle schools that were among the most homogeneous in the city. “selective admissions were scrapped,” closson wrote. “every child got a lottery number instead. schools adopted targets to admit certain numbers of disadvantaged children.” middle schools set aside seats for students who were from low income families, living in temporary housing or still learning english. crucially, the schools fill incoming classes through a lottery, instead of using metrics like grades or attendance. as a result, the district’s middle schools, which were the second most socioeconomically segregated, improved to rank 19th out of the city’s 32 local districts. teachers and students now say friendships are emerging across income lines, and a more diverse set of middle schoolers began taking state algebra exams. antonia martinelli, a parent leader, told the times: “we’ve managed to debunk this ‘good school bad school’ narrative. parents understand that they’re all great schools.” integration is hardly a cure all, and challenges remain. but this example shows that breaking with segregation does not have to involve bitterness and decades of delays. brent staples has been a member of the times editorial board since 1990. he was the recipient of the pulitzer prize for editorial writing in 2019. @brentnyt

supported by the state’s elite campuses, prohibited from using race based admissions for decades, are now admitting more black and hispanic students.