THE SOUTH AND THE NEGRO RACE. The love we feel for that race you can neither measure nor comprehend. As I attest it here, the spirit of my old black mammy from her home up there looks down to bless and through the tumult of this night steals the sweet music of her croonings as thirty years ago she held me in her black arms and led me smiling into sleep. This scene vanishes as I speak, and I catch a vision of an old Southern home with its lofty pillars and its white pigeons fluttering down through the golden air. I see women with strained and anxious faces and children alert yet helpless. I see night come down with its dangers and its apprehensions and in a big homely room I feel on my tired brow the touch of loving hands, now worn and wrinkled, but fairer to me yet than the hands of mortal woman and stronger yet to lead me than the hands of mortal man; and as they lay a mother's blessing there, while at her knees-the truest altar I have ever known— I thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary because her slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or guard at the chamber door, put a black man's loyalty between her and dan ger. But I catch another vision. The crisis of battle; a soldier struck, staggering, falls. I see a slave scuffling through the smoke, winding his black arms about the fallen form, reckless of the hurtling death, bending his trusty face to catch the words that tremble on the stricken lips, so wrestling meantime with agony that he would lay down his life in his master's stead. I see him by the weary bedside, ministering with uncomplaining patience, pray hymns echoed around the earth. To his unquestioning faith the groves, the hills, the fields and his cabin were the temples of the living God. He was a poet; the eldest child of nature, rocked in her cradle and nurtured at her breast. He knew the language of birds and flowers. He conversed with all the dwellers of the forest and knew their speech by heart. He listened in wild rapture to the rustle of waving harvest, sniffed their fragrance and breathed the very breath of song. He was a true and faithful friend; true to his old master; true to his children and his children's children unto the third and fourth generation. If there was an occasional predatory excursion his wayward feet never invaded a neighbor's field. He consumed what his toil had made and the good Lord forgave him. God bless the forlorn and ragged remnants of a race now passing away. God bless the old black hand that rocked our infant cradles, smoothed the pillow of our infant sleep and fanned the fever from our cheeks. God bless the old tongue that immortalized the nursery rhyme; the old eyes that guided our truant feet; and the old heart that laughed at our childish freaks. God bless the dusky old brow, whose wrinkles told of toil and sweat and sorrow. May the green turf rest lightly on their ashes and the wild flowers deck every lonely grave where "He giveth His beloved sleep." May their golden dreams of golden slippers, of golden streets, of golden harps and of golden crowns have become golden realities.-P. F. Smith. THE SOUTH AND THE NEGRO RACE. The love we feel for that race you can neither measure nor comprehend. As I attest it here, the spirit of my old black mammy from her home up there looks down to bless and through the tumult of this night steals the sweet music of her croonings as thirty years ago she held me in her black arms and led me smiling into sleep. This scene vanishes as I speak, and I catch a vision of an old Southern home with its lofty pillars and its white pigeons fluttering down through the golden air. I see women with strained and anxious faces and children alert yet helpless. I see night come down with its dangers and its apprehensions and in a big homely room I feel on my tired brow the touch of loving hands, now worn and wrinkled, but fairer to me yet than the hands of mortal woman and stronger yet to lead me than the hands of mortal man; and as they lay a mother's blessing there, while at her knees-the truest altar I have ever knownI thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary because her slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or guard at the chamber door, put a black man's loyalty between her and danger. But I catch another vision. The crisis of battle; a soldier struck, staggering, falls. I see a slave scuffling through the smoke, winding his black arms about the fallen form, reckless of the hurtling death, bending his trusty face to catch the words that tremble on the stricken lips, so wrestling meantime with agony that he would lay down his life in his master's stead. I see him by the weary bedside, ministering with uncomplaining patience, pray ing with all his humble heart that God would lift his master up until death comes in mercy and in honor to still the soldier's agony and seal the soldier's life. I see him by the open grave, mute, motionless, uncovered, suffering for the death of him who in life fought against his freedom. I see him when the mound is heaped and the great drama of his life is closed, turn away and with downcast eyes and uncertain step start out into new and strange fields, faltering, struggling, but moving on, until his shambling figure is lost in the light of this better and brighter day. And from the grave comes a voice saying: "Follow him! Put your arms about him in his need, even as he puts his about me. Be his friend as he was mine." And out into this new world-strange to me as to him, dazzling, bewildering both-I follow! And may God forget my peoplewhen they forget these! Whatever the future may hold for them—whether they plod along in the servitude from which they have never been lifted since the Cyrenian was laid hold upon by the Roman soldiers and made to bear the cross of the fainting Christ-whether they find homes again in Africa, and thus hasten the prophecy of the psalmist who said: "And suddenly Ethiopia shall hold out her hands unto God"-whether, forever dislocated and separated, they remain a weak people beset by stronger, and exist as the Turk, who lives in the jealousy rather than in the conscience of Europe-or whether in this miraculous republic they break through the caste of twenty centuries and, belying universal history, reach the full stature of citizenship, and in peace maintain it—we shall give them uttermost justice and abiding friendship. And whatever we do, into whatever seeming estrangement we may be driven, nothing shall disturb the love we bear this republic. I stand here, Mr. President, to profess no new loyalty. When General Lee, whose heart was the temple of our hopes and whose arm was clothed with our strength, renewed his allegiance to the government of Appomattox, he spoke from a heart too great to be false, and he spoke for every honest man from Maryland to Texas. Fron that day to this Hamilcar has nowhere in the South sworn young Hannibal to hatred or to vengeance, but everywhere to loyalty and to love.-Henry W. Grady. [Extract from the speech on the race problem delivered at the banquet of the Merchants Association in Boston in December, 1889.] GEORGIA'S NEW CAPITOL BUILDING ACCEPTED. GENTLEMEN OF THE CAPITOL COMMISSION: In the presence of the General Assembly, and in behalf of the State, I accept from your hands Georgia's new and superb capitol. In the fashion of its architecture, in the symmetry of its proportions, in the solidity of its structure, in the beauty of its elaboration and completeness of arrangement, it is worthy the dignity and character of this great commonwealth. In all regards this new house of the State is my lawful and emphatic warrant for congratulations to the Legislature that authorized it; to the architects who designed it; to the contractors who built it, to the commissioners who supervised it, and to the people who own it. I congratulate you also, Senators |