Up from Slavery: An Autobiography
pains to go to the bottom of things and get facts, in a cold,
business-like manner.
I have seen the statement made lately, by one who claims to know what
he is talking about, that, taking the whole Negro race into account,
ninety per cent of the Negro women are not virtuous. There never was a
baser falsehood uttered concerning a race, or a statement made that was
less capable of being proved by actual facts.
No one can come into contact with the race for twenty years, as I have
done in the heart of the South, without being convinced that the race
is constantly making slow but sure progress materially, educationally,
and morally. One might take up the life of the worst element in New
York City, for example, and prove almost anything he wanted to prove
concerning the white man, but all will agree that this is not a fair
test.
Early in the year 1897 I received a letter inviting me to deliver an
address at the dedication of the Robert Gould Shaw monument in Boston.
I accepted the invitation. It is not necessary for me, I am sure, to
explain who Robert Gould Shaw was, and what he did. The monument to his
memory stands near the head of the Boston Common, facing the State
House. It is counted to be the most perfect piece of art of the kind to
be found in the country.
The exercises connected with the dedication were held in Music Hall, in
Boston, and the great hall was packed from top to bottom with one of
the most distinguished audiences that ever assembled in the city. Among
those present were more persons representing the famous old
anti-slavery element that it is likely will ever be brought together in
the country again. The late Hon. Roger Wolcott, then Governor of
Massachusetts, was the presiding officer, and on the platform with him
were many other officials and hundreds of distinguished men. A report
of the meeting which appeared in the Boston Transcript will describe it
better than any words of mine could do:—
The core and kernel of yesterday’s great noon meeting, in honour of the
Brotherhood of Man, in Music Hall, was the superb address of the Negro
President of Tuskegee. “Booker T. Washington received his Harvard A.M.
last June, the first of his race,” said Governor Wolcott, “to receive
an honorary degree from the oldest university in the land, and this for
the wise leadership of his people.” When Mr. Washington rose in the
flag-filled, enthusiasm-warmed, patriotic, and glowing atmosphere of
Music Hall, people felt keenly that here was the civic justification of
the old abolition spirit of Massachusetts; in his person the proof of
her ancient and indomitable faith; in his strong thought and rich
oratory, the crown and glory of the old war days of suffering and
strife. The scene was full of historic beauty and deep significance.
“Cold” Boston was alive with the fire that is always hot in her heart
for righteousness and truth. Rows and rows of people who are seldom
seen at any public function, whole families of those who are certain to
be out of town on a holiday, crowded the place to overflowing. The city
was at her birthright _fête_ in the persons of hundreds of her best
citizens, men and women whose names and lives stand for the virtues
that make for honourable civic pride.
Battle-music had filled the air. Ovation after ovation, applause warm
and prolonged, had greeted the officers and friends of Colonel Shaw,
the sculptor, St. Gaudens, the memorial Committee, the Governor and his
staff, and the Negro soldiers of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts as they
came upon the platform or entered the hall. Colonel Henry Lee, of
Governor Andrew’s old staff, had made a noble, simple presentation
speech for the committee, paying tribute to Mr. John M. Forbes, in
whose stead he served. Governor Wolcott had made his short, memorable
speech, saying, “Fort Wagner marked an epoch in the history of a race,
and called it into manhood.” Mayor Quincy had received the monument for
the city of Boston. The story of Colonel Shaw and his black regiment
had been told in gallant words, and then, after the singing of
Mine eyes have seen the glory
Of the coming of the Lord,
Booker Washington arose. It was, of course, just the moment for him.
The multitude, shaken out of its usual symphony-concert calm, quivered
with an excitement that was not suppressed. A dozen times it had sprung
to its feet to cheer and wave and hurrah, as one person. When this man
of culture and voice and power, as well as a dark skin, began, and
uttered the names of Stearns and of Andrew, feeling began to mount. You
could see tears glisten in the eyes of soldiers and civilians. When the
orator turned to the coloured soldiers on the platform, to the
colour-bearer of Fort Wagner, who smilingly bore still the flag he had
never lowered even when wounded, and said, “To you, to the scarred and
scattered remnants of the Fifty-fourth, who, with empty sleeve and
wanting leg, have honoured this occasion with your presence, to you,
your commander is not dead. Though Boston erected no monument and
history recorded no story, in you and in the loyal race which you
represent, Robert Gould Shaw would have a monument which time could not
wear away,” then came the climax of the emotion of the day and the
hour. It was Roger Wolcott, as well as the Governor of Massachusetts,
the individual representative of the people’s sympathy as well as the
chief magistrate, who had sprung first to his feet and cried, “Three
cheers to Booker T. Washington!”
Among those on the platform was Sergeant William H. Carney, of New
Bedford, Mass., the brave coloured officer who was the colour-bearer at
Fort Wagner and held the American flag. In spite of the fact that a
large part of his regiment was killed, he escaped, and exclaimed, after
the battle was over, “The old flag never touched the ground.”
This flag Sergeant Carney held in his hands as he sat on the platform,
and when I turned to address the survivors of the coloured regiment who
were present, and referred to Sergeant Carney, he rose, as if by
instinct, and raised the flag. It has been my privilege to witness a
good many satisfactory and rather sensational demonstrations in
connection with some of my public addresses, but in dramatic effect I
have never seen or experienced anything which equalled this. For a
number of minutes the audience seemed to entirely lose control of
itself.
In the general rejoicing throughout the country which followed the
close of the Spanish-American war, peace celebrations were arranged in
several of the large cities. I was asked by President William R.
Harper, of the University of Chicago, who was chairman of the committee
of invitations for the celebration to be held in the city of Chicago,
to deliver one of the addresses at the celebration there. I accepted
the invitation, and delivered two addresses there during the Jubilee
week. The first of these, and the principal one, was given in the
Auditorium, on the evening of Sunday, October 16. This was the largest
audience that I have ever addressed, in any part of the country; and
besides speaking in the main Auditorium, I also addressed, that same
evening, two overflow audiences in other parts of the city.
It was said that there were sixteen thousand persons in the Auditorium,
and it seemed to me as if there were as many more on the outside trying
to get in. It was impossible for any one to get near the entrance
without the aid of a policeman. President William McKinley attended
this meeting, as did also the members of his Cabinet, many foreign
ministers, and a large number of army and navy officers, many of whom
had distinguished themselves in the war which had just closed. The
speakers, besides myself, on Sunday evening, were Rabbi Emil G. Hirsch,
Father Thomas P. Hodnett, and Dr. John H. Barrows.
The Chicago Times-Herald, in describing the meeting, said of my
address:—
He pictured the Negro choosing slavery rather than extinction; recalled
Crispus Attucks shedding his blood at the beginning of the American
Revolution, that white Americans might be free, while black Americans
remained in slavery; rehearsed the conduct of the Negroes with Jackson
at New Orleans; drew a vivid and pathetic picture of the Southern
slaves protecting and supporting the families of their masters while
the latter were fighting to perpetuate black slavery; recounted the
bravery of coloured troops at Port Hudson and Forts Wagner and Pillow,
and praised the heroism of the black regiments that stormed El Caney
and Santiago to give freedom to the enslaved people of Cuba,
forgetting, for the time being, the unjust discrimination that law and
custom make against them in their own country.
In all of these things, the speaker declared, his race had chosen the
better part. And then he made his eloquent appeal to the consciences of
the white Americans: “When you have gotten the full story of the heroic
conduct of the Negro in the Spanish-American war, have heard it from
the lips of Northern soldier and Southern soldier, from ex-abolitionist
and ex-masters, then decide within yourselves whether a race that is
thus willing to die for its country should not be given the highest
opportunity to live for its country.”
The part of the speech which seems to arouse the wildest and most
sensational enthusiasm was that in which I thanked the President for
his recognition of the Negro in his appointments during the
Spanish-American war. The President was sitting in a box at the right
of the stage. When I addressed him I turned toward the box, and as I
finished the sentence thanking him for his generosity, the whole
audience rose and cheered again and again, waving handkerchiefs and
hats and canes, until the President arose in the box and bowed his
acknowledgements. At that the enthusiasm broke out again, and the
demonstration was almost indescribable.
One portion of my address at Chicago seemed to have been misunderstood
by the Southern press, and some of the Southern papers took occasion to
criticise me rather strongly. These criticisms continued for several
weeks, until I finally received a letter from the editor of the
Age-Herald, published in Birmingham, Ala., asking me if I would say
just what I meant by this part of the address. I replied to him in a
letter which seemed to satisfy my critics. In this letter I said that I
had made it a rule never to say before a Northern audience anything
that I would not say before an audience in the South. I said that I did
not think it was necessary for me to go into extended explanations; if
my seventeen years of work in the heart of the South had not been
explanation enough, I did not see how words could explain. I said that
I made the same plea that I had made in my address at Atlanta, for the
blotting out of race prejudice in “commercial and civil relations.” I
said that what is termed social recognition was a question which I
never discussed, and then I quoted from my Atlanta address what I had
said there in regard to that subject.
In meeting crowds of people at public gatherings, there is one type of
individual that I dread. I mean the crank. I have become so accustomed
to these people now that I can pick them out at a distance when I see
them elbowing their way up to me. The average crank has a long beard,
poorly cared for, a lean, narrow face, and wears a black coat. The
front of his vest and coat are slick with grease, and his trousers bag
at the knees.
In Chicago, after I had spoken at a meeting, I met one of these
fellows. They usually have some process for curing all of the ills of
the world at once. This Chicago specimen had a patent process by which
he said Indian corn could be kept through a period of three or four
years, and he felt sure that if the Negro race in the South would, as a