CHAPTER THREE

"_They Knew He Had Written the Truth_"

"Yes," said the man, "I knew Sidney Wyeth well. He was, in fact, a personal friend of mine; and, let me tell you, Madam, there never was a fellow more interested in the welfare of his people, from a general point of view, than the one you inquire about."

"Indeed!" she echoed, with a pleased smile.

"Yes, Madam, I speak the truth. My name is Jones," he said. "I am the editor of the _Reporter_, and Mr. Wyeth used to drop into the office here quite often, and talk with me about the condition of our people in the south. He was a conscientious fellow, void of pretense, and with a regard for anyone's point of view. Yes, Wyeth was a fellow who insisted upon calling a spade a spade, not a hoe; but there is an element of people here--or was, rather--before the appearance of an arraignment by Wyeth, who had only contempt for anyone's opinion other than their own. Oh, I'll tell you, Miss, you cannot imagine how this has been worrying me for years. I have been conducting this paper for some time, and have struggled to make it a good sheet; but, of course, we cannot collect from advertising and make our paper pay, as we would like to see it." He paused a moment, and then, making himself more comfortable, he fell into a long conversation, in which, with much fervor, he told Mildred Latham, whom he had observed was a careful and appreciative listener, of the conditions Sidney Wyeth had seen and had written about.

"The papers told about the success of Wilson Jacobs in securing a Y.M.C.A. for the town northwest of here, and God knows how glad I am to see that our people in the south are coming to appreciate a Christian forward movement. We have been, in a way, steering in a direction that got us nowhere, and that was the way Wyeth used to discuss it. We have here, and in the town just mentioned, the worst Negroes under the sun, and yet counted as civilized people. And it seems to have been forgotten or overlooked, that our salvation, in a moral sense, as well as in a practical and progressive, depends first upon our own initiative. I cannot account for the selfishness that has so pervaded the lives of our professional people. Last summer, in a lengthy article, a Mr. B.J. Dickson, editor of the _Attalia Independent_, scored the physicians of that city for a little incident, that in itself showed a mark of narrowness that few would or could be brought to believe."

He then related the article in brief, stating that the color line had been drawn among the colored people themselves, and became very much worked up over the fact that most of the people who had been invited, did not, as a rule, employ Negro doctors for professional purposes.

"I have hinted at the things Mr. Wyeth attacked in his article, and I have, more than once, pointed to the evils in our own society; but no one paid any attention. No, they were too self-opinionated. They could not see their faults in a Negro paper; but, when it was brought to their attention on the front page of one of the most conservative papers conducted by whites in the south, well, then, it appeared altogether different.

"They stewed and deplored, became indignant, and all that; but the truth cannot be played with. With all the noise that followed the publication of the article, conscience became a burden. They knew to the last one, that Sidney Wyeth had written the truth, and nothing but the truth. And, thanks to God, there were enough good people to say, when the demagogues were decrying it, that it was the truth. So now, in this city, where times are hard, and many people are out of work; but with plenty of time to think it over, there is in evidence a decided change, and it is my opinion, that next summer will see this new idea put into effect--at least started."

"So, Mr. Wyeth has located permanently here?" she inquired, after a pause.

"Oh, no," he replied quickly. "I had become so stirred, when I recalled how much life and appreciation that article of his had inspired in the order of existence about here, that I forgot to say that Mr. Wyeth has left the city. In fact, he left the city immediately after the appearance of the article."

She caught her breath, and swallowed with surprise and disappointment. He had left the city. Where had he gone to? She was afraid to inquire. But Jones was speaking again, and saved her the embarrassment of inquiring.

"Yes, he left a day or so afterward. He is not likely to locate in the south. And, moreover, his mission in these parts is not, I am sure, one of locating or hunting a location. He appears to be one seeking the truth about our people." He told her of Wyeth's departure to the creole city, and then, obviously anxious to unload his burden of opinions, to which she listened with patient interest, he continued:

"I am of the opinion that he will write a book on these conditions in the near future. And, if it compares with his article and carries a romance interwoven, it will meet with public appreciation. He always spoke of his home out west with much longing, and I suppose that the atmosphere out there must be of the progressive spirit, which makes a difference when one is forced to tolerate the conditions of sluggishness down here."

"How are the people here on Christian forward work?" she asked.

"They had never thought of such a thing until Wyeth wrote the article, and it was the same in regard to a library and a park. You see, Madam, it has been like this," he explained: "Our people have been in the habit of accepting everything (when it came to uplift) from the white people as a matter of course, never letting it worry them, as far as their own efforts were concerned. Then, again, what few books have been written, with some exceptions (novels especially, and of which our race has produced but few) have dealt with the Negro as a poor, persecuted character, deserving everybody's sympathy. In some manner, the authors have been either careful to avoid his more inherent traits, or they were so fired with their subject matter, that they forgot it.

"Yes, Wyeth brought in a couple of books he had sent for, and which were written by the most successful fiction writer our race has known. He read them, and pointed out that only a slight mention was made therein, that the Negro would lie--'excuse the expression'--and steal, get drunk, and fight, and kill and gamble to such an extent, that he would lose his last dollar, and lie out of paying an honest debt.

"Anyone who conscientiously knows the Negro, must certainly be aware of these traits. Why then, should a writer build a work of the imagination, in which he seeks to reveal to the reader the white man's hatred for his black brother, without including in the same statement, that the Negro has inherent traits, which are some of the worst evils good society is called upon to endure? Wyeth judged this was the reason why these books did not sell and the authors ceased to write, since they could not work without a living profit.

"Of course, when we allow ourselves, our thoughts, rather, to dwell upon the white man's prejudice, we will surely become pessimists. Who is not aware of it? But it is the purpose of the practical Negro to forget that condition as much as possible. To allow our minds to dwell upon it, and predict what is likely to happen, is only to prepare ourselves for eternal misery. So far as I believe, it is my opinion that the white man will always hate the Negro. It may be argued that it is un-Christianlike, which is true; but the fact to be reckoned with, and which remains, is that the white man dislikes Negroes. But, when we have our own welfare to consider first and last, it is logical that we turn our energies to a more momentary purpose.

"I read Derwins' first book, a work of sociology, and which met a great sale, and thereby brought him into public notice. Then I read his late one, a novel, in which he portrayed the evil of prejudice. Like the other author I refer to, he built his plot entirely upon that, leaving the fact that the Negro possesses the many vices I have mentioned to be understood. Of all races, the Negro is the most original and humorous. Those who know him, even the least, look for some humor. Fancy, then, how people must be disappointed, when they purchase and read a volume concerning that race, and find it void of humor! The work of both these men, like works other than fiction, by Negroes, is couched in the most select words; but the people look for what they know to be current. And when they do not find it, they are likely to lay the book aside, and pick up something that is more to their taste.

"And, with all due regard for the writings of these men, if you read their works carefully, you will discover their own lack of confidence in the race whose cause they champion. I will relate a little incident to show this:

"Follow the romance, and you will find it invariably centered about a white couple. Why have they done this? The answer will be, a moral; but, in my opinion, they could not imagine a Negro character strong enough to weave into the plot, and, therefore, substituted white lovers, because, in their imagination, it was more fitting.

"These men have quit writing, from the fact, that it did not pay; for, it takes a world of thought, concentrated upon a certain purpose, to write a novel. Any man with the ability to put a great thought into words, and to employ words that are select, in the manner these men did in their books, could, at least should be, practical enough to do so in such a manner as to win an audience that would pay sufficiently for their work to maintain them. Instead of that, they have both quit writing. They were sincere, but did the worst possible thing by quitting. For the quitter never gains anything; and, when it comes to championing the cause of a people, the persons who have attempted the same, should certainly adhere to the task." He paused now, as someone knocked at the door.

"Come in," he called.

A woman, neatly dressed and attractive in appearance, and apparently intelligent, entered.

"How do, Mr. Jones," she cried, stretching forth her hand. Mildred rose to go, but Jones waved her back.

"Mrs. Langdon," he said kindly, "I am glad to see you. Be seated." She took a seat. She turned to Mildred, who looked as though she felt she was intruding, and said:

"It is nothing private!"

She drew from her bag a few sheets of paper, and, smoothing them out, she handed them to the editor with: "Here is a little article I have written, in honor of the young lady who is soon to make her appearance here in recital, as you know, and which has been well advertised. I wish to have you publish it in your paper," and then she smiled sweetly and affected much modesty, as she added: "It will not be necessary that you mention the same is written by me."

"But I wish you to have all that is your due, Mrs. Langdon," he protested.

"Oh, very well, then," she said, and rising, with a few more words, she took her leave.

Jones glanced over the page, and then started. "Excuse me just a moment, Miss," he begged, and read the pages which were neatly written and punctuated. When he had finished, he smiled and said, under his breath: "That is certainly nerve."

Mildred regarded him curiously. He looked at her, and handed the manuscript across the desk, saying: "Please read it."

She obeyed, and when she was through, said: "It is a nice eulogy," and then her face showed the wonderment because of his expression of a moment ago.

"Yes," he agreed, "it _is_ nice, but take a glance at this," and forthwith drew from the top of the desk, a pamphlet with the picture of an attractive colored girl thereon.

Mildred observed the picture, and then read the article on the other three pages. When she saw the editor's face again, she understood, but she didn't say, in fact, she didn't know what to say. The editor continued:

"These pamphlets are scattered all over town. Can you imagine a person with her appearance and obvious intelligence doing such a thing? And yet, this office is the recipient of many such instances."

The article had been copied from the three pages of the pamphlet he had handed her, and which were scattered all over the town.