Perhaps I ought not pass on in this narrative without mentioning that
the duet was a great success, so great that we were obliged to respond
with two encores. It seemed to me that life could hold no greater joy
than it contained when I took her hand and we stepped down to the
front of the stage bowing to our enthusiastic audience. When we
reached the little dressing-room, where the other performers were
applauding as wildly as the audience, she impulsively threw both her
arms round me and kissed me, while I struggled to get away.

One day a couple of weeks after my father had been to see us, a wagon
drove up to our cottage loaded with a big box. I was about to tell the
men on the wagon that they had made a mistake, when my mother, acting
darkly wise, told them to bring their load in; she had them unpack the
box, and quickly there was evolved from the boards, paper, and other
packing material a beautiful, brand-new, upright piano. Then she
informed me that it was a present to me from my father. I at once sat
down and ran my fingers over the keys; the full, mellow tone of the
instrument was ravishing. I thought, almost remorsefully, of how I
had left my father; but, even so, there momentarily crossed my mind
a feeling of disappointment that the piano was not a grand. The new
instrument greatly increased the pleasure of my hours of study and
practice at home.

Shortly after this I was made a member of the boys' choir, it being
found that I possessed a clear, strong soprano voice. I enjoyed the
singing very much. About a year later I began the study of the pipe
organ and the theory of music; and before I finished the grammar
school, I had written out several simple preludes for organ which won
the admiration of my teacher, and which he did me the honor to play at
services.

The older I grew, the more thought I gave to the question of my
mother's and my position, and what was our exact relation to the world
in general. My idea of the whole matter was rather hazy. My study of
United States history had been confined to those periods which were
designated in my book as "Discovery," "Colonial," "Revolutionary," and
"Constitutional." I now began to study about the Civil War, but the
story was told in such a condensed and skipping style that I gained
from it very little real information. It is a marvel how children ever
learn any history out of books of that sort. And, too, I began now to
read the newspapers; I often saw articles which aroused my curiosity,
but did not enlighten me. But one day I drew from the circulating
library a book that cleared the whole mystery, a book that I read
with the same feverish intensity with which I had read the old Bible
stories, a book that gave me my first perspective of the life I was
entering; that book was _Uncle Tom's Cabin_.

This work of Harriet Beecher Stowe has been the object of much
unfavorable criticism. It has been assailed, not only as fiction of
the most imaginative sort, but as being a direct misrepresentation.
Several successful attempts have lately been made to displace the book
from Northern school libraries. Its critics would brush it aside with
the remark that there never was a Negro as good as Uncle Tom, nor a
slave-holder as bad as Legree. For my part, I was never an admirer of
Uncle Tom, nor of his type of goodness; but I believe that there were
lots of old Negroes as foolishly good as he; the proof of which is
that they knowingly stayed and worked the plantations that furnished
sinews for the army which was fighting to keep them enslaved. But in
these later years several cases have come to my personal knowledge in
which old Negroes have died and left what was a considerable fortune
to the descendants of their former masters. I do not think it takes
any great stretch of the imagination to believe there was a fairly
large class of slave-holders typified in Legree. And we must also
remember that the author depicted a number of worthless if not vicious
Negroes, and a slave-holder who was as much of a Christian and a
gentleman as it was possible for one in his position to be; that she
pictured the happy, singing, shuffling "darky" as well as the mother
wailing for her child sold "down river."

I do not think it is claiming too much to say that _Uncle Tom's Cabin_
was a fair and truthful panorama of slavery; however that may be, it
opened my eyes as to who and what I was and what my country considered
me; in fact, it gave me my bearing. But there was no shock; I took
the whole revelation in a kind of stoical way. One of the greatest
benefits I derived from reading the book was that I could afterwards
talk frankly with my mother on all the questions which had been
vaguely troubling my mind. As a result, she was entirely freed from
reserve, and often herself brought up the subject, talking of things
directly touching her life and mine and of things which had come down
to her through the "old folks." What she told me interested and even
fascinated me, and, what may seem strange, kindled in me a strong
desire to see the South. She spoke to me quite frankly about herself,
my father, and myself: she, the sewing girl of my father's mother;
he, an impetuous young man home from college; I, the child of this
unsanctioned love. She told me even the principal reason for our
coming north. My father was about to be married to a young lady of
another great Southern family; She did not neglect to add that another
reason for our being in Connecticut was that he intended to give me
an education and make a man of me. In none of her talks did she ever
utter one word of complaint against my father. She always endeavored
to impress upon me how good he had been and still was, and that he was
all to us that custom and the law would allow. She loved him; more,
she worshiped him, and she died firmly believing that he loved her
more than any other woman in the world. Perhaps she was right. Who
knows?

All of these newly awakened ideas and thoughts took the form of a
definite aspiration on the day I graduated from the grammar school.
And what a day that was! The girls in white dresses, with fresh
ribbons in their hair; the boys in new suits and creaky shoes; the
great crowd of parents and friends; the flowers, the prizes and
congratulations, made the day seem to me one of the greatest
importance. I was on the program, and played a piano solo which was
received by the audience with that amount of applause which I had come
to look upon as being only the just due of my talent.

But the real enthusiasm was aroused by "Shiny." He was the principal
speaker of the day, and well did he measure up to the honor. He made a
striking picture, that thin little black boy standing on the platform,
dressed in clothes that did not fit him any too well, his eyes burning
with excitement, his shrill, musical voice vibrating in tones of
appealing defiance, and his black face alight with such great
intelligence and earnestness as to be positively handsome. What were
his thoughts when he stepped forward and looked into that crowd of
faces, all white with the exception of a score or so that were lost to
view? I do not know, but I fancy he felt his loneliness. I think there
must have rushed over him a feeling akin to that of a gladiator tossed
into the arena and bade to fight for his life. I think that solitary
little black figure standing there felt that for the particular time
and place he bore the weight and responsibility of his race; that for
him to fail meant general defeat; but he won, and nobly. His oration
was Wendell Phillips's "Toussaint L'Ouverture," a speech which may now
be classed as rhetorical--even, perhaps, bombastic; but as the words
fell from "Shiny's" lips their effect was magical. How so young an
orator could stir so great enthusiasm was to be wondered at. When, in
the famous peroration, his voice, trembling with suppressed emotion,
rose higher and higher and then rested on the name "Toussaint
L'Ouverture," it was like touching an electric button which loosed the
pent-up feelings of his listeners. They actually rose to him.

I have since known of colored men who have been chosen as class
orators in our leading universities, of others who have played on the
varsity football and baseball teams, of colored speakers who have
addressed great white audiences. In each of these instances I believe
the men were stirred by the same emotions which actuated "Shiny" on
the day of his graduation; and, too, in each case where the efforts
have reached any high standard of excellence they have been followed
by the same phenomenon of enthusiasm. I think the explanation of the
latter lies in what is a basic, though often dormant, principle of the
Anglo-Saxon heart, love of fair play. "Shiny," it is true, was what is
so common in his race, a natural orator; but I doubt that any white
boy of equal talent could have wrought the same effect. The sight of
that boy gallantly waging with puny, black arms so unequal a battle
touched the deep springs in the hearts of his audience, and they were
swept by a wave of sympathy and admiration.

But the effect upon me of "Shiny's" speech was double; I not only
shared the enthusiasm of his audience, but he imparted to me some of
his own enthusiasm. I felt leap within me pride that I was colored;
and I began to form wild dreams of bringing glory and honor to the
Negro race. For days I could talk of nothing else with my mother
except my ambitions to be a great man, a great colored man, to reflect
credit on the race and gain fame for myself. It was not until years
after that I formulated a definite and feasible plan for realizing my
dreams.

I entered the high school with my class, and still continued my study
of the piano, the pipe organ, and the theory of music. I had to
drop out of the boys' choir on account of a changing voice; this
I regretted very much. As I grew older, my love for reading grew
stronger. I read with studious interest everything I could find
relating to colored men who had gained prominence. My heroes had
been King David, then Robert the Bruce; now Frederick Douglass was
enshrined in the place of honor. When I learned that Alexandre Dumas
was a colored man, I re-read _Monte Cristo_ and _The Three Guardsmen_
with magnified pleasure. I lived between my music and books, on the
whole a rather unwholesome life for a boy to lead. I dwelt in a world
of imagination, of dreams and air castles--the kind of atmosphere
that sometimes nourishes a genius, more often men unfitted for the
practical struggles of life. I never played a game of ball, never went
fishing or learned to swim; in fact, the only outdoor exercise in
which I took any interest was skating. Nevertheless, though slender,
I grew well formed and in perfect health. After I entered the high
school, I began to notice the change in my mother's health, which I
suppose had been going on for some years. She began to complain a
little and to cough a great deal; she tried several remedies, and
finally went to see a doctor; but though she was failing in health,
she kept her spirits up. She still did a great deal of sewing, and
in the busy seasons hired two women to help her. The purpose she had
formed of having me go through college without financial worries kept
her at work when she was not fit for it. I was so fortunate as to be
able to organize a class of eight or ten beginners on the piano,
and so start a separate little fund of my own. As the time for my
graduation from the high school grew nearer, the plans for my college
career became the chief subject of our talks. I sent for catalogues
of all the prominent schools in the East and eagerly gathered all the
information I could concerning them from different sources. My mother
told me that my father wanted me to go to Harvard or Yale; she herself
had a half desire for me to go to Atlanta University, and even had me
write for a catalogue of that school. There were two reasons, however,
that inclined her to my father's choice; the first, that at Harvard or
Yale I should be near her; the second, that my father had promised to
pay for a part of my college education.

Both "Shiny" and "Red" came to my house quite often of evenings, and
we used to talk over our plans and prospects for the future. Sometimes
I would play for them, and they seemed to enjoy the music very much.
My mother often prepared sundry Southern dishes for them, which I am
not sure but that they enjoyed more. "Shiny" had an uncle in Amherst,
Mass., and he expected to live with him and work his way through
Amherst College. "Red" declared that he had enough of school and that
after he got his high school diploma, he would get a position in a
bank. It was his ambition to become a banker and he felt sure of
getting the opportunity through certain members of his family.

My mother barely had strength to attend the closing exercises of the
high school when I graduated, and after that day she was seldom out
of bed. She could no longer direct her work, and under the expense of
medicines, doctors, and someone to look after her our college fund
began to diminish rapidly. Many of her customers and some of the
neighbors were very kind, and frequently brought her nourishment of
one kind or another. My mother realized what I did not, that she was
mortally ill, and she had me write a long letter to my father. For
some time past she had heard from him only at irregular intervals;
we never received an answer. In those last days I often sat at her
bedside and read to her until she fell asleep. Sometimes I would leave
the parlor door open and play on the piano, just loud enough for the
music to reach her. This she always enjoyed.

One night, near the end of July, after I had been watching beside her
for some hours, I went into the parlor and, throwing myself into the
big arm chair, dozed off into a fitful sleep. I was suddenly aroused
by one of the neighbors, who had come in to sit with her that night.
She said: "Come to your mother at once." I hurried upstairs, and at
the bedroom door met the woman who was acting as nurse. I noted with
a dissolving heart the strange look of awe on her face. From my
first glance at my mother I discerned the light of death upon her
countenance. I fell upon my knees beside the bed and, burying my face
in the sheets, sobbed convulsively. She died with the fingers of her
left hand entwined in my hair.

I will not rake over this, one of the two sacred sorrows of my life;
nor could I describe the feeling of unutterable loneliness that fell
upon me. After the funeral I went to the house of my music teacher;
he had kindly offered me the hospitality of his home for so long as I
might need it. A few days later I moved my trunk, piano, my music, and
most of my books to his home; the rest of my books I divided between
"Shiny" and "Red." Some of the household effects I gave to "Shiny's"
mother and to two or three of the neighbors who had been kind to us
during my mother's illness; the others I sold. After settling up my
little estate I found that, besides a good supply of clothes, a piano,
some books and trinkets, I had about two hundred dollars in cash.

The question of what I was to do now confronted me. My teacher
suggested a concert tour; but both of us realized that I was too old
to be exploited as an infant prodigy and too young and inexperienced
to go before the public as a finished artist. He, however, insisted
that the people of the town would generously patronize a benefit
concert; so he took up the matter and made arrangements for such an
entertainment. A more than sufficient number of people with musical
and elocutionary talent volunteered their services to make a program.
Among these was my brown-eyed violinist. But our relations were not
the same as they were when we had played our first duet together. A
year or so after that time she had dealt me a crushing blow by getting
married. I was partially avenged, however, by the fact that, though
she was growing more beautiful, she was losing her ability to play the
violin.

I was down on the program for one number. My selection might have
appeared at that particular time as a bit of affectation, but I
considered it deeply appropriate; I played Beethoven's "Sonata
Pathetique." When I sat down at the piano and glanced into the faces
of the several hundreds of people who were there solely on account of
love or sympathy for me, emotions swelled in my heart which enabled me
to play the "Pathetique" as I could never again play it. When the
last tone died away, the few who began to applaud were hushed by the
silence of the others; and for once I played without receiving an
encore.

The benefit yielded me a little more than two hundred dollars, thus
raising my cash capital to about four hundred dollars. I still held
to my determination of going to college; so it was now a question of
trying to squeeze through a year at Harvard or going to Atlanta, where
the money I had would pay my actual expenses for at least two years.
The peculiar fascination which the South held over my imagination and
my limited capital decided me in favor of Atlanta University; so about
the last of September I bade farewell to the friends and scenes of my
boyhood and boarded a train for the South.

The farther I got below Washington, the more disappointed I became
in the appearance of the country. I peered through the car windows,
looking in vain for the luxuriant semi-tropical scenery which I had
pictured in my mind. I did not find the grass so green, nor the
woods so beautiful, nor the flowers so plentiful, as they were in
Connecticut. Instead, the red earth partly covered by tough, scrawny
grass, the muddy, straggling roads, the cottages of unpainted pine
boards, and the clay-daubed huts imparted a "burnt up" impression.
Occasionally we ran through a little white and green village that was
like an oasis in a desert.

When I reached Atlanta, my steadily increasing disappointment was not
lessened. I found it a big, dull, red town. This dull red color of
that part of the South I was then seeing had much, I think, to do with
the extreme depression of my spirits--no public squares, no fountains,
dingy street-cars, and, with the exception of three or four principal
thoroughfares, unpaved streets. It was raining when I arrived and some
of these unpaved streets were absolutely impassable. Wheels sank to
the hubs in red mire, and I actually stood for an hour and watched
four or five men work to save a mule, which had stepped into a deep
sink, from drowning, or, rather, suffocating in the mud. The Atlanta
of today is a new city.

On the train I had talked with one of the Pullman car porters, a
bright young fellow who was himself a student, and told him that I was
going to Atlanta to attend school. I had also asked him to tell me
where I might stop for a day or two until the University opened. He
said I might go with him to the place where he stopped during his
"lay-overs" in Atlanta. I gladly accepted his offer and went with him
along one of those muddy streets until we came to a rather rickety
looking frame house, which we entered. The proprietor of the house
was a big, fat, greasy-looking brown-skin man. When I asked him if he
could give me accommodations, he wanted to know how long I would stay.
I told him perhaps two days, not more than three. In reply he said:
"Oh, dat's all right den," at the same time leading the way up a pair
of creaky stairs. I followed him and the porter to a room, the door of
which the proprietor opened while continuing, it seemed, his remark,
"Oh, dat's all right den," by adding: "You kin sleep in dat cot in de
corner der. Fifty cents, please." The porter interrupted by saying:
"You needn't collect from him now, he's got a trunk." This seemed to
satisfy the man, and he went down, leaving me and my porter friend in
the room. I glanced around the apartment and saw that it contained
a double bed and two cots, two wash-stands, three chairs, and a
time-worn bureau, with a looking-glass that would have made Adonis
appear hideous. I looked at the cot in which I was to sleep and
suspected, not without good reasons, that I should not be the first to
use the sheets and pillow-case since they had last come from the wash.
When I thought of the clean, tidy, comfortable surroundings in which
I had been reared, a wave of homesickness swept over me that made me
feel faint. Had it not been for the presence of my companion, and that
I knew this much of his history--that he was not yet quite twenty,
just three years older than myself, and that he had been fighting his
own way in the world, earning his own living and providing for his own
education since he was fourteen--I should not have been able to stop
the tears that were welling up in my eyes.

I asked him why it was that the proprietor of the house seemed
unwilling to accommodate me for more than a couple of days. He
informed me that the man ran a lodging house especially for Pullman
porters, and, as their stays in town were not longer than one or two
nights, it would interfere with his arrangements to have anyone
stay longer. He went on to say: "You see this room is fixed up to
accommodate four men at a time. Well, by keeping a sort of table of
trips, in and out, of the men, and working them like checkers, he can
accommodate fifteen or sixteen in each week and generally avoid having
an empty bed. You happen to catch a bed that would have been empty
for a couple of nights." I asked him where he was going to sleep. He
answered: "I sleep in that other cot tonight; tomorrow night I go
out." He went on to tell me that the man who kept the house did
not serve meals, and that if I was hungry, we would go out and get
something to eat.

We went into the street, and in passing the railroad station I hired
a wagon to take my trunk to my lodging place. We passed along until,
finally, we turned into a street that stretched away, up and down
hill, for a mile or two; and here I caught my first sight of colored
people in large numbers. I had seen little squads around the railroad
stations on my way south, but here I saw a street crowded with them.
They filled the shops and thronged the, sidewalks and lined the curb.
I asked my companion if all the colored people in Atlanta lived in
this street. He said they did not and assured me that the ones I saw
were of the lower class. I felt relieved, in spite of the size of the
lower class. The unkempt appearance, the shambling, slouching gait
and loud talk and laughter of these people aroused in me a feeling
of almost repulsion. Only one thing about them awoke a feeling of
interest; that was their dialect. I had read some Negro dialect and
had heard snatches of it on my journey down from Washington; but here
I heard it in all of its fullness and freedom. I was particularly
struck by the way in which it was punctuated by such exclamatory
phrases as "Lawd a mussy!" "G'wan, man!" "Bless ma soul!" "Look heah,
chile!" These people talked and laughed without restraint. In fact,
they talked straight from their lungs and laughed from the pits of
their stomachs. And this hearty laughter was often justified by the
droll humor of some remark. I paused long enough to hear one man say
to another: "Wat's de mattah wid you an' yo' fr'en' Sam?" and the
other came back like a flash: "Ma fr'en'? He ma fr'en'? Man! I'd go to
his funeral jes' de same as I'd go to a minstrel show." I have since
learned that this ability to laugh heartily is, in part, the salvation
of the American Negro; it does much to keep him from going the way of
the Indian.

The business places of the street along which we were passing
consisted chiefly of low bars, cheap dry-goods and notion stores,
barber shops, and fish and bread restaurants. We, at length, turned
down a pair of stairs that led to a basement and I found myself in an
eating-house somewhat better than those I had seen in passing; but
that did not mean much for its excellence. The place was smoky, the
tables were covered with oilcloth, the floor with sawdust, and from
the kitchen came a rancid odor of fish fried over several times, which
almost nauseated me. I asked my companion if this was the place where
we were to eat. He informed me that it was the best place in town
where a colored man could get a meal. I then wanted to know why
somebody didn't open a place where respectable colored people who had
money could be accommodated. He answered: "It wouldn't pay; all
the respectable colored people eat at home, and the few who travel
generally have friends in the towns to which they go, who entertain
them." He added: "Of course, you could go in any place in the city;
they wouldn't know you from white."

I sat down with the porter at one of the tables, but was not hungry
enough to eat with any relish what was put before me. The food was not
badly cooked; but the iron knives and forks needed to be scrubbed, the
plates and dishes and glasses needed to be washed and well dried. I
minced over what I took on my plate while my companion ate. When we
finished, we paid the waiter twenty cents each and went out. We walked
around until the lights of the city were lit. Then the porter said
that he must get to bed and have some rest, as he had not had six
hours' sleep since he left Jersey City. I went back to our lodging
house with him.

When I awoke in the morning, there were, besides my new-found friend,
two other men in the room, asleep in the double bed. I got up and
dressed myself very quietly, so as not to awake anyone. I then drew
from under the pillow my precious roll of greenbacks, took out
a ten-dollar bill, and, very softly unlocking my trunk, put the
remainder, about three hundred dollars, in the inside pocket of a coat
near the bottom, glad of the opportunity to put it unobserved in a
place of safety. When I had carefully locked my trunk, I tiptoed
toward the door with the intention of going out to look for a decent
restaurant where I might get something fit to eat. As I was easing the
door open, my porter friend said with a yawn: "Hello! You're going
out?" I answered him: "Yes." "Oh!" he yawned again, "I guess I've had
enough sleep; wait a minute, I'll go with you." For the instant his
friendship bored and embarrassed me. I had visions of another meal
in the greasy restaurant of the day before. He must have divined my
thoughts, for he went on to say: "I know a woman across town who
takes a few boarders; I think we can go over there and get a good
breakfast." With a feeling of mingled fears and doubts regarding what
the breakfast might be, I waited until he had dressed himself.

When I saw the neat appearance of the cottage we entered, my fears
vanished, and when I saw the woman who kept it, my doubts followed the
same course. Scrupulously clean, in a spotless white apron and colored
head-handkerchief, her round face beaming with motherly kindness, she
was picturesquely beautiful. She impressed me as one broad expanse of
happiness and good nature. In a few minutes she was addressing me as
"chile" and "honey." She made me feel as though I should like to lay
my head on her capacious bosom and go to sleep.

And the breakfast, simple as it was, I could not have had at any
restaurant in Atlanta at any price. There was fried chicken, as it is
fried only in the South, hominy boiled to the consistency where it
could be eaten with a fork, and biscuits so light and flaky that a
fellow with any appetite at all would have no difficulty in disposing
of eight or ten. When I had finished, I felt that I had experienced
the realization of, at least, one of my dreams of Southern life.

During the meal we found out from our hostess, who had two boys in
school, that Atlanta University opened on that very day. I had somehow
mixed my dates. My friend the porter suggested that I go out to the
University at once and offered to walk over and show me the way. We
had to walk because, although the University was not more than
twenty minutes' distance from the center of the city, there were no
street-cars running in that direction. My first sight of the School
grounds made me feel that I was not far from home; here the red hills
had been terraced and covered with green grass; clean gravel walks,
well shaded, led up to the buildings; indeed, it was a bit of New
England transplanted. At the gate my companion said he would bid me
good-by, because it was likely that he would not see me again before
his car went out. He told me that he would make two more trips to
Atlanta and that he would come out and see me; that after his second
trip he would leave the Pullman service for the winter and return
to school in Nashville. We shook hands, I thanked him for all his
kindness, and we said good-by.

I walked up to a group of students and made some inquiries. They
directed me to the president's office in the main building. The
president gave me a cordial welcome; it was more than cordial; he
talked to me, not as the official head of a college, but as though he
were adopting me into what was his large family, personally to look
after my general welfare as well as my education. He seemed especially
pleased with the fact that I had come to them all the way from the
North. He told me that I could have come to the school as soon as I
had reached the city and that I had better move my trunk out at once.
I gladly promised him that I would do so. He then called a boy
and directed him to take me to the matron, and to show me around
afterwards. I found the matron even more motherly than the president
was fatherly. She had me register, which was in effect to sign a
pledge to abstain from the use of intoxicating beverages, tobacco, and
profane language while I was a student in the school. This act caused
me no sacrifice, as, up to that time, I was free from all three
habits. The boy who was with me then showed me about the grounds. I
was especially interested in the industrial building.

The sounding of a bell, he told me, was the signal for the students to
gather in the general assembly hall, and he asked me if I would go. Of
course I would. There were between three and four hundred students
and perhaps all of the teachers gathered in the room. I noticed
that several of the latter were colored. The president gave a talk
addressed principally to newcomers; but I scarcely heard what he said,
I was so much occupied in looking at those around me. They were of all
types and colors, the more intelligent types predominating. The colors
ranged from jet black to pure white, with light hair and eyes. Among
the girls especially there were many so fair that it was difficult to
believe that they had Negro blood in them. And, too, I could not help
noticing that many of the girls, particularly those of the delicate
brown shades, with black eyes and wavy dark hair, were decidedly
pretty. Among the boys many of the blackest were fine specimens of
young manhood, tall, straight, and muscular, with magnificent heads;
these were the kind of boys who developed into the patriarchal
"uncles" of the old slave regime.

When I left the University, it was with the determination to get my
trunk and move out to the school before night. I walked back across
the city with a light step and a light heart. I felt perfectly
satisfied with life for the first time since my mother's death. In
passing the railroad station I hired a wagon and rode with the driver
as far as my stopping-place. I settled with my landlord and went
upstairs to put away several articles I had left out. As soon as
I opened my trunk, a dart of suspicion shot through my heart; the
arrangement of things did not look familiar. I began to dig down
excitedly to the bottom till I reached the coat in which I had
concealed my treasure. My money was gone! Every single bill of it. I
knew it was useless to do so, but I searched through every other coat,
every pair of trousers, every vest, and even each pair of socks. When
I had finished my fruitless search, I sat down dazed and heartsick. I
called the landlord up and informed him of my loss; he comforted me by
saying that I ought to have better sense than to keep money in a trunk
and that he was not responsible for his lodgers' personal effects. His
cooling words brought me enough to my senses to cause me to look and
see if anything else was missing. Several small articles were gone,
among them a black and gray necktie of odd design upon which my heart
was set; almost as much as the loss of my money I felt the loss of my
tie.

After thinking for a while as best I could, I wisely decided to go at
once back to the University and lay my troubles before the president.
I rushed breathlessly back to the school. As I neared the grounds, the
thought came across me, would not my story sound fishy? Would it not
place me in the position of an impostor or beggar? What right had I to
worry these busy people with the results of my carelessness? If the
money could not be recovered, and I doubted that it could, what good
would it do to tell them about it? The shame and embarrassment which
the whole situation gave me caused me to stop at the gate. I paused,
undecided, for a moment; then, turned and slowly retraced my steps,
and so changed the whole course of my life.

If the reader has never been in a strange city without money or
friends, it is useless to try to describe what my feelings were; he
could not understand. If he has been, it is equally useless, for he
understands more than words could convey. When I reached my lodgings,
I found in the room one of the porters who had slept there the night
before. When he heard what misfortune had befallen me, he offered many
words of sympathy and advice. He asked me how much money I had left. I
told him that I had ten or twelve dollars in my pocket. He said: "That
won't last you very long here, and you will hardly be able to find
anything to do in Atlanta. I'll tell you what you do, go down to
Jacksonville and you won't have any trouble to get a job in one of the
big hotels there, or in St. Augustine." I thanked him, but intimated
my doubts of being able to get to Jacksonville on the money I had. He
reassured me by saying: "Oh, that's all right. You express your trunk
on through, and I'll take you down in my closet." I thanked him again,
not knowing then what it was to travel in a Pullman porter's closet.
He put me under a deeper debt of gratitude by lending me fifteen
dollars, which he said I could pay back after I had secured work. His
generosity brought tears to my eyes, and I concluded that, after all,
there were some kind hearts in the world.

I now forgot my troubles in the hurry and excitement of getting my
trunk off in time to catch the train, which went out at seven o'clock.
I even forgot that I hadn't eaten anything since morning. We got a
wagon--the porter went with me--and took my trunk to the express
office. My new friend then told me to come to the station at about a
quarter of seven and walk straight to the car where I should see him
standing, and not to lose my nerve. I found my role not so difficult
to play as I thought it would be, because the train did not leave from
the central station, but from a smaller one, where there were no gates
and guards to pass. I followed directions, and the porter took me on
his car and locked me in his closet. In a few minutes the train pulled
out for Jacksonville.

I may live to be a hundred years old, but I shall never forget the
agonies I suffered that night. I spent twelve hours doubled up in the
porter's basket for soiled linen, not being able to straighten up on
account of the shelves for clean linen just over my head. The air was
hot and suffocating and the smell of damp towels and used linen was
sickening. At each lurch of the car over the none-too-smooth track
I was bumped and bruised against the narrow walls of my narrow
compartment. I became acutely conscious of the fact that I had not
eaten for hours. Then nausea took possession of me, and at one time
I had grave doubts about reaching my destination alive. If I had the
trip to make again, I should prefer to walk.

A few weeks after his father's visit , the narrator receives a gorgeous new piano as a gift from his father. He is momentarily disappointed that it is not a grand, but is happy nonetheless. As he gets older, he learns he has a great voice and joins the boys' choir. He also diligently studies music theory and learns the pipe organ. The narrator's increasing maturity brings with it questions about his and his mother's place within the world. He tries find the answers in history books but finds them misleading or too condensed. When he discovers Uncle Tom's Cabin, however, he finally feels as though he is learning something important. Although the history of slavery is new to him, he relates, "there was no shock; I took the whole revelation in a kind of stoical way". This is an important experience for the narrator because it enables him to speak frankly his mother on the subjects of slavery and race. The narrator shares with his mother his growing desire to visit the South. The narrator learns that the reason he and his mother moved north is that his father was about to marry a white woman from a prosperous Southern family. However, he promised to take care of his son from afar. The narrator notes how much his mother loves and defends his father in their conversations, even though he has chosen not to build a life with her. On the day of the narrator's grammar school graduation, Shiny emerges as the brightest star amidst all of the festivity and elan. His speech is rousing and inspiring, and the narrator is caught up in the emotion of the clamorous crowd. For the first time, the narrator feels a sense of pride in being "colored" and has the newfound desire to "bring glory and honor to the Negro race". He begins to read everything he can about African American men who have achieved great things. His love for books becomes all-consuming, and he begins to " in a world of imagination, of dreams and air castles". As he progresses through high school, the narrator notices his mother's health is beginning to fade and she becomes bedridden. The two of them talk about the narrator's future; his father wants him to go to Harvard or Yale but his mother cherishes a half-hope that he might go to Atlanta University. The first option seems likelier, though, since his father has promised to pay for some of his education and an Ivy League college will keep the narrator closer to home. A few months later, however, the narrator's mother dies. Devastated and lonely, he sells off some of his things and goes to live with his music teacher, who generously allows him to stay. After his mother's death, the narrator does not have much money, so his music teacher suggests a benefit concert. Many talented performers sign on to participate, including the brown-eyed girl who has gotten married and lost much of her talent for the violin. On the night of the concert, the narrator plays Beethoven's "Sonata Pathetique" with more passion than he ever has before. It is so emotional and stunning that the rapturous audience cannot even clap. After the benefit, the narrator finds himself with about four hundred dollars to his name, and, realizing that the idea of the South still has a hold on his imagination, decides to attend Atlanta University. When he travels down South, he is disappointed by the dreary and ugly landscape. He describes Atlanta as a "big, dull, red town." He meets a twenty-year-old student who works as a Pullman car porter. The young porter tells the narrator where can stay for a couple of days before the University opens. The narrator takes him up on his suggestion but is less than impressed with the worn and hideous boarding house. Meanwhile, while walking down the street, the narrator finds himself feeling critical of the African Americans he sees, who have an "unkempt appearance"; the "shambling, slouching gait and loud talk and laughter of these people arouse in a feeling of almost repulsion." He is fascinated, however, by their unique dialect, in particular their hearty way of laughing. The porter takes the narrator to a place that serves food to "colored" men, but the food is tasteless and the surroundings unclean. The next morning, the narrator tries to sneak away from the porter to find better food. However, the porter awakens and promises to take the narrator to a small boarding house which he knows serves good breakfast. The narrator is hesitant, but he finds the clean cottage and the amiable proprietress comforting, and her food, true Southern cuisine, is utterly remarkable. The narrator learns that Atlanta University is starting classes that day and ventures there. He is pleased to see that the campus resembles New England with its gravel walks, brick walls, towering trees, and pleasant shade. He makes his way to the office of the University President, where he receives a warm welcome. At a gathering of new students in the general assembly hall, the narrator notes the large number of African American teachers and students, with no dearth of pretty girls. That night, leaving the university campus, the narrator feels a sense of contentment he has not experienced since his mother's death. The narrator's contentment is short-lived, however, for when he returns to his room he discovers that all of his money his beloved tie have been stolen from his trunk. Disconsolate, he wonders if he ought to run back to school and tell the University President what has happened. He discards this idea in his shame, realizing that the loss is his own fault. His profound sense of loneliness and despair is somewhat alleviated when another porter, who shared his room the night before, tells him that he should go to Jacksonville and get a job in one of the big hotels there. The narrator is broke, but the porter offers him a place hiding in his closet on the Pullman car. The narrator is grateful for this man's generosity but finds the twelve-hour ride in the closet torturous: "I may live to be a hundred years old, but I shall never forget the agonies I suffered that night."

In these chapters, the narrator moves from childhood to young adulthood. He grapples with the legacy of his father, his mother's sickness and death, questions of history and race, and finally, is faced with bare-bones survival when his money is stolen. This is certainly a challenge for a young man who has spent much of his life honing his cerebral interests and developing his love for music, theory, and books. The narrator's education and academic interests are important to note because as an African American author writing for a racially diverse audience, Johnson has created a protagonist who would have been described at the time as one of the "best" of his race. This portrayal would have helped readers remain sympathetic and engaged with the narrator even when, in later chapters, he embraces a life of gambling. As a young man who is now aware of his racial identity, the narrator begins to contemplate what being "colored" actually means, as an individual and for the race as a whole. Johnson makes a comment about the educational priorities of the time through the fact that the narrator does not know much about the history of slavery and has to conduct his own research about the Civil War. However, he does not seem particularly aggrieved or affronted at the terrible treatment of his brethren in American history. This is one of the first incidents that supports the common belief that the narrator is somewhat racist. He does not identify himself as one of the oppressed "colored" people he reads about, nor does he have an emotional reaction upon discovering horrible realities of slavery. Indeed, when the narrator travels to the South, his derision for that region and its inhabitants is manifest. He finds the town dirty and ugly, describing its inhabitants as "unkempt" with a "shambling shuffling gait" that evokes within him "a feeling of almost repulsion" . He finds his new porter friend to be boring and does not enjoy the food he, as a "colored" man, is expected to eat. However, the narrator does experience moments of racial pride during this section, but only when he witnesses an African American man or woman excelling in some way. It is Shiny's speech that first awakens the narrator's sense of identity. He describes the way he "felt leap within pride that was colored; and began to form wild dreams of bringing honor and glory to the Negro race ." It is after this speech that the narrator begins to read everything he can about the accomplishments of the race . At this point, it may appear to readers that the narrator is on the path towards fully embracing his racial identity, but later chapters reveal that that this path soon becomes complicated, confusing, and one that the narrator ultimately abandons. Similarly, the narrator's opinion of Atlanta shifts upon his arrival at Atlanta University, as he notices the African American professors and pretty girls on campus as well as the kindhearted nature of the President. His perception of the female and male students at the University unconsciously reveal his sympathy with white stereotypes of beauty. He admires girls of "delicate brown shades" who are "decidedly pretty," and describes "many of the blackest" boys as "the kind of boys who developed into the patriarchal 'uncles' of the old slave regime" . The narrator's tendency towards a "white gaze" will reappear later in the text when he classifies "colored" people into three different classes, exhibiting a derision and lack of understanding that was generally ascribed to white Americans. Another significant facet of the narrator's emotional growth is the concept of masculinity. One critic, Heather Russell Andrade, describes the "law of the Mother" that was a part of the system of slavery in the U.S. Children born in to slavery often grew up without the guidance of their biological fathers . Therefore, the mother was responsible for guiding the gender construction and identity development of her children. The narrator becomes aware of his racial identity at the same time that his mother reinforces the absence of his father. According to Andrade, this means that the "narrator's confusion surrounding his racial identity is never resolved". However, as the narrator, and other biracial men and women in his position, come into awareness of their race, Andrade believes that "'the law of Race,' or the public declaration of racial pride, often displaces the 'law of the Mother'". W.E.B. DuBois famously articulated the impossibility of being both black and a man in America, however, African American masculinity could reveal itself through the fight for justice and social equality. This idea was in direct opposition to the established American notion of masculinity that existed at the turn of the century, which depended on a man's ability to acquire land, goods, and money. By the end of Autobiography it becomes clear that the narrator, choosing to "pass" and live as a white man, has rejected self-sacrifice for self-interest, thus returning to the ideals of his white father. This choice is symbolized in the gold coin from the first chapter; it is, as Andrade points out, really fool's gold because it cannot purchase anything and because the narrator has a father that "law cannot signify". In this way, the narrator "can never, in the race-gender economies of his era, lay claim to true 'manhood rights'" of a white American. Of course, the essential question remains whether or not it is only the narrator choosing his father's construct of manhood, or if Johnson ascribed to these antiquated ideas as well.