lk of the New South, and
the Southern orator may harp upon the shortcomings of the "inferior
race," but on this line of thought and conduct, the Southern whites have
not changed one whit. Before the war, Sambo only had a quit-claim on his
black or mulatto wife, and now the laws are so framed that he cannot
defend the woman of his race against the encroachments of his white
brother, who looks at the destruction of the Negro woman as only an
indiscretion. The humble black fool is often forced away from his own
wife or sweet-heart at the point of a revolver, cowed by the feeling
that a manly stand against a white man might cause incalculable loss of
life. Yet the advocate of Lynch Law pictures this humble fellow, this
man who is afraid to attempt to defend his own home, as a reckless
dare-devil, keeping the whites in constant terror. How incompatible
these two traits of character. No; it is not the reckless dare deviltry
of the Negro that terrorizes the South, but the conscience of the white
man whose wrong treatment of a defenseless people fills him with fear
and intensifies his hatred. He is determined to fill to overflow his cup
of iniquity. Like Macbeth, he has waded in so far, that to return were
as tedious as to go over. It matters not how loud the Southerner shouts
about "the good-for-nothing Nigger," he still has the same old
anti-bellum liking for the women of that race. Bishop Turner is the only
honest and earnest advocate of Negro Emigration, the others have only a
half-hearted leaning in that direction. If it were possible for
emigration to become a reality, the Southern whites would be the hardest
kickers against the scheme. The only beneficiaries from this wonderful
enterprise would be the steamship companies; for after the hundreds of
years of transportation are over, then excursion parties would be the
order of the day for time immemorial. Our Southern gentleman will not be
deprived of the Negro woman. There is no ocean too wide for him to
cross; no wall too high for him to scale; he'd risk the fires of hell to
be in her company, intensely as he pretends to hate her. Wilmington,
North Carolina, the scene of that much regretted phenomenon--the fatal
clashing of races in November, 1898, was not, and is not without its
harems, its unholy minglings of Shem with Ham; where the soft-fingered
aristocrat embraces the lowest dusky sirene in Paddy's Hollow, and
thinks nothing of it. Molly Pierrepont whom I introduce to