How hallowed and sun-glinted that school life now seems to me. Many a grave has been opened and closed, the roots of many a greenbriar is embedded in the ashes of a heart that was once alive with fire, the fierce passion of life. The sun is still shining, and the arch of God's many-hued lithograph is still seen in the sky, and hearts have fire shut within them, but I wonder if the sun is as bright as it was in the long ago, if the rain-bow is as purple, if the fire in the heart is as glowing. Ah, and I know that my grand-children, in the far-away years to come, will lean feebly upon the gate and wonder if the world is as full of light as it was. Every emotion you have felt you may know has been felt by other men. It is this that makes nearly all poetry seem old; it is this that sends true poetry to the human heart.  
I will not linger over those days at school. I have sought thus far to picture my early life, not that it held incident, but that it revealed a condition. Time has been so sweeping, the hot blast that blew from the North[Pg 60] was so scorching, and left such dried and brittle stems where green memories grew, that the youth of to-day can scarcely bring himself to comprehend that strange democratic absolutism which once existed in the South. And I wonder now that it could have lasted so long, though for years the wonder was that it could so soon have been broken up. How odd now it would seem to point out a man and say, "He once owned, in this land of freedom, a hundred human beings—owned them in body, but Christian-like yielded to God the direction of their souls."
 
During the regular sessions, until he had reached his eighteenth year, my young master attended the Layfield Academy, and then he was entered at Center College. I had kept well up with him, a dead secret between us, for Old Mistress had more than once made him promise that I should be kept down upon the servants' proper level. But the secret was discovered and once it was held threateningly over me.
 
Bob and I were home to spend the Christmas holidays. On the plantation was an Ethiopian Lothario, named Steve, and one evening in his cabin he asked me if I would write for him a letter to a mulatto girl who lived on a distant farm. "I want you," said he, "ter fling in jest ez much sweet pizen ez you kin, caze[Pg 61] I lubs dat lady an' her head is monstus high. I yered de white preacher say sumfin dat he 'lowed wuz frum de dead language. An' kain't you lash in er little o' dat dead talk? I know it'll fetch her caze dat preacher's dead talk fotch me."
 
"How do you know I can write?" I asked, for I had curbed the pedantic instinct of the negro blood within me and except to a few trusted friends had dropped no hint that I could even read.
 
"Oh, I 'lowed dat ez smart er boy ez you gwine off ter school an' college wid his young marster oughter larn how ter do dat. Will you write de letter fur me?"
 
I wrote him a screed that made his eyes snap when I read it to him. It was a mixture of cold Latin grammar and warm persuasion. "Ah, Lawd," he said as he sat, tallowing his Sunday shoes, "ef dat doan fetch her she ain't ter be fotch." He folded the letter, and when he had put it into his pocket he turned upon me. "Oh, yas, you goes off ter school an' l'arns dead talk an' de rest o' us hatter sweat in de fiel'. An' de fust thing we knows you'll be crossin' de Ohio riber ter make speeches 'mong dem 'litionists. I'm gwine tell Ole Miss."
 
"What!" I cried, "after I have written a letter for you?"
 
[Pg 62]
 
"Oh, I kain't hep de letter. Dat wuz er—wuz er matter o' fack. But it ain't er matter o' fack dat you'se been trying ter put yo-se'f up 'mong de white fo'ks, er turnin' up yo' nose at us caze you'se whiter an' got mo' dead talk den we has."
 
"Steve," I pleaded, "please don't tell her. I couldn't help learning something, and I pledge you my word that I don't know much. Why, there are hundreds of negroes all about here that can read as well as I can and their masters think nothing of it."
 
"Doan you fool yo'se'f 'bout dat, honey. Dar's er heap said erbout it. Da reads dem little flat books ter de uder niggers an' da gits whupped fur it, too. And de fust thing we knows you'll be readin' trouble on dis plan'............