shall be twenty-five millions; next century we shall be fifty millions. Not a drop of our blood is lost to us—the whites take care of that. If you haven’t got but a sixteenth part of black blood, you’re a negro all right.” 36Twenty-five millions in fifty years! Next century fifty millions! I did think of it; and it was a thought to give one pause. Perhaps a more careful estimate would somewhat reduce the figures. Cautious statisticians, proceeding on the best available data, place the probable number of negroes at the beginning of the next century somewhere about 35,000,000—that is to say, some 10,000,000 more than the whole population of the eighteen Southern States at last census.[16] 36 As I left Mr. Shipton I asked whether his practice was mainly among his own people. “Yes,” he said; “ninety nine per cent. of it; though, by-the-by, I got divorces for a couple of white men the other day.” And now a word of amends to Louisville. An hour before sunset I took a car down all the long length of Broad Street, till it landed me at the entrance to Shawnee Park. |An Idyll.| This expanse of lush and yet delicate verdure is embraced by a bend of the majestic Ohio. The steep banks of the river are nobly wooded, and you look across the splendid sheet of water to what might be primeval forest beyond. In that soft sunset hour, the air was full of the scent of flowering shrubs. A mocking-bird was singing in a thicket; far off I heard voices of children playing, and, on the river, the clunk of a pair of oars in rowlocks; but within sight there were only two lovers on a grassy mound, 37and a student bent over his book. As the sun touched the trees of the opposite bank and threw a glow over the yellow eddies of the great river, I thought it would be hard to picture a more peaceful, a more beautiful, a more idyllic scene. So even Louisville is not without its charms. |An Idyll.| | | 37 11. “There are more coloured barbers in the United States to-day than ever before, but a larger number than ever cater to only the coloured trade.”—W. E. B. Du Bois: “The Negro in the South,” p. 99. On this point, however, a wise word of Mr. E. G. Murphy’s deserves to be noted: “If the man who ‘disappears’ as a barber reappears as a carpenter, or as a small farmer on his own land, he may figure in the census-tables to prove all sorts of dismal theories; but, as a matter of fact, he
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