Their reason for inviting me was that I had had a scathing poem printed, in the New York Independent, on the lynching of a negro in Lincoln’s home State of Illinois.

* * * * *

Within two days of my talk at the First Methodist African Church, I met simultaneously in front of the library, two women, each going in opposite directions....

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gregory!”

It was Matty Smith.  She was hesitating for a cue from me.  She wished to stop and thank me again for my speaking.

But from the other side Vanna Andrews was passing.

I ignored Matty with a face like a stone wall.

“Good afternoon!” I bowed to Vanna ... who ignored me ... perhaps not seeing me.

The fearful, hurt look in the negro girl’s eyes made me so ashamed of myself that I wanted to run away and hide forever somewhere.

That night I was so covered with shame over what I had done to another human soul, a soul perhaps as proud and fine as any in Laurel, that it was not till dawn that sleep visited me....

So I was just as rotten, just as snobbish, just as fearful of the herd, as were these other human beings whom I made fun of as the bourgeoisie.

* * * * *

Speaking with Riley, one of the English professors, about the mixture of colours on the hill....

“I must confess,” he admitted sincerely, “that I feel awkward indeed when a negro student walks by my side ... even for a few steps....”

Coach Shaughnessy declared himself boldly—­

“I’ll admit frankly to you, Gregory, but don’t, of course, repeat what I say—­that I’ll never let a nigger play on the football team ... when they sweat they stink too badly ... no, sir, John Brown’s State or not, the negro was never meant to mix with the white on terms of equality.”

* * * * *

It was mainly out of consideration for Langworth, and desire to please him, that I now joined the Unitarian Church, of which all the old settlers of Laurel were members.  This included a testy old gentleman named Colonel Saunders, who had been one of John Brown’s company, had quarrelled with him,—­and who now, every year, maintained, at the annual meeting of old settlers, that Brown had been a rogue and murderer ... a mad man, going about cutting up whole families with corn knives....

At this juncture in his speech, which was made undeviatingly every year, a sentimental woman would rise and cry out—­

“John Brown, God bless him, whatever you say, Colonel Saunders, his soul still goes marching on—­”

“I grant that, madam—­that his soul still goes marching on—­I never contested that—­but where does it go marching on!”

Then the yearly riot of protests and angry disputation would wake.

And every spring, in anticipation of this melee, reporters from the Kansas City papers were sent to cover the story of the proceedings of the Old Settlers’ Society.