W.E.B. Du Bois: “The merchant of the Black Belt is a curious institution,—part banker, part landlord, part banker, and part despot.”

Of death the Negro showed little fear, but talked of it familiarly and even fondly as simply a crossing of the waters, perhaps—who knows?—back to his ancient forests again.

So wofully unorganized is sociological knowledge that the meaning of progress, the meaning of “swift” and “slow” in human doing, and the limits of human perfectability, are veiled, unanswered sphinxes on the shores of science.

Then in after years when I came to Nashville I saw the great temple builded of these songs towering over the pale city.

The minor cadences of despair change often to triumph and calm confidence.