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“ [162] said to practise the black art, our constitutions have nothing to say about the colour of a lawyer's skin.”

A coloured man can now be called to the Virginia bar.

But the examples of such calling are so few as to appear like special wonders. As a rule, the Negro is a toiler of the earth, content to be a toiler of the earth. He hardly cares to rise. He has no stinging wants. If not a waiter in the house, he is a worker in the field. In either case his labour is worth a fifth part of similar labour by a White man; yet his food of squash and green-corn is cheap, while he can live on the rewards of his unskilful and uncertain toil. He understands the value of a dollar; it will buy him grapes and bacon, beans, whisky, and tobacco; but he cannot see the value of a second and third dollar, since he can do no more than eat, drink, chew, and smoke all day. The morrow is the future; and a Negro's life is in the passing hour. One thing only in the future weighs sufficiently on a Negro's mind to shape his action. He is very anxious about his funeral.

“What makes us poor,” says Bill, the waiter in my room, “is de expens ob buryina us.” The

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