To Victor the welfare of his mother’s people lay nearer to his heart than even Genieve, much as he loved her—than his own life, sacred as he held it, holding, as he believed it did, a mission for humanity. It wuz his idee to transplant the Africans to some place where they could live out their full lives without interference or meddlin’ with from another people, that must, in the nature of things, be always an alien race and one opposed to the black race instinctively and beyend remedy. I see jest how it wuz; I see that nobody, no matter how strong you should fix the medicine and how powerful the doses you might give, could cure this distemper, this instinctive, deep-rooted feelin’ of antipathy and repulsion towards the negro. I see that no amount of pills and plasters wuz a goin’ to make the negro feel free and easy with the white race. There is a deep-rooted difference of opinion, and difference of feelin’, difference of aims, and desires, and everything between the two races. It is as deep down as creation, and as endless as eternity, and can’t be doctored, or tackled up in any way and made to jine and become one. It can’t be did, so there is no use in tryin’. And any amount of flowery speeches or proclamations, or enactments, or anything, hain’t a goin’ to amalgamate the two races and make ’em blend into another and be a hull one. No; a law may contain every big law word, and “to wit” and “be it enacted” and every clause that ever wuz claused, and every amendment that wuz ever amended, but it hain’t a goin’ to make any difference with this law that wuz made in a higher court than any they have in Washington, D. C. And a speech may contain the hull floral tribe, all the flowers that wuz ever heard on; it may soar up in eloquence as fur up as anybody can go, and dwindle down into pathos as deep as ever wuz went. But it is a goin’ to blow over the subject jest like any whiff of wind; it hain’t a goin’ to do the job of makin’ the two races come any nigher to each other. Why, you see when anybody is a tryin’ to do this, he hain’t a fightin’ aginst flesh and blood only, the real black and white flesh of the present, but he is a fightin’ aginst principalities and powers, the powers of the long kingdom of the past, the viewless but unfightable principalities of long centuries of concentrated opinions and hereditary influences, the ingrained contempt and scorn of the superior race towards the inferior in any other condition only servitude—the inbred feelin’s of slavery, of lookin’ up with a blended humility and hatred, admiration and envy, into the face of the dominant race. The race difference lays like a gulf between the two people. You can’t step over it, your legs hain’t long enough; you can’t bridge it over, there hain’t no boards to be found strong enough; there it yawns, a deep gulf, and always will between the two races.