The young man who sank the Merrimac,
Captain Richmond Pearson Hobson, was the son of another Confederate.
Our Consul in Cuba, whose patriotism no one ever doubted, was General
Fitzhugh Lee, and the old man who planted the flag in the tree-tops
around Santiago, and led two negro regiments into the battle, was
fighting Joe Wheeler of the Confederate army.
If I were to close here, what an optimistic picture would be left in
the glow of the century's searchlight. But alas! we have unsolved
problems of imperial moment, and my purpose is to throw the
searchlight upon a few of these unsolved problems.
First, being a southern man, I shall turn it upon the Race Problem.
A century ago the Indian question was a perplexing problem, but it
cuts but little figure now, for the Indian is nightly pitching his
moving tepee a day's march nearer the sunset shore, where one more
shove, and,
"Mad to life's history
Glad to death's mystery,"
the red race will go, to where the pale face will cease from
troubling, and the weary spirit will find its rest at last.
The Chinese question is of equal insignificance, since our doors are
closed and barred against the almond eyes of the Orient.
The Negro question seems to be the race riddle of our civilization and
it will take much tact, patience and wisdom to solve the problem. It
may be a revelation to some of you to know, that at the rate the negro
race has grown since the Civil War, when the twentieth century goes
out, there will be sixty millions of negroes in one black belt across
the Southland.
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