Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. all, nevertheless, flutter round it. they approach me in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, how does it feel to be a problem? they say, i know an excellent colored man in my town; or, i fought at mechanicsville; or, do not these southern outrages make your blood boil? at these i smile, or am interested, or reduce the boiling to a simmer, as the occasion may require.
