The Secret to Successful Public Speaking

As to how my address at Atlanta was received by the audience in the Exposition building, I think I prefer to let Mr. James Creelman, the noted war correspondent, tell. Mr. Creelman was present, and telegraphed the following account to the New York World:—

I think I would rather let Mr. James Creelman, the well-known war correspondent, describe how the audience received my speech in the Exposition building in Atlanta. Mr. Creelman was there and telegraphed the following account to the New York World:

Atlanta, September 18.

Atlanta, September 18.

While President Cleveland was waiting at Gray Gables to-day, to send the electric spark that started the machinery of the Atlanta Exposition, a Negro Moses stood before a great audience of white people and delivered an oration that marks a new epoch in the history of the South; and a body of Negro troops marched in a procession with the citizen soldiery of Georgia and Louisiana. The whole city is thrilling to-night with a realization of the extraordinary significance of these two unprecedented events. Nothing has happened since Henry Grady’s immortal speech before the New England society in New York that indicates so profoundly the spirit of the New South, except, perhaps, the opening of the Exposition itself.

Today, President Cleveland waited at Gray Gables to send the electric signal that started the machinery of the Atlanta Exposition. At the same time, a Negro Moses stood before a large audience of white people. He delivered a speech that marks a new era in the history of the South. A group of Negro troops also marched in a procession with the citizen soldiers of Georgia and Louisiana. Tonight, the whole city is thrilled by the extraordinary significance of these two unprecedented events. Nothing since Henry Grady’s immortal speech before the New England society in New York has shown the spirit of the New South so profoundly, except, perhaps, the opening of the Exposition itself.

When Professor Booker T. Washington, Principal of an industrial school for coloured people in Tuskegee, Ala. stood on the platform of the Auditorium, with the sun shining over the heads of his auditors into his eyes, and with his whole face lit up with the fire of prophecy, Clark Howell, the successor of Henry Grady, said to me, “That man’s speech is the beginning of a moral revolution in America.”

Professor Booker T. Washington stood on the stage of the Auditorium. He was the principal of an industrial school for Black people in Tuskegee, Ala. The sun shone over the heads of his audience and into his eyes. His whole face was lit with the fire of prophecy. Clark Howell, Henry Grady’s successor, said to me, “That man’s speech is the beginning of a moral revolution in America.”

It is the first time that a Negro has made a speech in the South on any important occasion before an audience composed of white men and women. It electrified the audience, and the response was as if it had come from the throat of a whirlwind.

This is the first time a Black person has spoken at an important event in the South before an audience of white men and women. The speech electrified the audience, and its response sounded as if it came from the throat of a whirlwind.

Mrs. Thompson had hardly taken her seat when all eyes were turned on a tall tawny Negro sitting in the front row of the platform. It was Professor Booker T. Washington, President of the Tuskegee (Alabama) Normal and Industrial Institute, who must rank from this time forth as the foremost man of his race in America. Gilmore’s Band played the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and the audience cheered. The tune changed to “Dixie” and the audience roared with shrill “hi-yis.” Again the music changed, this time to “Yankee Doodle,” and the clamour lessened.

Mrs. Thompson had hardly sat down when all eyes turned to a tall, brown-skinned Black man sitting in the front row on the platform. It was Professor Booker T. Washington, President of the Tuskegee (Alabama) Normal and Industrial Institute. From that time on, he must rank as the foremost Black man in America. Gilmore’s Band played the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and the audience cheered. The music changed to “Dixie,” and the audience roared with shrill “hi-yis.” The music changed again, this time to “Yankee Doodle,” and the noise grew quieter.

All this time the eyes of the thousands present looked straight at the Negro orator. A strange thing was to happen. A black man was to speak for his people, with none to interrupt him. As Professor Washington strode to the edge of the stage, the low, descending sun shot fiery rays through the windows into his face. A great shout greeted him. He turned his head to avoid the blinding light, and moved about the platform for relief. Then he turned his wonderful countenance to the sun without a blink of the eyelids, and began to talk.

All this time, the thousands of people present looked straight at the Black speaker. Something unusual was about to happen. A Black man would speak for his people without anyone interrupting him. As Professor Washington strode to the edge of the stage, the low, setting sun sent fiery rays through the windows into his face. A great shout greeted him. He turned his head to avoid the blinding light and moved around the stage to escape it. Then he turned his remarkable face toward the sun without blinking and began to speak.

There was a remarkable figure; tall, bony, straight as a Sioux chief, high forehead, straight nose, heavy jaws, and strong, determined mouth, with big white teeth, piercing eyes, and a commanding manner. The sinews stood out on his bronzed neck, and his muscular right arm swung high in the air, with a lead-pencil grasped in the clinched brown fist. His big feet were planted squarely, with the heels together and the toes turned out. His voice range out clear and true, and he paused impressively as he made each point. Within ten minutes the multitude was in an uproar of enthusiasm—handkerchiefs were waved, canes were flourished, hats were tossed in the air. The fairest women of Georgia stood up and cheered. It was as if the orator had bewitched them.

He was a remarkable figure, tall and bony, standing as straight as a Sioux chief. He had a high forehead, a straight nose, heavy jaws, and a strong, determined mouth with big white teeth. His eyes were piercing, and he had a commanding manner. The tendons stood out on his bronzed neck. He raised his muscular right arm high in the air, gripping a lead pencil in his clenched brown fist. His big feet were planted firmly, with his heels together and his toes turned out. His voice rang out clear and true, and he paused impressively as he made each point. Within ten minutes, the crowd erupted with enthusiasm. People waved handkerchiefs, brandished canes, and tossed hats into the air. The most beautiful women of Georgia stood up and cheered. It was as if the speaker had bewitched them.

And when he held his dusky hand high above his head, with the fingers stretched wide apart, and said to the white people of the South on behalf of his race, “In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress,” the great wave of sound dashed itself against the walls, and the whole audience was on its feet in a delirium of applause, and I thought at that moment of the night when Henry Grady stood among the curling wreaths of tobacco-smoke in Delmonico’s banquet-hall and said, “I am a Cavalier among Roundheads.”

He raised his dark hand high above his head, with his fingers spread wide. Speaking for his race, he said to the white people of the South, “In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress.” A great wave of sound crashed against the walls, and the whole audience rose in a frenzy of applause. At that moment, I thought of another night in Delmonico’s banquet hall. Henry Grady had stood there among the curling clouds of tobacco smoke and said, “I am a Cavalier among Roundheads.”

I have heard the great orators of many countries, but not even Gladstone himself could have pleased a cause with most consummate power than did this angular Negro, standing in a nimbus of sunshine, surrounded by the men who once fought to keep his race in bondage. The roar might swell ever so high, but the expression of his earnest face never changed.

I have heard great speakers from many countries. But not even Gladstone himself could have argued a cause more powerfully than this angular Black man. He stood in a halo of sunshine, surrounded by men who had once fought to keep his race enslaved. However loud the roar grew, the expression on his earnest face never changed.

A ragged, ebony giant, squatted on the floor in one of the aisles, watched the orator with burning eyes and tremulous face until the supreme burst of applause came, and then the tears ran down his face. Most of the Negroes in the audience were crying, perhaps without knowing just why.

A giant of a man with ebony skin and ragged clothes squatted on the floor in an aisle. He watched the speaker with burning eyes and a trembling face. When the applause reached its peak, tears ran down his face. Most of the Black people in the audience were crying, perhaps without knowing exactly why.

At the close of the speech Governor Bullock rushed across the stage and seized the orator’s hand. Another shout greeted this demonstration, and for a few minutes the two men stood facing each other, hand in hand.

At the end of the speech, Governor Bullock rushed across the stage and grabbed the speaker’s hand. Another shout greeted this gesture. For a few minutes, the two men stood facing each other, hand in hand.

So far as I could spare the time from the immediate work at Tuskegee, after my Atlanta address, I accepted some of the invitations to speak in public which came to me, especially those that would take me into territory where I thought it would pay to plead the cause of my race, but I always did this with the understanding that I was to be free to talk about my life-work and the needs of my people. I also had it understood that I was not to speak in the capacity of a professional lecturer, or for mere commercial gain.

After my Atlanta address, I accepted some invitations to speak in public when I could spare the time from my immediate work at Tuskegee. I especially accepted invitations to places where I thought it would be worthwhile to speak for the cause of my race. But I always made it clear that I had to be free to talk about my life’s work and my people’s needs. I also made it clear that I would not speak as a professional lecturer or simply to make money.

In my efforts on the public platform I never have been able to understand why people come to hear me speak. This question I never can rid myself of. Time and time again, as I have stood in the street in front of a building and have seen men and women passing in large numbers into the audience room where I was to speak, I have felt ashamed that I should be the cause of people—as it seemed to me—wasting a valuable hour of their time. Some years ago I was to deliver an address before a literary society in Madison, Wis. An hour before the time set for me to speak, a fierce snow-storm began, and continued for several hours. I made up my mind that there would be no audience, and that I should not have to speak, but, as a matter of duty, I went to the church, and found it packed with people. The surprise gave me a shock that I did not recover from during the whole evening.

When I speak in public, I have never been able to understand why people come to hear me. I can never stop wondering about this. Time and again, I have stood outside a building where I was to speak. I have watched large numbers of men and women enter the hall to hear me. It has made me feel ashamed to think I was causing them to waste a valuable hour of their time. Some years ago, I was scheduled to speak to a literary society in Madison, Wis. An hour before my speech, a fierce snowstorm began and continued for several hours. I decided there would be no audience and that I would not have to speak. But I went to the church out of a sense of duty and found it packed with people. The surprise was such a shock that I did not recover from it all evening.

People often ask me if I feel nervous before speaking, or else they suggest that, since I speak often, they suppose that I get used to it. In answer to this question I have to say that I always suffer intensely from nervousness before speaking. More than once, just before I was to make an important address, this nervous strain has been so great that I have resolved never again to speak in public. I not only feel nervous before speaking, but after I have finished I usually feel a sense of regret, because it seems to me as if I had left out of my address the main thing and the best thing that I had meant to say.

People often ask if I feel nervous before speaking. Others assume that because I speak often, I must be used to it. In answer, I have to say that I always suffer intensely from nervousness before speaking. More than once, just before an important speech, I have felt so nervous that I resolved never to speak in public again. I feel nervous not only before speaking. Afterward, I usually feel regret because it seems I left out the main and best thing I meant to say.

There is a great compensation, though, for this preliminary nervous suffering, that comes to me after I have been speaking for about ten minutes, and have come to feel that I have really mastered my audience, and that we have gotten into full and complete sympathy with each other. It seems to me that there is rarely such a combination of mental and physical delight in any effort as that which comes to a public speaker when he feels that he has a great audience completely within his control. There is a thread of sympathy and oneness that connects a public speaker with his audience, that is just as strong as though it was something tangible and visible. If in an audience of a thousand people there is one person who is not in sympathy with my views, or is inclined to be doubtful, cold, or critical, I can pick him out. When I have found him I usually go straight at him, and it is a great satisfaction to watch the process of his thawing out. I find that the most effective medicine for such individuals is administered at first in the form of a story, although I never tell an anecdote simply for the sake of telling one. That kind of thing, I think, is empty and hollow, and an audience soon finds it out.

There is, though, a great reward for the nervousness I suffer beforehand. It comes after I have been speaking for about ten minutes. By then, I feel that I have truly mastered my audience and that we fully understand and share each other’s feelings. I think few efforts offer the same combination of mental and physical pleasure. A public speaker feels that pleasure when he has a large audience completely under his control. A thread of shared feeling and unity connects a speaker to his audience. It is just as strong as if it were something visible and tangible. If one person in an audience of a thousand does not share my views, or seems doubtful, cold, or critical, I can pick that person out. Once I have found him, I usually address him directly. It gives me great satisfaction to watch him warm up. I find that the best medicine for such people is to start with a story. But I never tell a story just for the sake of telling one. I think that kind of storytelling is empty and hollow, and an audience soon sees through it.

I believe that one always does himself and his audience an injustice when he speaks merely for the sake of speaking. I do not believe that one should speak unless, deep down in his heart, he feels convinced that he has a message to deliver. When one feels, from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, that he has something to say that is going to help some individual or some cause, then let him say it; and in delivering his message I do not believe that many of the artificial rules of elocution can, under such circumstances, help him very much. Although there are certain things, such as pauses, breathing, and pitch of voice, that are very important, none of these can take the place of soul in an address. When I have an address to deliver, I like to forget all about the rules for the proper use of the English language, and all about rhetoric and that sort of thing, and I like to make the audience forget all about these things, too.

I believe that anyone who speaks just for the sake of speaking does an injustice to themselves and their audience. I do not believe anyone should speak unless they are deeply convinced that they have a message to deliver. If they feel from head to toe that they have something to say that will help a person or a cause, then let them say it. Under those circumstances, I do not believe that many artificial rules of public speaking can help them much. Although pauses, breathing, and pitch are very important, none of them can take the place of soul in a speech. When I have a speech to give, I like to forget all about the rules for proper English, rhetoric, and the like. I also like to make the audience forget all about those things.

Nothing tends to throw me off my balance so quickly, when I am speaking, as to have some one leave the room. To prevent this, I make up my mind, as a rule, that I will try to make my address so interesting, will try to state so many interesting facts one after another, that no one can leave. The average audience, I have come to believe, wants facts rather than generalities or sermonizing. Most people, I think, are able to draw proper conclusions if they are given the facts in an interesting form on which to base them.

Nothing throws me off balance so quickly when I am speaking as someone leaving the room. To prevent this, I usually try to make my speech so interesting that no one can leave. I try to present one interesting fact after another. I have come to believe that the average audience wants facts rather than general statements or preaching. I think most people can draw the right conclusions if they are given facts in an interesting form.

As to the kind of audience that I like best to talk to, I would put at the top of the list an organization of strong, wide-awake, business men, such, for example, as is found in Boston, New York, Chicago, and Buffalo. I have found no other audience so quick to see a point, and so responsive. Within the last few years I have had the privilege of speaking before most of the leading organizations of this kind in the large cities of the United States. The best time to get hold of an organization of business men is after a good dinner, although I think that one of the worst instruments of torture that was ever invented is the custom which makes it necessary for a speaker to sit through a fourteen-course dinner, every minute of the time feeling sure that his speech is going to prove a dismal failure and disappointment.

My favorite audience is a group of capable, alert business men, like those in Boston, New York, Chicago, and Buffalo. I have found no other audience so quick to understand a point or so responsive. In recent years, I have had the privilege of speaking to most of the leading groups of this kind in large American cities. The best time to address a group of business men is after a good dinner. Yet I think the custom of making a speaker sit through a fourteen-course dinner is one of the worst forms of torture ever invented. Every minute, the speaker feels sure that his speech will be a dismal failure and disappointment.

I rarely take part in one of these long dinners that I do not wish that I could put myself back in the little cabin where I was a slave boy, and again go through the experience there—one that I shall never forget—of getting molasses to eat once a week from the “big house.” Our usual diet on the plantation was corn bread and pork, but on Sunday morning my mother was permitted to bring down a little molasses from the “big house” for her three children, and when it was received how I did wish that every day was Sunday! I would get my tin plate and hold it up for the sweet morsel, but I would always shut my eyes while the molasses was being poured out into the plate, with the hope that when I opened them I would be surprised to see how much I had got. When I opened my eyes I would tip the plate in one direction and another, so as to make the molasses spread all over it, in the full belief that there would be more of it and that it would last longer if spread out in this way. So strong are my childish impressions of those Sunday morning feasts that it would be pretty hard for any one to convince me that there is not more molasses on a plate when it is spread all over the plate than when it occupies a little corner—if there is a corner in a plate. At any rate, I have never believed in “cornering” syrup. My share of the syrup was usually about two tablespoonfuls, and those two spoonfuls of molasses were much more enjoyable to me than is a fourteen-course dinner after which I am to speak.

I rarely sit through one of these long dinners without wishing I could return to the little cabin where I lived as an enslaved boy. I wish I could relive an experience I will never forget: getting molasses to eat once a week from the “big house.” Our usual diet on the plantation was cornbread and pork. But on Sunday morning, my mother was allowed to bring a little molasses from the “big house” for her three children. When we got it, how I wished every day were Sunday! I would hold up my tin plate for the sweet treat. But I always closed my eyes while the molasses was poured onto the plate. I hoped that when I opened them, I would be surprised by how much I had received. Then I would tip the plate in different directions to spread the molasses all over it. I was sure there would be more molasses, and that it would last longer, if I spread it out. My childhood memories of those Sunday morning feasts are still so strong that it would be hard to convince me otherwise. I still feel there is more molasses when it covers the whole plate than when it sits in one little corner, if a plate has a corner. At any rate, I have never believed in “cornering” syrup. My share was usually about two tablespoons. Those two spoonfuls of molasses gave me much more pleasure than a fourteen-course dinner after which I have to speak.

Next to a company of business men, I prefer to speak to an audience of Southern people, of either race, together or taken separately. Their enthusiasm and responsiveness are a constant delight. The “amens” and “dat’s de truf” that come spontaneously from the coloured individuals are calculated to spur any speaker on to his best efforts. I think that next in order of preference I would place a college audience. It has been my privilege to deliver addresses at many of our leading colleges including Harvard, Yale, Williams, Amherst, Fisk University, the University of Pennsylvania, Wellesley, the University of Michigan, Trinity College in North Carolina, and many others.

After a group of businesspeople, my favorite audience is Southern people of either race, whether together or separately. Their enthusiasm and responsiveness are a constant delight. The spontaneous “amens” and “dat’s de truf” from Black audience members can inspire any speaker to do their best. I think my next favorite audience would be college students. I have had the privilege of speaking at many leading colleges. These include Harvard, Yale, Williams, Amherst, Fisk University, the University of Pennsylvania, Wellesley, the University of Michigan, Trinity College in North Carolina, and many others.

It has been a matter of deep interest to me to note the number of people who have come to shake hands with me after an address, who say that this is the first time they have ever called a Negro “Mister.”

I have been deeply interested to see how many people come to shake my hand after a speech. They say it is the first time they have ever called a Black person “Mister.”

When speaking directly in the interests of the Tuskegee Institute, I usually arrange, some time in advance, a series of meetings in important centres. This takes me before churches, Sunday-schools, Christian Endeavour Societies, and men’s and women’s clubs. When doing this I sometimes speak before as many as four organizations in a single day.

When I speak directly on behalf of the Tuskegee Institute, I usually plan a series of meetings in major centers well in advance. I speak at churches, Sunday schools, Christian Endeavour Societies, and men’s and women’s clubs. On these trips, I sometimes speak to as many as four organizations in one day.

Three years ago, at the suggestion of Mr. Morris K. Jessup, of New York, and Dr. J.L.M. Curry, the general agent of the fund, the trustees of the John F. Slater Fund voted a sum of money to be used in paying the expenses of Mrs. Washington and myself while holding a series of meetings among the coloured people in the large centres of Negro population, especially in the large cities of the ex-slaveholding states. Each year during the last three years we have devoted some weeks to this work. The plan that we have followed has been for me to speak in the morning to the ministers, teachers, and professional men. In the afternoon Mrs. Washington would speak to the women alone, and in the evening I spoke to a large mass-meeting. In almost every case the meetings have been attended not only by the coloured people in large numbers, but by the white people. In Chattanooga, Tenn., for example, there was present at the mass-meeting an audience of not less than three thousand persons, and I was informed that eight hundred of these were white. I have done no work that I really enjoyed more than this, or that I think has accomplished more good.

Three years ago, Mr. Morris K. Jessup of New York and Dr. J.L.M. Curry suggested a plan. Dr. Curry was the general agent of the John F. Slater Fund. At their suggestion, the fund’s trustees approved money to cover expenses for Mrs. Washington and me. We would use the money while holding a series of meetings among Black people in major centers of Black population. These meetings would be held especially in the large cities of the former slaveholding states. Each year for the past three years, we have spent several weeks on this work. Our plan has been for me to speak to ministers, teachers, and professional men in the morning. In the afternoon, Mrs. Washington would speak to the women alone. In the evening, I spoke at a large public meeting. In almost every case, large numbers of Black people attended the meetings, along with white people. In Chattanooga, Tennessee, for example, at least three thousand people attended the public meeting. I was told that eight hundred of them were white. I have done no work that I enjoyed more or that I believe accomplished more good.

These meetings have given Mrs. Washington and myself an opportunity to get first-hand, accurate information as to the real condition of the race, by seeing the people in their homes, their churches, their Sunday-schools, and their places of work, as well as in the prisons and dens of crime. These meetings also gave us an opportunity to see the relations that exist between the races. I never feel so hopeful about the race as I do after being engaged in a series of these meetings. I know that on such occasions there is much that comes to the surface that is superficial and deceptive, but I have had experience enough not to be deceived by mere signs and fleeting enthusiasms. I have taken pains to go to the bottom of things and get facts, in a cold, business-like manner.

These meetings have given Mrs. Washington and me a chance to learn firsthand about the true condition of our race. We have gained accurate information by seeing people in their homes, churches, Sunday schools, and workplaces. We have also seen them in prisons and places where crimes are committed. The meetings have also given us a chance to see the relations between the races. I never feel more hopeful about the race than after taking part in a series of these meetings. I know that much of what comes to the surface on such occasions is superficial and misleading. But I have enough experience not to be deceived by appearances or passing enthusiasm. I have taken care to get to the bottom of things and gather facts in a detached, businesslike way.

I have seen the statement made lately, by one who claims to know what he is talking about, that, taking the whole Negro race into account, ninety per cent of the Negro women are not virtuous. There never was a baser falsehood uttered concerning a race, or a statement made that was less capable of being proved by actual facts.

I recently saw a claim made by someone who says he knows what he is talking about. He claimed that, across the entire Black race, 90 percent of Black women are not sexually virtuous. No baser lie has ever been told about a race. No claim has been less capable of being proved by actual facts.

No one can come into contact with the race for twenty years, as I have done in the heart of the South, without being convinced that the race is constantly making slow but sure progress materially, educationally, and morally. One might take up the life of the worst element in New York City, for example, and prove almost anything he wanted to prove concerning the white man, but all will agree that this is not a fair test.

Anyone who has spent twenty years in contact with the Black race, as I have in the heart of the South, must be convinced of its steady progress. That progress is slow but sure, in material conditions, education, and morals. For example, someone could study the lives of the worst people in New York City. From those lives, they could prove almost anything they wanted to about white people. But all will agree that this is not a fair test.

Early in the year 1897 I received a letter inviting me to deliver an address at the dedication of the Robert Gould Shaw monument in Boston. I accepted the invitation. It is not necessary for me, I am sure, to explain who Robert Gould Shaw was, and what he did. The monument to his memory stands near the head of the Boston Common, facing the State House. It is counted to be the most perfect piece of art of the kind to be found in the country.

Early in 1897, I received a letter inviting me to speak at the dedication of the Robert Gould Shaw monument in Boston. I accepted the invitation. I am sure I do not need to explain who Robert Gould Shaw was or what he did. The monument in his memory stands near the head of the Boston Common, facing the State House. It is considered the most perfect work of art of its kind in the country.

The exercises connected with the dedication were held in Music Hall, in Boston, and the great hall was packed from top to bottom with one of the most distinguished audiences that ever assembled in the city. Among those present were more persons representing the famous old anti-slavery element that it is likely will ever be brought together in the country again. The late Hon. Roger Wolcott, then Governor of Massachusetts, was the presiding officer, and on the platform with him were many other officials and hundreds of distinguished men. A report of the meeting which appeared in the Boston Transcript will describe it better than any words of mine could do:—

The dedication ceremonies were held at Music Hall in Boston. The great hall was packed from top to bottom with one of the most distinguished audiences ever assembled in the city. More members of the famous old anti-slavery movement were present than will likely ever be brought together again in this country. The late Hon. Roger Wolcott, then Governor of Massachusetts, presided. Many other officials and hundreds of distinguished men joined him on the platform. A report of the meeting in the Boston Transcript describes it better than I could:

The core and kernel of yesterday’s great noon meeting, in honour of the Brotherhood of Man, in Music Hall, was the superb address of the Negro President of Tuskegee. “Booker T. Washington received his Harvard A.M. last June, the first of his race,” said Governor Wolcott, “to receive an honorary degree from the oldest university in the land, and this for the wise leadership of his people.” When Mr. Washington rose in the flag-filled, enthusiasm-warmed, patriotic, and glowing atmosphere of Music Hall, people felt keenly that here was the civic justification of the old abolition spirit of Massachusetts; in his person the proof of her ancient and indomitable faith; in his strong thought and rich oratory, the crown and glory of the old war days of suffering and strife. The scene was full of historic beauty and deep significance. “Cold” Boston was alive with the fire that is always hot in her heart for righteousness and truth. Rows and rows of people who are seldom seen at any public function, whole families of those who are certain to be out of town on a holiday, crowded the place to overflowing. The city was at her birthright fête in the persons of hundreds of her best citizens, men and women whose names and lives stand for the virtues that make for honourable civic pride.

The heart of yesterday’s great noon meeting at Music Hall, honoring the Brotherhood of Man, was the superb address by Tuskegee’s Black president. Governor Wolcott said, “Booker T. Washington received his honorary Harvard A.M. last June. He was the first of his race to receive an honorary degree from the nation’s oldest university. He received it for his wise leadership of his people.” When Mr. Washington rose, Music Hall was filled with flags, enthusiasm, and patriotic warmth. People felt strongly that he showed why Massachusetts’s old abolitionist spirit had been right for the nation. In him, they saw proof of the state’s longstanding, unshakable faith. His powerful ideas and rich eloquence were the crowning glory of the old war days of suffering and struggle. The scene was full of historic beauty and deep meaning. “Cold” Boston was alive with the fire for justice and truth that always burns in its heart. The hall was packed to overflowing. Rows upon rows of people rarely seen at public events were there. So were whole families who were sure to be out of town on a holiday. The city was celebrating its birthright fête, represented by hundreds of its finest citizens. These men and women, through their names and lives, stood for the virtues that inspire honorable civic pride.

Battle-music had filled the air. Ovation after ovation, applause warm and prolonged, had greeted the officers and friends of Colonel Shaw, the sculptor, St. Gaudens, the memorial Committee, the Governor and his staff, and the Negro soldiers of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts as they came upon the platform or entered the hall. Colonel Henry Lee, of Governor Andrew’s old staff, had made a noble, simple presentation speech for the committee, paying tribute to Mr. John M. Forbes, in whose stead he served. Governor Wolcott had made his short, memorable speech, saying, “Fort Wagner marked an epoch in the history of a race, and called it into manhood.” Mayor Quincy had received the monument for the city of Boston. The story of Colonel Shaw and his black regiment had been told in gallant words, and then, after the singing of

Battle music filled the air. Wave after wave of warm, prolonged applause greeted Colonel Shaw’s officers and friends, the sculptor St. Gaudens, the memorial Committee, and the Governor and his staff. The Black soldiers of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts received the same welcome. The applause came as they walked onto the platform or entered the hall. Colonel Henry Lee, who had served on Governor Andrew’s staff, gave a noble, simple presentation speech for the committee. He paid tribute to Mr. John M. Forbes, in whose place he served. Governor Wolcott gave his short, memorable speech, saying, “Fort Wagner marked an epoch in the history of a race, and called it into manhood.” Mayor Quincy accepted the monument on behalf of the city of Boston. The story of Colonel Shaw and his Black regiment had been told in stirring words, and then, after the singing of

Booker Washington arose. It was, of course, just the moment for him. The multitude, shaken out of its usual symphony-concert calm, quivered with an excitement that was not suppressed. A dozen times it had sprung to its feet to cheer and wave and hurrah, as one person. When this man of culture and voice and power, as well as a dark skin, began, and uttered the names of Stearns and of Andrew, feeling began to mount. You could see tears glisten in the eyes of soldiers and civilians. When the orator turned to the coloured soldiers on the platform, to the colour-bearer of Fort Wagner, who smilingly bore still the flag he had never lowered even when wounded, and said, “To you, to the scarred and scattered remnants of the Fifty-fourth, who, with empty sleeve and wanting leg, have honoured this occasion with your presence, to you, your commander is not dead. Though Boston erected no monument and history recorded no story, in you and in the loyal race which you represent, Robert Gould Shaw would have a monument which time could not wear away,” then came the climax of the emotion of the day and the hour. It was Roger Wolcott, as well as the Governor of Massachusetts, the individual representative of the people’s sympathy as well as the chief magistrate, who had sprung first to his feet and cried, “Three cheers to Booker T. Washington!”

Booker Washington stood up. Of course, it was just the moment for him. The crowd had been shaken out of its usual symphony concert calm. It trembled with excitement that no one tried to suppress. A dozen times, the crowd had risen as one person to cheer, wave, and shout. Washington was a man of culture, with a powerful voice and presence, as well as dark skin. When he began to speak and mentioned Stearns and Andrew, emotions began to rise. You could see tears shining in the eyes of soldiers and civilians. The speaker turned to the Black soldiers on the platform. Among them was the flag bearer of Fort Wagner. He was still carrying the flag with a smile, the flag he had never lowered, even when wounded. Washington said, “To you, the scarred and scattered survivors of the Fifty-fourth, who have honored this occasion with your presence, some missing an arm or a leg, your commander is not dead. Even if Boston had built no monument and history had recorded no story, Robert Gould Shaw would still have a monument. He would have one in you and in the loyal race you represent, a monument that time could not wear away.” Then the emotion of the day reached its peak. Roger Wolcott was the first to jump to his feet and cry, “Three cheers to Booker T. Washington!” He spoke not only as the Governor of Massachusetts and the state’s chief magistrate. He also spoke as a person who shared the people’s sympathy.

Among those on the platform was Sergeant William H. Carney, of New Bedford, Mass., the brave coloured officer who was the colour-bearer at Fort Wagner and held the American flag. In spite of the fact that a large part of his regiment was killed, he escaped, and exclaimed, after the battle was over, “The old flag never touched the ground.”

Among those on the platform was Sergeant William H. Carney of New Bedford, Massachusetts. He was the brave Black officer who carried the American flag at Fort Wagner. Although a large part of his regiment was killed, he escaped. After the battle, he exclaimed, “The old flag never touched the ground.”

This flag Sergeant Carney held in his hands as he sat on the platform, and when I turned to address the survivors of the coloured regiment who were present, and referred to Sergeant Carney, he rose, as if by instinct, and raised the flag. It has been my privilege to witness a good many satisfactory and rather sensational demonstrations in connection with some of my public addresses, but in dramatic effect I have never seen or experienced anything which equalled this. For a number of minutes the audience seemed to entirely lose control of itself.

Sergeant Carney held this flag in his hands as he sat on the platform. I turned to address the surviving members of the Black regiment who were present. When I mentioned Sergeant Carney, he rose as if by instinct and raised the flag. I have had the privilege of witnessing many gratifying and sometimes quite sensational displays of audience reaction to my public speeches. But I have never seen or experienced anything as dramatic as this moment. For several minutes, the audience seemed to lose all control.

In the general rejoicing throughout the country which followed the close of the Spanish-American war, peace celebrations were arranged in several of the large cities. I was asked by President William R. Harper, of the University of Chicago, who was chairman of the committee of invitations for the celebration to be held in the city of Chicago, to deliver one of the addresses at the celebration there. I accepted the invitation, and delivered two addresses there during the Jubilee week. The first of these, and the principal one, was given in the Auditorium, on the evening of Sunday, October 16. This was the largest audience that I have ever addressed, in any part of the country; and besides speaking in the main Auditorium, I also addressed, that same evening, two overflow audiences in other parts of the city.

After the Spanish-American war ended, people across the country rejoiced, and several large cities organized peace celebrations. President William R. Harper of the University of Chicago asked me to speak at the Chicago celebration. He was chairman of the celebration’s invitation committee. I accepted and gave two speeches there during Jubilee week. The first and main speech took place in the Auditorium on Sunday evening, October 16. It was the largest audience I had ever addressed anywhere in the country. That same evening, I also spoke to two overflow audiences in other parts of the city.

It was said that there were sixteen thousand persons in the Auditorium, and it seemed to me as if there were as many more on the outside trying to get in. It was impossible for any one to get near the entrance without the aid of a policeman. President William McKinley attended this meeting, as did also the members of his Cabinet, many foreign ministers, and a large number of army and navy officers, many of whom had distinguished themselves in the war which had just closed. The speakers, besides myself, on Sunday evening, were Rabbi Emil G. Hirsch, Father Thomas P. Hodnett, and Dr. John H. Barrows.

People said there were sixteen thousand people in the Auditorium. It seemed to me that just as many were outside trying to get in. No one could get near the entrance without a police officer’s help. President William McKinley attended the meeting, along with his Cabinet members, many foreign ministers, and many army and navy officers. Many of the officers had distinguished themselves in the war that had just ended. Besides me, the speakers on Sunday evening were Rabbi Emil G. Hirsch, Father Thomas P. Hodnett, and Dr. John H. Barrows.

The Chicago Times-Herald, in describing the meeting, said of my address:—

In its description of the meeting, the Chicago Times-Herald said of my speech:

He pictured the Negro choosing slavery rather than extinction; recalled Crispus Attucks shedding his blood at the beginning of the American Revolution, that white Americans might be free, while black Americans remained in slavery; rehearsed the conduct of the Negroes with Jackson at New Orleans; drew a vivid and pathetic picture of the Southern slaves protecting and supporting the families of their masters while the latter were fighting to perpetuate black slavery; recounted the bravery of coloured troops at Port Hudson and Forts Wagner and Pillow, and praised the heroism of the black regiments that stormed El Caney and Santiago to give freedom to the enslaved people of Cuba, forgetting, for the time being, the unjust discrimination that law and custom make against them in their own country.

He described Black people choosing slavery over extinction. He recalled that Crispus Attucks shed his blood at the beginning of the American Revolution. Attucks did so that white Americans might be free, while Black Americans remained enslaved. He recounted how Black soldiers fought alongside Jackson at New Orleans. He painted a vivid and moving picture of enslaved people in the South protecting and supporting their masters’ families. They did this while their masters fought to keep Black people enslaved. He recounted the bravery of Black troops at Port Hudson and Forts Wagner and Pillow. He praised the heroism of the Black regiments that stormed El Caney and Santiago to free the enslaved people of Cuba. For the time being, those soldiers forgot the unjust discrimination they faced under law and custom in their own country.

In all of these things, the speaker declared, his race had chosen the better part. And then he made his eloquent appeal to the consciences of the white Americans: “When you have gotten the full story of the heroic conduct of the Negro in the Spanish-American war, have heard it from the lips of Northern soldier and Southern soldier, from ex-abolitionist and ex-masters, then decide within yourselves whether a race that is thus willing to die for its country should not be given the highest opportunity to live for its country.”

In all these things, the speaker said, his race had chosen the better path. Then he made an eloquent appeal to the consciences of white Americans: “First, hear the full story of the heroic conduct of Black Americans in the Spanish-American War. Hear it from Northern and Southern soldiers, from former abolitionists and former slaveholders. Then decide for yourselves whether a race so willing to die for its country should have the fullest opportunity to live for it.”

The part of the speech which seems to arouse the wildest and most sensational enthusiasm was that in which I thanked the President for his recognition of the Negro in his appointments during the Spanish-American war. The President was sitting in a box at the right of the stage. When I addressed him I turned toward the box, and as I finished the sentence thanking him for his generosity, the whole audience rose and cheered again and again, waving handkerchiefs and hats and canes, until the President arose in the box and bowed his acknowledgements. At that the enthusiasm broke out again, and the demonstration was almost indescribable.

The part of the speech that seemed to stir the wildest and most sensational enthusiasm was when I thanked the President. I thanked him for recognizing Black people in his appointments during the Spanish-American War. The President was sitting in a box to the right of the stage. When I addressed him, I turned toward the box. As I finished thanking him for his generosity, the whole audience rose and cheered again and again. They waved handkerchiefs, hats, and canes until the President stood up in the box and bowed in acknowledgment. At that, the enthusiasm broke out again, and the demonstration was almost impossible to describe.

One portion of my address at Chicago seemed to have been misunderstood by the Southern press, and some of the Southern papers took occasion to criticise me rather strongly. These criticisms continued for several weeks, until I finally received a letter from the editor of the Age-Herald, published in Birmingham, Ala., asking me if I would say just what I meant by this part of the address. I replied to him in a letter which seemed to satisfy my critics. In this letter I said that I had made it a rule never to say before a Northern audience anything that I would not say before an audience in the South. I said that I did not think it was necessary for me to go into extended explanations; if my seventeen years of work in the heart of the South had not been explanation enough, I did not see how words could explain. I said that I made the same plea that I had made in my address at Atlanta, for the blotting out of race prejudice in “commercial and civil relations.” I said that what is termed social recognition was a question which I never discussed, and then I quoted from my Atlanta address what I had said there in regard to that subject.

Part of my address in Chicago seemed to have been misunderstood by the Southern press. Some Southern newspapers took the opportunity to criticize me rather strongly. The criticism continued for several weeks. Finally, I received a letter from the editor of the Age-Herald, published in Birmingham, Ala. He asked me to explain exactly what I meant by that part of the address. I replied in a letter that seemed to satisfy my critics. In the letter, I said that I had made it a rule never to tell a Northern audience anything I would not tell a Southern audience. I did not think I needed to give a lengthy explanation. If my seventeen years of work in the heart of the South had not explained enough, I did not see how words could explain. I made the same plea I had made in my Atlanta address: to wipe out racial prejudice in “commercial and civil relations.” I said that I never discussed what was called social recognition. Then I quoted what I had said about the subject in my Atlanta address.

In meeting crowds of people at public gatherings, there is one type of individual that I dread. I mean the crank. I have become so accustomed to these people now that I can pick them out at a distance when I see them elbowing their way up to me. The average crank has a long beard, poorly cared for, a lean, narrow face, and wears a black coat. The front of his vest and coat are slick with grease, and his trousers bag at the knees.

When I meet crowds at public gatherings, there is one kind of person I dread: the crank. I have grown so used to cranks that I can spot them from a distance as they elbow their way toward me. The typical crank has a long, unkempt beard and a lean, narrow face. He wears a black coat. The front of his vest and coat is slick with grease, and his trousers bag at the knees.

In Chicago, after I had spoken at a meeting, I met one of these fellows. They usually have some process for curing all of the ills of the world at once. This Chicago specimen had a patent process by which he said Indian corn could be kept through a period of three or four years, and he felt sure that if the Negro race in the South would, as a whole, adopt his process, it would settle the whole race question. It mattered nothing that I tried to convince him that our present problem was to teach the Negroes how to produce enough corn to last them through one year. Another Chicago crank had a scheme by which he wanted me to join him in an effort to close up all the National banks in the country. If that was done, he felt sure it would put the Negro on his feet.

In Chicago, after I spoke at a meeting, I met one of these fellows. They usually have some method for curing all the world’s ills at once. This Chicago specimen had a patented method that he said could preserve corn for three or four years. He was sure that if the entire Black population of the South adopted his method, it would settle the whole race question. I tried to convince him that our present problem was teaching Black people to grow enough corn to last one year. But that made no difference to him. Another Chicago crank wanted me to join him in a scheme to close all the national banks in the country. He was sure that closing the banks would put Black people on their feet.

The number of people who stand ready to consume one’s time, to no purpose, is almost countless. At one time I spoke before a large audience in Boston in the evening. The next morning I was awakened by having a card brought to my room, and with it a message that some one was anxious to see me. Thinking that it must be something very important, I dressed hastily and went down. When I reached the hotel office I found a blank and innocent-looking individual waiting for me, who coolly remarked: “I heard you talk at a meeting last night. I rather liked your talk, and so I came in this morning to hear you talk some more.”

The number of people ready to waste your time for no purpose is almost countless. Once, I spoke before a large audience in Boston one evening. The next morning, I was awakened when someone brought a card to my room. With it came a message that someone was eager to see me. Thinking it must be something very important, I dressed quickly and went downstairs. In the hotel lobby, I found a blank, innocent-looking man waiting for me. He calmly remarked: “I heard you speak at a meeting last night. I rather liked your talk, so I came in this morning to hear you talk some more.”

I am often asked how it is possible for me to superintend the work at Tuskegee and at the same time be so much away from the school. In partial answer to this I would say that I think I have learned, in some degree at least, to disregard the old maxim which says, “Do not get others to do that which you can do yourself.” My motto, on the other hand, is, “Do not do that which others can do as well.”

People often ask how I can oversee the work at Tuskegee while spending so much time away from the school. Part of the answer is that I think I have learned, at least to some degree, to disregard an old saying: “Do not ask others to do what you can do yourself.” My motto, on the other hand, is, “Do not do what others can do just as well.”

One of the most encouraging signs in connection with the Tuskegee school is found in the fact that the organization is so thorough that the daily work of the school is not dependent upon the presence of any one individual. The whole executive force, including instructors and clerks, now numbers eighty-six. This force is so organized and subdivided that the machinery of the school goes on day by day like clockwork. Most of our teachers have been connected with the institutions for a number of years, and are as much interested in it as I am. In my absence, Mr. Warren Logan, the treasurer, who has been at the school seventeen years, is the executive. He is efficiently supported by Mrs. Washington, and by my faithful secretary, Mr. Emmett J. Scott, who handles the bulk of my correspondence and keeps me in daily touch with the life of the school, and who also keeps me informed of whatever takes place in the South that concerns the race. I owe more to his tact, wisdom, and hard work than I can describe.

One of the most encouraging signs at the Tuskegee school is how thoroughly it is organized. Its daily work does not depend on any one person being present. The entire staff, including teachers and clerks, now numbers eighty-six. The staff is organized into departments so that the school runs like clockwork day after day. Most of our teachers have been connected with the institutions for years and care about them as much as I do. When I am away, Mr. Warren Logan, the treasurer, is in charge. He has been at the school for seventeen years. He is ably supported by Mrs. Washington and my faithful secretary, Mr. Emmett J. Scott. Mr. Scott handles most of my correspondence and keeps me in daily touch with life at the school. He also keeps me informed of anything happening in the South that concerns the race. I owe more to his tact, wisdom, and hard work than I can describe.

The main executive work of the school, whether I am at Tuskegee or not, centres in what we call the executive council. This council meets twice a week, and is composed of the nine persons who are at the head of the nine departments of the school. For example: Mrs. B.K. Bruce, the Lady Principal, the widow of the late ex-senator Bruce, is a member of the council, and represents in it all that pertains to the life of the girls at the school. In addition to the executive council there is a financial committee of six, that meets every week and decides upon the expenditures for the week. Once a month, and sometimes oftener, there is a general meeting of all the instructors. Aside from these there are innumerable smaller meetings, such as that of the instructors in the Phelps Hall Bible Training School, or of the instructors in the agricultural department.

The executive council handles the school’s main administrative work, whether I am at Tuskegee or not. The council meets twice a week. It consists of the nine people who head the school’s nine departments. For example, Mrs. B.K. Bruce, the Lady Principal, is a council member. She is the widow of the late former senator Bruce. On the council, she represents all matters concerning the lives of the girls at the school. In addition to the executive council, a financial committee of six meets every week. The committee decides on the week’s spending. All the instructors meet together once a month, and sometimes more often. There are also countless smaller meetings. These include meetings of the instructors at the Phelps Hall Bible Training School and those in the agricultural department.

In order that I may keep in constant touch with the life of the institution, I have a system of reports so arranged that a record of the school’s work reaches me every day of the year, no matter in what part of the country I am. I know by these reports even what students are excused from school, and why they are excused—whether for reasons of ill health or otherwise. Through the medium of these reports I know each day what the income of the school in money is; I know how many gallons of milk and how many pounds of butter come from the dairy; what the bill of fare for the teachers and students is; whether a certain kind of meat was boiled or baked, and whether certain vegetables served in the dining room were bought from a store or procured from our own farm. Human nature I find to be very much the same the world over, and it is sometimes not hard to yield to the temptation to go to a barrel of rice that has come from the store—with the grain all prepared to go in the pot—rather than to take the time and trouble to go to the field and dig and wash one’s own sweet potatoes, which might be prepared in a manner to take the place of the rice.

To stay in constant touch with the life of the institution, I use a system of reports. A record of the school’s work reaches me every day of the year, wherever I am in the country. The reports tell me even which students are excused from school and why, whether because of illness or other reasons. Each day, the reports also tell me how much money the school takes in. I know how many gallons of milk and pounds of butter come from the dairy. I know what teachers and students are served to eat. I know whether a certain kind of meat was boiled or baked. I also know whether certain vegetables served in the dining room came from a store or our own farm. I find that human nature is much the same all over the world. Sometimes it is easy to give in to the temptation to use rice from a store. The rice is ready to go straight into the pot. The alternative is to take the time and trouble to dig and wash one’s own sweet potatoes from the field. Those potatoes could be prepared to take the place of the rice.

I am often asked how, in the midst of so much work, a large part of which is for the public, I can find time for any rest or recreation, and what kind of recreation or sports I am fond of. This is rather a difficult question to answer. I have a strong feeling that every individual owes it to himself, and to the cause which he is serving, to keep a vigorous, healthy body, with the nerves steady and strong, prepared for great efforts and prepared for disappointments and trying positions. As far as I can, I make it a rule to plan for each day’s work—not merely to go through with the same routine of daily duties, but to get rid of the routine work as early in the day as possible, and then to enter upon some new or advance work. I make it a rule to clear my desk every day, before leaving my office, of all correspondence and memoranda, so that on the morrow I can begin a new day of work. I make it a rule never to let my work drive me, but to so master it, and keep it in such complete control, and to keep so far ahead of it, that I will be the master instead of the servant. There is a physical and mental and spiritual enjoyment that comes from a consciousness of being the absolute master of one’s work, in all its details, that is very satisfactory and inspiring. My experience teaches me that, if one learns to follow this plan, he gets a freshness of body and vigour of mind out of work that goes a long way toward keeping him strong and healthy. I believe that when one can grow to the point where he loves his work, this gives him a kind of strength that is most valuable.

I am often asked how I find time for rest or recreation amid so much work, much of it for the public. People also ask what kinds of recreation or sports I enjoy. That is a rather difficult question to answer. I feel strongly that everyone owes it to themselves and to the cause they serve to keep their body vigorous and healthy. They should keep their nerves steady and strong, ready for great efforts, disappointments, and trying situations. As far as I can, I make it a rule to plan each day’s work. I do not simply go through the same daily routine. Instead, I try to finish routine work as early as possible, then begin something new or move work forward. Before leaving my office each day, I make it a rule to clear my desk of all correspondence and notes. That way, I can begin a new day of work the next morning. I make it a rule never to let my work drive me. Instead, I master it, keep it completely under control, and stay far enough ahead to be its master rather than its servant. Knowing that I am completely in control of my work, down to every detail, brings physical, mental, and spiritual enjoyment. That enjoyment is deeply satisfying and inspiring. My experience has taught me that, if a person learns to follow this plan, work brings freshness to the body and energy to the mind. That freshness and energy go a long way toward keeping a person strong and healthy. I believe that when people come to love their work, that love gives them a most valuable kind of strength.

When I begin my work in the morning, I expect to have a successful and pleasant day of it, but at the same time I prepare myself for unpleasant and unexpected hard places. I prepared myself to hear that one of our school buildings is on fire, or has burned, or that some disagreeable accident has occurred, or that some one has abused me in a public address or printed article, for something that I have done or omitted to do, or for something that he had heard that I had said—probably something that I had never thought of saying.

When I begin work in the morning, I expect a successful and pleasant day. But I also prepare myself for unpleasant and unexpected difficulties. I prepare myself to hear that one of our school buildings is on fire or has burned down, or that some unpleasant accident has happened. I also prepare myself to hear that someone has attacked me in a public speech or a printed article. The attack may be over something I have done or failed to do, or something the person has heard I said. I probably never even thought of saying it.

In nineteen years of continuous work I have taken but one vacation. That was two years ago, when some of my friends put the money into my hands and forced Mrs. Washington and myself to spend three months in Europe. I have said that I believe it is the duty of every one to keep his body in good condition. I try to look after the little ills, with the idea that if I take care of the little ills the big ones will not come. When I find myself unable to sleep well, I know that something is wrong. If I find any part of my system the least weak, and not performing its duty, I consult a good physician. The ability to sleep well, at any time and in any place, I find of great advantage. I have so trained myself that I can lie down for a nap of fifteen or twenty minutes, and get up refreshed in body and mind.

In nineteen years of continuous work, I have taken only one vacation. That was two years ago. Some friends gave me the money and insisted that Mrs. Washington and I spend three months in Europe. I have said that I believe everyone has a duty to keep their body in good condition. I try to take care of minor ailments, believing that if I do, serious ones will not come. When I cannot sleep well, I know something is wrong. If any part of my body seems even slightly weak or is not working properly, I consult a good doctor. I find it a great advantage to be able to sleep well at any time and in any place. I have trained myself to take a fifteen or twenty minute nap and wake up refreshed in body and mind.

I have said that I make it a rule to finish up each day’s work before leaving it. There is, perhaps, one exception to this. When I have an unusually difficult question to decide—one that appeals strongly to the emotions—I find it a safe rule to sleep over it for a night, or to wait until I have had an opportunity to talk it over with my wife and friends.

I have said that I make it a rule to finish each day’s work before leaving it. Perhaps there is one exception to this rule. When I have an unusually difficult question to decide, especially one that stirs strong emotions, I find it safest to sleep on it for a night. Or I wait until I can talk it over with my wife and friends.

As to my reading; the most time I get for solid reading is when I am on the cars. Newspapers are to me a constant source of delight and recreation. The only trouble is that I read too many of them. Fiction I care little for. Frequently I have to almost force myself to read a novel that is on every one’s lips. The kind of reading that I have the greatest fondness for is biography. I like to be sure that I am reading about a real man or a real thing. I think I do not go too far when I say that I have read nearly every book and magazine article that has been written about Abraham Lincoln. In literature he is my patron saint.

As for my reading, I get most of my serious reading done on trains. Newspapers are a constant source of pleasure and relaxation for me. The only trouble is that I read too many of them. I care little for fiction. I often have to nearly force myself to read a novel that everyone is talking about. Biography is my favorite kind of reading. I like to know that I am reading about a real person or a real thing. I think it is fair to say that I have read nearly every book and magazine article written about Abraham Lincoln. In literature, he is my patron saint.

Out of the twelve months in a year I suppose that, on an average, I spend six months away from Tuskegee. While my being absent from the school so much unquestionably has its disadvantages, yet there are at the same time some compensations. The change of work brings a certain kind of rest. I enjoy a ride of a long distance on the cars, when I am permitted to ride where I can be comfortable. I get rest on the cars, except when the inevitable individual who seems to be on every train approaches me with the now familiar phrase: “Isn’t this Booker Washington? I want to introduce myself to you.” Absence from the school enables me to lose sight of the unimportant details of the work, and study it in a broader and more comprehensive manner than I could do on the grounds. This absence also brings me into contact with the best work being done in educational lines, and into contact with the best educators in the land.

On average, I suppose I spend six months of every year away from Tuskegee. Being away from the school so much certainly has its disadvantages, but it also has some benefits. The change in work gives me a certain kind of rest. I enjoy a long train ride when I am allowed to travel somewhere comfortable. I rest on the train, except when I am approached by the inevitable person who seems to be on every train. By now, the words are familiar: “Isn’t this Booker Washington? I want to introduce myself to you.” Being away from the school lets me set aside the unimportant details of the work. I can study the work more broadly and thoroughly than I could while at the school. Being away also brings me into contact with the best work being done in education and the best educators in the country.

But, after all this is said, the time when I get the most solid rest and recreation is when I can be at Tuskegee, and, after our evening meal is over, can sit down, as is our custom, with my wife and Portia and Baker and Davidson, my three children, and read a story, or each take turns in telling a story. To me there is nothing on earth equal to that, although what is nearly equal to it is to go with them for an hour or more, as we like to do on Sunday afternoons, into the woods, where we can live for a while near the heart of nature, where no one can disturb or vex us, surrounded by pure air, the trees, the shrubbery, the flowers, and the sweet fragrance that springs from a hundred plants, enjoying the chirp of the crickets and the songs of the birds. This is solid rest.

But after all this is said, I get my best rest and recreation at Tuskegee. After our evening meal, I can sit down with my wife and my three children, Portia, Baker, and Davidson. As is our custom, we read a story or take turns telling one. To me, nothing on earth equals that time together. A walk in the woods with them comes close, though. We like to go for an hour or more on Sunday afternoons. There we can spend some time close to the heart of nature, where no one can disturb or annoy us. We are surrounded by fresh air, trees, shrubs, flowers, and the sweet fragrance of a hundred plants. We enjoy the chirping of crickets and the songs of birds. This is true rest.

My garden, also, what little time I can be at Tuskegee, is another source of rest and enjoyment. Somehow I like, as often as possible, to touch nature, not something that is artificial or an imitation, but the real thing. When I can leave my office in time so that I can spend thirty or forty minutes in spading the ground, in planting seeds, in digging about the plants, I feel that I am coming into contact with something that is giving me strength for the many duties and hard places that await me out in the big world. I pity the man or woman who has never learned to enjoy nature and to get strength and inspiration out of it.

My garden is another source of rest and enjoyment during the little time I can spend at Tuskegee. Somehow, I like to connect with nature as often as possible. I want the real thing, not something artificial or an imitation. Sometimes I can leave my office in time to spend thirty or forty minutes digging the soil, planting seeds, or working around the plants. When I do, I feel that nature gives me strength for the many duties and difficulties awaiting me in the wider world. I pity anyone who has never learned to enjoy nature and draw strength and inspiration from it.

Aside from the large number of fowls and animals kept by the school, I keep individually a number of pigs and fowls of the best grades, and in raising these I take a great deal of pleasure. I think the pig is my favourite animal. Few things are more satisfactory to me than a high-grade Berkshire or Poland China pig.

Besides the many birds and animals kept by the school, I keep some pigs and poultry of the best breeds myself. I take great pleasure in raising them. I think the pig is my favorite animal. Few things give me more satisfaction than a high-quality Berkshire or Poland China pig.

Games I care little for. I have never seen a game of football. In cards I do not know one card from another. A game of old-fashioned marbles with my two boys, once in a while, is all I care for in this direction. I suppose I would care for games now if I had had any time in my youth to give to them, but that was not possible.

I care little for games. I have never seen a football game. I cannot tell one playing card from another. An occasional game of old-fashioned marbles with my two boys is all I care for when it comes to games. I suppose I would enjoy games now if I had had time for them in my youth. But that was not possible.