Chapter XV. The Secret Of Success In Public Speaking

by Booker T. Washington

　　As to how my address at Atlanta was received by the audience inthe Exposition building, I think I prefer to let Mr. JamesCreelman, the noted war correspondent, tell. Mr. Creelman waspresent, and telegraphed the following account to the New YorkWorld:--Atlanta, September 18.While President Cleveland was waiting at Gray Gables to-day, tosend the electric spark that started the machinery of the AtlantaExposition, a Negro Moses stood before a great audience of whitepeople and delivered an oration that marks a new epoch in thehistory of the South; and a body of Negro troops marched in aprocession with the citizen soldiery of Georgia and Louisiana.The whole city is thrilling to-night with a realization of theextraordinary significance of these two unprecedented events.Nothing has happened since Henry Grady's immortal speech beforethe New England society in New York that indicates so profoundlythe spirit of the New South, except, perhaps, the opening of theExposition itself.When Professor Booker T. Washington, Principal of an industrialschool for coloured people in Tuskegee, Ala. stood on theplatform of the Auditorium, with the sun shining over the headsof his auditors into his eyes, and with his whole face lit upwith the fire of prophecy, Clark Howell, the successor of HenryGrady, said to me, "That man's speech is the beginning of a moralrevolution in America."It is the first time that a Negro has made a speech in the Southon any important occasion before an audience composed of whitemen and women. It electrified the audience, and the response wasas if it had come from the throat of a whirlwind.Mrs. Thompson had hardly taken her seat when all eyes were turnedon 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 fromthis time forth as the foremost man of his race in America.Gilmore's Band played the "Star-Spangled Banner," and theaudience cheered. The tune changed to "Dixie" and the audienceroared with shrill "hi-yis." Again the music changed, this timeto "Yankee Doodle," and the clamour lessened.All this time the eyes of the thousands present looked straightat the Negro orator. A strange thing was to happen. A black manwas to speak for his people, with none to interrupt him. AsProfessor Washington strode to the edge of the stage, the low,descending sun shot fiery rays through the windows into hisface. A great shout greeted him. He turned his head to avoid theblinding light, and moved about the platform for relief. Then heturned his wonderful countenance to the sun without a blink ofthe eyelids, and began to talk.There was a remarkable figure; tall, bony, straight as a Siouxchief, high forehead, straight nose, heavy jaws, and strong,determined mouth, with big white teeth, piercing eyes, and acommanding manner. The sinews stood out on his bronzed neck, andhis muscular right arm swung high in the air, with a lead-pencilgrasped in the clinched brown fist. His big feet were plantedsquarely, with the heels together and the toes turned out. Hisvoice range out clear and true, and he paused impressively as hemade each point. Within ten minutes the multitude was in anuproar of enthusiasm--handkerchiefs were waved, canes wereflourished, hats were tossed in the air. The fairest women ofGeorgia stood up and cheered. It was as if the orator hadbewitched them.And when he held his dusky hand high above his head, with thefingers stretched wide apart, and said to the white people of theSouth on behalf of his race, "In all things that are purelysocial we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the handin all things essential to mutual progress," the great wave ofsounddashed itself against the walls, and the whole audience was onits feet in a delirium of applause, and I thought at that momentof the night when Henry Grady stood among the curling wreaths oftobacco-smoke in Delmonico's banquet-hall and said, "I am aCavalier among Roundheads."I have heard the great orators of many countries, but not evenGladstone himself could have pleased a cause with most consummatepower than did this angular Negro, standing in a nimbus ofsunshine, surrounded by the men who once fought to keep his racein bondage. The roar might swell ever so high, but the expressionof his earnest face never changed.A ragged, ebony giant, squatted on the floor in one of theaisles, watched the orator with burning eyes and tremulous faceuntil the supreme burst of applause came, and then the tears randown his face. Most of the Negroes in the audience were crying,perhaps without knowing just why.At the close of the speech Governor Bullock rushed across thestage and seized the orator's hand. Another shout greeted thisdemonstration, and for a few minutes the two men stood facingeach other, hand in hand.So far as I could spare the time from the immediate work atTuskegee, after my Atlanta address, I accepted some of theinvitations to speak in public which came to me, especially thosethat would take me into territory where I thought it would pay toplead the cause of my race, but I always did this with theunderstanding that I was to be free to talk about my life-workand the needs of my people. I also had it understood that I wasnot to speak in the capacity of a professional lecturer, or formere commercial gain.In my efforts on the public platform I never have been able tounderstand why people come to hear me speak. This question Inever can rid myself of. Time and time again, as I have stood inthe street in front of a building and have seen men and womenpassing in large numbers into the audience room where I was tospeak, I have felt ashamed that I should be the cause ofpeople--as it seemed to me--wasting a valuable hour of theirtime. Some years ago I was to deliver an address before aliterary society in Madison, Wis. An hour before the time set forme to speak, a fierce snow-storm began, and continued for severalhours. I made up my mind that there would be no audience, andthat I should not have to speak, but, as a matter of duty, I wentto the church, and found it packed with people. The surprise gaveme a shock that I did not recover from during the whole evening.People often ask me if I feel nervous before speaking, or elsethey suggest that, since I speak often, they suppose that I getused to it. In answer to this question I have to say that Ialways suffer intensely from nervousness before speaking. Morethan once, just before I was to make an important address, thisnervous strain has been so great that I have resolved never againto speak in public. I not only feel nervous before speaking, butafter I have finished I usually feel a sense of regret, becauseit seems to me as if I had left out of my address the main thingand the best thing that I had meant to say.There is a great compensation, though, for this preliminarynervous suffering, that comes to me after I have been speakingfor about ten minutes, and have come to feel that I have reallymastered my audience, and that we have gotten into full andcomplete sympathy with each other. It seems to me that there israrely such a combination of mental and physical delight in anyeffort as that which comes to a public speaker when he feels thathe has a great audience completely within his control. There is athread of sympathy and oneness that connects a public speakerwith his audience, that is just as strong as though it wassomething tangible and visible. If in an audience of a thousandpeople there is one person who is not in sympathy with my views,or is inclined to be doubtful, cold, or critical, I can pick himout. When I have found him I usually go straight at him, and itis a great satisfaction to watch the process of his thawing out.I find that the most effective medicine for such individuals isadministered at first in the form of a story, although I nevertell an anecdote simply for the sake of telling one. That kind ofthing, I think, is empty and hollow, and an audience soon findsit out.I believe that one always does himself and his audience aninjustice when he speaks merely for the sake of speaking. I donot believe that one should speak unless, deep down in his heart,he feels convinced that he has a message to deliver. When onefeels, from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, thathe has something to say that is going to help some individual orsome cause, then let him say it; and in delivering his message Ido not believe that many of the artificial rules of elocutioncan, under such circumstances, help him very much. Although thereare certain things, such as pauses, breathing, and pitch ofvoice, that are very important, none of these can take the placeof soul in an address. When I have an address to deliver, I liketo forget all about the rules for the proper use of the Englishlanguage, and all about rhetoric and that sort of thing, and Ilike to make the audience forget all about these things, too.Nothing tends to throw me off my balance so quickly, when I amspeaking, as to have some one leave the room. To prevent this, Imake up my mind, as a rule, that I will try to make my address sointeresting, will try to state so many interesting facts oneafter another, that no one can leave. The average audience, Ihave come to believe, wants facts rather than generalities orsermonizing. Most people, I think, are able to draw properconclusions if they are given the facts in an interesting form onwhich to base them.As to the kind of audience that I like best to talk to, I wouldput 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 tosee a point, and so responsive. Within the last few years I havehad the privilege of speaking before most of the leadingorganizations of this kind in the large cities of the UnitedStates. The best time to get hold of an organization of businessmen is after a good dinner, although I think that one of theworst instruments of torture that was ever invented is the customwhich makes it necessary for a speaker to sit through afourteen-course dinner, every minute of the time feeling surethat his speech is going to prove a dismal failure anddisappointment.I rarely take part in one of these long dinners that I do notwish that I could put myself back in the little cabin where I wasa slave boy, and again go through the experience there--one thatI shall never forget--of getting molasses to eat once a week fromthe "big house." Our usual diet on the plantation was corn breadand pork, but on Sunday morning my mother was permitted to bringdown a little molasses from the "big house" for her threechildren, and when it was received how I did wish that every daywas Sunday! I would get my tin plate and hold it up for the sweetmorsel, but I would always shut my eyes while the molasses wasbeing poured out into the plate, with the hope that when I openedthem I would be surprised to see how much I had got. When Iopened my eyes I would tip the plate in one direction andanother, so as to make the molasses spread all over it, in thefull belief that there would be more of it and that it would lastlonger if spread out in this way. So strong are my childishimpressions of those Sunday morning feasts that it would bepretty hard for any one to convince me that there is not moremolasses on a plate when it is spread all over the plate thanwhen it occupies a little corner--if there is a corner in aplate. At any rate, I have never believed in "cornering" syrup.My share of the syrup was usually about two tablespoonfuls, andthose two spoonfuls of molasses were much more enjoyable to methan is a fourteen-course dinner after which I am to speak.Next to a company of business men, I prefer to speak to anaudience of Southern people, of either race, together or takenseparately. Their enthusiasm and responsiveness are a constantdelight. The "amens" and "dat's de truf" that come spontaneouslyfrom the coloured individuals are calculated to spur any speakeron to his best efforts. I think that next in order of preferenceI would place a college audience. It has been my privilege todeliver addresses at many of our leading colleges includingHarvard, Yale, Williams, Amherst, Fisk University, the Universityof Pennsylvania, Wellesley, the University of Michigan, TrinityCollege in North Carolina, and many others.It has been a matter of deep interest to me to note the number ofpeople who have come to shake hands with me after an address, whosay that this is the first time they have ever called a Negro"Mister."When speaking directly in the interests of the TuskegeeInstitute, I usually arrange, some time in advance, a series ofmeetings in important centres. This takes me before churches,Sunday-schools, Christian Endeavour Societies, and men's andwomen's clubs. When doing this I sometimes speak before as manyas four organizations in a single day.Three years ago, at the suggestion of Mr. Morris K. Jessup, ofNew 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 tobe used in paying the expenses of Mrs. Washington and myselfwhile holding a series of meetings among the coloured people inthe large centres of Negro population, especially in the largecities of the ex-slaveholding states. Each year during the lastthree years we have devoted some weeks to this work. The planthat we have followed has been for me to speak in the morning tothe ministers, teachers, and professional men. In the afternoonMrs. Washington would speak to the women alone, and in theevening I spoke to a large mass-meeting. In almost every case themeetings have been attended not only by the coloured people inlarge numbers, but by the white people. In Chattanooga, Tenn.,for example, there was present at the mass-meeting an audience ofnot less than three thousand persons, and I was informed thateight hundred of these were white. I have done no work that Ireally enjoyed more than this, or that I think has accomplishedmore good.These meetings have given Mrs. Washington and myself anopportunity to get first-hand, accurate information as to thereal 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 alsogave us an opportunity to see the relations that exist betweenthe races. I never feel so hopeful about the race as I do afterbeing engaged in a series of these meetings. I know that on suchoccasions there is much that comes to the surface that issuperficial and deceptive, but I have had experience enough notto be deceived by mere signs and fleeting enthusiasms. I havetaken pains to go to the bottom of things and get facts, in acold, business-like manner.I have seen the statement made lately, by one who claims to knowwhat he is talking about, that, taking the whole Negro race intoaccount, ninety per cent of the Negro women are not virtuous.There never was a baser falsehood uttered concerning a race, or astatement made that was less capable of being proved by actualfacts.No one can come into contact with the race for twenty years, as Ihave done in the heart of the South, without being convinced thatthe race is constantly making slow but sure progress materially,educationally, and morally. One might take up the life of theworst element in New York City, for example, and prove almostanything he wanted to prove concerning the white man, but allwill agree that this is not a fair test.Early in the year 1897 I received a letter inviting me to deliveran address at the dedication of the Robert Gould Shaw monument inBoston. I accepted the invitation. It is not necessary for me, Iam sure, to explain who Robert Gould Shaw was, and what he did.The monument to his memory stands near the head of the BostonCommon, facing the State House. It is counted to be the mostperfect piece of art of the kind to be found in the country.The exercises connected with the dedication were held in MusicHall, in Boston, and the great hall was packed from top to bottomwith one of the most distinguished audiences that ever assembledin the city. Among those present were more persons representingthe famous old anti-slavery element that it is likely will everbe brought together in the country again. The late Hon. RogerWolcott, then Governor of Massachusetts, was the presidingofficer, and on the platform with him were many other officialsand hundreds of distinguished men. A report of the meeting whichappeared in the Boston Transcript will describe it better thanany words of mine could do:--The core and kernel of yesterday's great noon meeting, in honourof the Brotherhood of Man, in Music Hall, was the superb addressof the Negro President of Tuskegee. "Booker T. Washingtonreceived his Harvard A.M. last June, the first of his race," saidGovernor Wolcott, "to receive an honorary degree from the oldestuniversity in the land, and this for the wise leadership of hispeople." When Mr. Washington rose in the flag-filled,enthusiasm-warmed, patriotic, and glowing atmosphere of MusicHall, people felt keenly that here was the civic justification ofthe old abolition spirit of Massachusetts; in his person theproof of her ancient and indomitable faith; in his strong throughand rich oratory, the crown and glory of the old war days ofsuffering and strife. The scene was full of historic beauty anddeep significance. "Cold" Boston was alive with the fire that isalways hot in her heart for righteousness and truth. Rows androws of people who are seldom seen at any public function, wholefamilies of those who are certain to be out of town on a holiday,crowded the place to overflowing. The city was at her birthrightfete in the persons of hundreds of her best citizens, men andwomen whose names and lives stand for the virtues that make forhonourable civic pride.Battle-music had filled the air. Ovation after ovation, applausewarm and prolonged, had greeted the officers and friends ofColonel Shaw, the sculptor, St. Gaudens, the memorial Committee,the Governor and his staff, and the Negro soldiers of theFifty-fourth Massachusetts as they came upon the platform orentered the hall. Colonel Henry Lee, of Governor Andrew's oldstaff, had made a noble, simple presentation speech for thecommittee, paying tribute to Mr. John M. Forbes, in whose steadhe 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 themonument for the city of Boston. The story of Colonel Shaw andhis black regiment had been told in gallant words, and then,after the singing ofMine eyes have seen the gloryOf the coming of the Lord,Booker Washington arose. It was, of course, just the moment forhim. The multitude, shaken out of its usual symphony-concertcalm, quivered with an excitement that was not suppressed. Adozen times it had sprung to its feet to cheer and wave andhurrah, as one person. When this man of culture and voice andpower, as well as a dark skin, began, and uttered the names ofStearns and of Andrew, feeling began to mount. You could seetears glisten in the eyes of soldiers and civilians. When theorator turned to the coloured soldiers on the platform, to thecolour-bearer of Fort Wagner, who smilingly bore still the flaghe had never lowered even when wounded, and said, "To you, to thescarred and scattered remnants of the Fifty-fourth, who, withempty sleeve and wanting leg, have honoured this occasion withyour presence, to you, your commander is not dead. Though Bostonerected no monument and history recorded no story, in you and inthe loyal race which you represent, Robert Gould Shaw would havea monument which time could not wear away," then came the climaxof the emotion of the day and the hour. It was Roger Wolcott, aswell as the Governor of Massachusetts, the individualrepresentative of the people's sympathy as well as the chiefmagistrate, who had sprung first to his feet and cried, "Threecheers to Booker T. Washington!"Among those on the platform was Sergeant William H. Carney, ofNew Bedford, Mass., the brave coloured officer who was thecolour-bearer at Fort Wagner and held the American flag. In spiteof the fact that a large part of his regiment was killed, heescape, and exclaimed, after the battle was over, "The old flagnever touched the ground."This flag Sergeant Carney held in his hands as he sat on theplatform, and when I turned to address the survivors of thecoloured regiment who were present, and referred to SergeantCarney, he rose, as if by instinct, and raised the flag. It hasbeen my privilege to witness a good many satisfactory and rathersensational demonstrations in connection with some of my publicaddresses, but in dramatic effect I have never seen orexperienced anything which equalled this. For a number of minutesthe audience seemed to entirely lose control of itself.In the general rejoicing throughout the country which followedthe close of the Spanish-American war, peace celebrations werearranged in several of the large cities. I was asked by PresidentWilliam R. Harper, of the University of Chicago, who was chairmanof the committee of invitations for the celebration to be held inthe city of Chicago, to deliver one of the addresses at thecelebration there. I accepted the invitation, and delivered twoaddresses there during the Jubilee week. The first of these, andthe principal one, was given in the Auditorium, on the evening ofSunday, October 16. This was the largest audience that I haveever addressed, in any part of the country; and besides speakingin the main Auditorium, I also addressed, that same evening, twooverflow audiences in other parts of the city.It was said that there were sixteen thousand persons in theAuditorium, and it seemed to me as if there were as many more onthe outside trying to get in. It was impossible for any one toget near the entrance without the aid of a policeman. PresidentWilliam McKinley attended this meeting, as did also the membersof his Cabinet, many foreign ministers, and a large number ofarmy and navy officers, many of whom had distinguished themselvesin 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.The Chicago Times-Herald, in describing the meeting, said of myaddress:--He pictured the Negro choosing slavery rather than extinction;recalled Crispus Attucks shedding his blood at the beginning ofthe American Revolution, that white Americans might be free,while black Americans remained in slavery; rehearsed the conductof the Negroes with Jackson at New Orleans; drew a vivid andpathetic picture of the Southern slaves protecting and supportingthe families of their masters while the latter were fighting toperpetuate black slavery; recounted the bravery of colouredtroops at Port Hudson and Forts Wagner and Pillow, and praisedthe heroism of the black regiments that stormed El Caney andSantiago to give freedom to the enslaved people of Cuba,forgetting, for the time being, the unjust discrimination thatlaw and custom make against them in their own country.In all of these things, the speaker declared, his race had chosenthe better part. And then he made his eloquent appeal to theconsciences of the white Americans: "When you have gotten thefull story or the heroic conduct of the Negro in theSpanish-American war, have heard it from the lips of Northernsoldier and Southern soldier, from ex-abolitionist andex-masters, then decidewithin yourselves whether a race that is thus willing to die forits country should not be given the highest opportunity to livefor its country."The part of the speech which seems to arouse the wildest and mostsensational enthusiasm was that in which I thanked the Presidentfor his recognition of the Negro in his appointments during theSpanish-American war. The President was sitting in a box at theright 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, wavinghandkerchiefs and hats and canes, until the President arose inthe box and bowed his acknowledgements. At that the enthusiasmbroke out again, and the demonstration was almost indescribable.One portion of my address at Chicago seemed to have beenmisunderstood by the Southern press, and some of the Southernpapers took occasion to criticise me rather strongly. Thesecriticisms continued for several weeks, until I finally receiveda letter from the editor of the Age-Herald, published inBirmingham, Ala., asking me if I would say just what I meant bythis part of the address. I replied to him in a letter whichseemed to satisfy my critics. In this letter I said that I hadmade it a rule never to say before a Northern audience anythingthat I would not say before an audience in the South. I said thatI did not think it was necessary for me to go into extendedexplanations; if my seventeen years of work in the heart of theSouth had not been explanation enough, I did not see how wordscould explain. I said that I made the same plea that I had madein my address at Atlanta, for the blotting out of race prejudicein "commercial and civil relations." I said that what is termedsocial recognition was a question which I never discussed, andthen I quoted from my Atlanta address what I had said there inregard to that subject.In meeting crowds of people at public gatherings, there is onetype of individual that I dread. I mean the crank. I have becomeso accustomed to these people now that I can pick them out at adistance when I see them elbowing their way up to me. The averagecrank has a long beard, poorly cared for, a lean, narrow face,and wears a black coat. The front of his vest and coat are slickwith grease, and his trousers bag at the knees.In Chicago, after I had spoken at a meeting, I met one of thesefellows. They usually have some process for curing all of theills of the world at once. This Chicago specimen had a patentprocess by which he said Indian corn could be kept through aperiod of three or four years, and he felt sure that if the Negrorace in the South would, as a whole, adopt his process, it wouldsettle the whole race question. It mattered nothing that I triedto convince him that our present problem was to teach the Negroeshow to produce enough corn to last them through one year. AnotherChicago crank had a scheme by which he wanted me to join him inan effort to close up all the National banks in the country. Ifthat was done, he felt sure it would put the Negro on his feet.The number of people who stand ready to consume one's time, to nopurpose, is almost countless. At one time I spoke before a largeaudience in Boston in the evening. The next morning I wasawakened by having a card brought to my room, and with it amessage that some one was anxious to see me. Thinking that itmust be something very important, I dressed hastily and wentdown. When I reached the hotel office I found a blank andinnocent-looking individual waiting for me, who coolly remarked:"I heard you talk at a meeting last night. I rather liked yourtalk, and so I came in this morning to hear you talk some more."I am often asked how it is possible for me to superintend thework at Tuskegee and at the same time be so much away from theschool. In partial answer to this I would say that I think I havelearned, in some degree at least, to disregard the old maximwhich says, "Do not get others to do that which you can doyourself." My motto, on the other hand, is, "Do not do that whichothers can do as well."One of the most encouraging signs in connection with the Tuskegeeschool is found in the fact that the organization is so thoroughthat the daily work of the school is not dependent upon thepresence of any one individual. The whole executive force,including instructors and clerks, now numbers eighty-six. Thisforce is so organized and subdivided that the machinery of theschool goes on day by day like clockwork. Most of our teachershave 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 seventeenyears, 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 dailytouch with the life of the school, and who also keeps me informedof whatever takes place in the South that concerns the race. Iowe more to his tact, wisdom, and hard work than I can describe.The main executive work of the school, whether I am at Tuskegeeor not, centres in what we call the executive council. Thiscouncil meets twice a week, and is composed of the nine personswho are at the head of the nine departments of the school. Forexample: Mrs. B.K. Bruce, the Lady Principal, the widow of thelate ex-senator Bruce, is a member of the council, and representsin it all that pertains to the life of the girls at the school.In addition to the executive council there is a financialcommittee of six, that meets every week and decides upon theexpenditures for the week. Once a month, and sometimes oftener,there is a general meeting of all the instructors. Aside fromthese there are innumerable smaller meetings, such as that of theinstructors in the Phelps Hall Bible Training School, or of theinstructors in the agricultural department.In order that I may keep in constant touch with the life of theinstitution, I have a system of reports so arranged that a recordof the school's work reaches me every day of the year, no matterin what part of the country I am. I know by these reports evenwhat students are excused from school, and why they areexcused--whether for reasons of ill health or otherwise. Throughthe medium of these reports I know each day what the income ofthe school in money is; I know how many gallons of milk and howmany pounds of butter come from the diary; what the bill of farefor the teachers and students is; whether a certain kind of meatwas boiled or baked, and whether certain vegetables served in thedining room were bought from a store or procured from our ownfarm. Human nature I find to be very much the same the worldover, and it is sometimes not hard to yield to the temptation togo to a barrel of rice that has come from the store--with thegrain all prepared to go in the pot--rather than to take the timeand trouble to go to the field and dig and wash one's own sweetpotatoes, which might be prepared in a manner to take the placeof the rice.I am often asked how, in the midst of so much work, a large partof which is for the public, I can find time for any rest orrecreation, and what kind of recreation or sports I am fond of.This is rather a difficult question to answer. I have a strongfeeling that every individual owes it to himself, and to thecause which he is serving, to keep a vigorous, healthy body, withthe nerves steady and strong, prepared for great efforts andprepared for disappointments and trying positions. As far as Ican, I make it a rule to plan for each day's work--not merely togo through with the same routine of daily duties, but to get ridof the routine work as early in the day as possible, and then toenter upon some new or advance work. I make it a rule to clear mydesk every day, before leaving my office, of all correspondenceand memoranda, so that on the morrow I can begin a new day ofwork. I make it a rule never to let my work drive me, but to somaster it, and keep it in such complete control, and to keep sofar ahead of it, that I will be the master instead of theservant. There is a physical and mental and spiritual enjoymentthat comes from a consciousness of being the absolute master ofone's work, in all its details, that is very satisfactory andinspiring. My experience teachers me that, if one learns tofollow this plan, he gets a freshness of body and vigour of mindout of work that goes a long way toward keeping him strong andhealthy. I believe that when one can grow to the point where heloves his work, this gives him a kind of strength that is mostvaluable.When I begin my work in the morning, I expect to have asuccessful and pleasant day of it, but at the same time I preparemyself for unpleasant and unexpected hard places. I preparedmyself to hear that one of our school buildings is on fire, orhas burned, or that some disagreeable accident has occurred, orthat some one has abused me in a public address or printedarticle, for something that I have done or omitted to do, or forsomething that he had heard that I had said--probably somethingthat I had never thought of saying.In nineteen years of continuous work I have taken but onevacation. That was two years ago, when some of my friends put themoney into my hands and forced Mrs. Washington and myself tospend three months in Europe. I have said that I believe it isthe duty of every one to keep his body in good condition. I tryto look after the little ills, with the idea that if I take careof the little ills the big ones will not come. When I find myselfunable to sleep well, I know that something is wrong. If I findany part of my system the least weak, and not performing itsduty, I consult a good physician. The ability to sleep well, atany time and in any place, I find of great advantage. I have sotrained myself that I can lie down for a nap of fifteen or twentyminutes, and get up refreshed in body and mind.I have said that I make it a rule to finish up each day's workbefore leaving it. There is, perhaps, one exception to this. WhenI have an unusually difficult question to decide--one thatappeals strongly to the emotions--I find it a safe rule to sleepover it for a night, or to wait until I have had an opportunityto talk it over with my wife and friends.As to my reading; the most time I get for solid reading is when Iam on the cars. Newspapers are to me a constant source of delightand recreation. The only trouble is that I read too many of them.Fiction I care little for. Frequently I have to almost forcemyself to read a novel that is on every one's lips. The kind ofreading that I have the greatest fondness for is biography. Ilike to be sure that I am reading about a real man or a realthing. I think I do not go too far when I say that I have readnearly every book and magazine article that has been writtenabout 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 fromthe school so much unquestionably has its disadvantages, yetthere are at the same time some compensations. The change of workbrings a certain kind of rest. I enjoy a ride of a long distanceon the cars, when I am permitted to ride where I can becomfortable. I get rest on the cars, except when the inevitableindividual who seems to be on every train approaches me with thenow familiar phrase: "Isn't this Booker Washington? I want tointroduce myself to you." Absence from the school enables me tolose sight of the unimportant details of the work, and study itin a broader and more comprehensive manner than I could do on thegrounds. This absence also brings me into contact with the bestwork being done in educational lines, and into contact with thebest educators in the land.But, after all this is said, the time when I get the most solidrest and recreation is when I can be at Tuskegee, and, after ourevening meal is over, can sit down, as is our custom, with mywife and Portia and Baker and Davidson, my three children, andread a story, or each take turns in telling a story. To me thereis nothing on earth equal to that, although what is nearly equalto it is to go with them for an hour or more, as we like to do onSunday afternoons, into the woods, where we can live for a whilenear 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.My garden, also, what little time I can be at Tuskegee, isanother source of rest and enjoyment. Somehow I like, as often aspossible, to touch nature, not something that is artificial or animitation, but the real thing. When I can leave my office in timeso that I can spend thirty or forty minutes in spading theground, in planting seeds, in digging about the plants, I feelthat I am coming into contact with something that is giving mestrength for the many duties and hard places that await me out inthe big world. I pity the man or woman who has never learned toenjoy nature and to get strength and inspiration out of it.Aside from the large number of fowls and animals kept by theschool, I keep individually a number of pigs and fowls of thebest grades, and in raising these I take a great deal ofpleasure. I think the pig is my favourite animal. Few things aremore satisfactory to me than a high-grade Berkshire or PolandChina pig.Games I care little for. I have never seen a game of football. Incards I do not know one card from another. A game ofold-fashioned marbles with my two boys, once in a while, is all Icare for in this direction. I suppose I would care for games nowif I had had any time in my youth to give to them, but that wasnot possible.