The Secret Of Success In 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:—
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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
Mine eyes have seen the glory
Of the coming of the Lord,
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!”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
The Chicago Times-Herald, in describing the meeting, said of my
address:—
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.