In my early life I used to cherish a feeling of ill will toward any one who spoke in bitter terms against the Negro, or who advocated measures that tended to oppress the black man or take from him opportunities for growth in the most complete manner.  Now, whenever I hear any one advocating measures that are meant to curtail the development of another, I pity the individual who would do this.  I know that the one who makes this mistake does so because of his own lack of opportunity for the highest kind of growth.  I pity him because I know that he is trying to stop the progress of the world, and because I know that in time the development and the ceaseless advance of humanity will make him ashamed of his weak and narrow position.  One might as well try to stop the progress of a mighty railroad train by throwing his body across the track, as to try to stop the growth of the world in the direction of giving mankind more intelligence, more culture, more skill, more liberty, and in the direction of extending more sympathy and more brotherly kindness.

The address which I delivered at Madison, before the National Educational Association, gave me a rather wide introduction in the North, and soon after that opportunities began offering themselves for me to address audiences there.

I was anxious, however, that the way might also be opened for me to speak directly to a representative Southern white audience.  A partial opportunity of this kind, one that seemed to me might serve as an entering wedge, presented itself in 1893, when the international meeting of Christian Workers was held at Atlanta, Ga.  When this invitation came to me, I had engagements in Boston that seemed to make it impossible for me to speak in Atlanta.  Still, after looking over my list of dates and places carefully, I found that I could take a train from Boston that would get me into Atlanta about thirty minutes before my address was to be delivered, and that I could remain in that city before taking another train for Boston.  My invitation to speak in Atlanta stipulated that I was to confine my address to five minutes.  The question, then, was whether or not I could put enough into a five-minute address to make it worth while for me to make such a trip.

I knew that the audience would be largely composed of the most influential class of white men and women, and that it would be a rare opportunity for me to let them know what we were trying to do at Tuskegee, as well as to speak to them about the relations of the races.  So I decided to make the trip.  I spoke for five minutes to an audience of two thousand people, composed mostly of Southern and Northern whites.  What I said seemed to be received with favour and enthusiasm.  The Atlanta papers of the next day commented in friendly terms on my address, and a good deal was said about it in different parts of the country.  I felt that I had in some degree accomplished my object—­that of getting a hearing from the dominant class of the South.