Up from Slavery: An AutobiographyWashington, Booker T.
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Up from Slavery: An Autobiography
Washington, Booker T.
African Americans -- Biography; Educators -- United States -- Biography; Tuskegee Institute; Washington, Booker T., 1856-1915
As soon as the last good-bys were said, and the steamer had cut loose
from the wharf, the load of care, anxiety, and responsibility which I
had carried for eighteen years began to lift itself from my shoulders
at the rate, it seemed to me, of a pound a minute. It was the first
time in all those years that I had felt, even in a measure, free from
care; and my feeling of relief it is hard to describe on paper. Added
to this was the delightful anticipation of being in Europe soon. It all
seemed more like a dream than like a reality.
Mr. Garrison had thoughtfully arranged to have us have one of the most
comfortable rooms on the ship. The second or third day out I began to
sleep, and I think that I slept at the rate of fifteen hours a day
during the remainder of the ten days’ passage. Then it was that I began
to understand how tired I really was. These long sleeps I kept up for a
month after we landed on the other side. It was such an unusual feeling
to wake up in the morning and realize that I had no engagements; did
not have to take a train at a certain hour; did not have an appointment
to meet some one, or to make an address, at a certain hour. How
different all this was from the experiences that I have been through
when travelling, when I have sometimes slept in three different beds in
a single night!
When Sunday came, the captain invited me to conduct the religious
services, but, not being a minister, I declined. The passengers,
however, began making requests that I deliver an address to them in the
dining-saloon some time during the voyage, and this I consented to do.
Senator Sewell presided at this meeting. After ten days of delightful
weather, during which I was not seasick for a day, we landed at the
interesting old city of Antwerp, in Belgium.
The next day after we landed happened to be one of those numberless
holidays which the people of those countries are in the habit of
observing. It was a bright, beautiful day. Our room in the hotel faced
the main public square, and the sights there—the people coming in from
the country with all kinds of beautiful flowers to sell, the women
coming in with their dogs drawing large, brightly polished cans filled
with milk, the people streaming into the cathedral—filled me with a
sense of newness that I had never before experienced.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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