Public Speaking: Principles and Practice Part 35

This is the greatest measure which has ever been before Parliament in my time, and the most pregnant with good or evil to the country; and though I seldom meddle with political meetings, I could not reconcile it to my conscience to be absent from this.

Every year for this half century, the question of reform has been pressing upon us, till it has swelled up at last into this great and awful combination; so that almost every city and every borough in England are at this moment a.s.sembled for the same purpose, and are doing the same thing we are doing.

MORE TERRIBLE THAN THE LIONS

From "Modern Eloquence," Vol. X, Geo. L. Shuman and Company, Chicago, publishers.

BY A. A. MCCORMICK

I do not want to be in the position of a man I once heard of who was a lion tamer. He was a very brave man. There was no lion, no matter how big, or strong, or vicious, that had not succ.u.mbed to this man's fearlessness. This man had a wife, and she did not like him to stay out late at night, and big as he was, and as brave, he had never dared to disrespect his wife's wishes, until one evening, meeting some old friends, he fell to talking over old times with them, their early adventures and experiences. Finally, looking at his watch, to his amazement he discovered it was midnight. What to do he knew not. He didn't dare to go home. If he went to a hotel, his wife might discover him before he discovered her. Finally, in desperation, he sped to the menagerie, hurriedly pa.s.sed through and went to the cage of lions.

Entering this he closed and locked the door, and gave a sigh of relief.

He quieted the dangerous brutes, and lay down with his head resting on the mane of the largest and most dangerous of them all. His wife waited. Her anger increased as the night wore on. At the first sign of dawn she went in search of her recreant lord and master. Not finding him in any of the haunts that he generally frequented, she went to the menagerie. She also pa.s.sed through and went to the cage of the lions.

Peering in she saw her husband, the fearless lion tamer, crouching at the back of the cage. A look of chagrin came over her face, closely followed by one of scorn and fine contempt, as she shook her finger and hissed, "You coward!"

IRVING, THE ACTOR

From "In Lighter Vein," with the permission of Paul Elder and Company, San Francisco, publishers.

BY JOHN DE MORGAN

Henry Irving, the actor, was always fond of playing practical jokes.

Clement Scott tells of one played by Irving and Harry Montague upon a number of their a.s.sociates. Irving and Montague, hitherto the best of friends, began to quarrel on their way to a picnic, and their friends feared some tragic consequences. After luncheon both of the men disappeared. Business Manager Smale's face turned pale. He felt that his worst fears had been realized. With one cry, "They're gone! What on earth has become of them?" he made a dash down the Dargle, over the rocks and bowlders, with the remainder of the picnickers at his heels.

At the bottom of a "dreadful hollow behind the little wood," a fearful sight presented itself to the astonished friends. There, on a stone, sat Henry Irving, in his shirtsleeves, his long hair matted over his eyes, his thin hands and white face all smeared with blood, and dangling an open clasp-knife. He was muttering to himself, in a savage tone: "I've done it, I've done it! I said I would, I said I would!" Tom Smale, in an agony of fear, rushed up to Irving. "For Heaven's sake, man," he screamed, "tell us where he is!" Irving, scarcely moving a muscle, pointed to a heap of dead leaves, and, in that sepulchral tone of his, cried: "He's there! I've done for him! I've murdered him!"

Smale literally bounded to the heap, almost paralyzed with fear, and began pulling the leaves away. Presently he found Montague lying face downward and nearly convulsed with laughter. Never was better acting seen on any stage.

WENDELL PHILLIPS'S TACT

From "Memories of the Lyceum," in "Modern Eloquence," Vol. VI, Geo. L.

Shuman and Company, Chicago, publishers.

BY JAMES BURTON POND

Wendell Phillips was the most polished and graceful orator our country ever produced. He spoke as quietly as if he were talking in his own parlor and almost entirely without gestures, yet he had as great a power over all kinds of audiences as any American of whom we have any record. Often called before howling mobs, who had come to the lecture- room to prevent him from being heard, and who would shout and sing to drown his voice, he never failed to subdue them in a short time. One ill.u.s.tration of his power and tact occurred in Boston. The majority of the audience were hostile. They yelled and sang and completely drowned his voice. The reporters were seated in a row just under the platform, in the place where the orchestra plays in an ordinary theater. Phillips made no attempt to address the noisy crowd, but bent over and seemed to be speaking in a low tone to the reporters. By and by the curiosity of the audience was excited; they ceased to clamor and tried to hear what he was saying to the reporters. Phillips looked at them and said quietly:--

"Go on, gentlemen, go on. I do not need your ears. Through these pencils I speak to thirty millions of people."

Not a voice was raised again. The mob had found its master and stayed whipped until he sat down.

Eloquent as he was as a lecturer, he was far more effective as a debater. Debate was for him the flint and steel which brought out all his fire. His memory was something wonderful, He would listen to an elaborate speech for hours, and, without a single note of what had been said, in writing, reply to every part of it as fully and completely as if the speech were written out before him. Those who heard him only on the platform, and when not confronted by an opponent, have a very limited comprehension of his wonderful resources as a speaker. He never hesitated for a word or failed to employ the word best fitted to express his thought on the point under discussion.

BAKED BEANS AND CULTURE

From "Writings in Prose and Verse, by Eugene Field," with the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, publishers.

BY EUGENE FIELD

The members of the Boston Commercial Club are charming gentlemen. They are now the guests of the Chicago Commercial Club, and are being shown every attention that our market affords.

Last night five or six of these Boston merchants sat around the office of the hotel and discussed matters and things. Pretty soon they got to talking about beans; this was the subject which they dwelt on with evident pleasure.

"Waal, sir," said Ephraim Taft, a wholesale dealer in maple sugar and flavored lozenges, "you kin talk 'bout your new-fashioned dishes an'

high-falutin' vittles; but when you come right down to it, there ain't no better eatin' than a dish o' baked pork 'n' beans."

"That's so, b'gosh!" chorused the others.

"The truth o' the matter is," continued Mr. Taft, "that beans is good for everybody--'t don't make no difference whether he's well or sick.

Why, I've known a thousand folks--waal, mebbe not quite a thousand; but--waal, now, jest to show, take the case of Bill Holbrook,--you remember Bill, don't ye?"

"Bill Holbrook?" said Mr. Ezra Eastman. "Why, of course I do. Used to live down to Brimfield, next to Moses Howard farm."

"That's the man," resumed Mr. Taft. "Waal, Bill fell sick--kinder moped 'round, tired-like, for a week or two, an' then tuck to his bed. His folks sent for Dock Smith--ol' Dock Smith that used to carry a pair o'

leather saddlebags. Gosh, they don't have no sech doctors nowadays!

Waal, the dock he come; an' he looked at Bill's tongue, an' felt uv his pulse, an' said that Bill had typhus fever."

Ol' Dock Smith was a very careful, conserv'tive man, an' he never said nothin' unless he knowed he was right.

"Bill began to git wuss, an' he kep' a-gittin' wuss every day. One mornin' ol' Dock Smith sez, 'Look a-here, Bill, I guess you're a goner; as I figger it, you can't hol' out till nightfall.'

"Bill's mother insisted on a con-sul-tation bein' held; so ol' Dock Smith sent over for young Dock Brainerd. I calc'late that, next _to_ ol' Dock Smith, young Dock Brainerd was the smartest doctor that ever lived.

"Waal, pretty soon along come Dock Brainerd; an' he an' Dock Smith went all over Bill, an' looked at his tongue, an' felt uv his pulse, an'

told him it was a gone case, an' that he had got to die. Then they went on into the spare chamber to hold their con-sul-tation.

"Waal, Bill he lay there in the front room a-pantin' an' a-gaspin', an'

a wond'rin' whether it wuz true. As he wuz thinkin', up comes the girl to git a clean tablecloth out of the clothespress, an' she left the door ajar as she come in. Bill he gave a sniff, an' his eyes grew more natural like; he gathered together all the strength he had, an' he raised himself up on one elbow an' sniffed again.

"'Sary,' says he, 'wot's that a-cookin'?'

"'Beans,' says she; 'beans for dinner.'

"'Sary,' says the dyin' man, 'I must hev a plate uv them beans!'

"'Sakes alive, Mr. Holbrook!' says she; 'if you wuz to eat any o' them beans it'd kill ye!'

"'If I've got to die,' says he, 'I'm goin' to die happy; fetch me a plate uv them beans.'

"Waal, Sary she pikes off to the doctor's.

"'Look a-here,' says she; 'Mr. Holbrook smelt the beans cookin' an' he says he's got to have some. Now, what shall I do about it?'

"'Waal, Doctor,' says Dock Smith, 'what do you think 'bout it?'

"'He's got to die anyhow,' says Dock Brainerd, 'an' I don't suppose the beans 'll make any diff'rence.'

"'That's the way I figger it,' says Dock Smith; 'in all my practice I never knew of beans hurtin' anybody.'