Public Speaking: Principles and Practice Part 15

From "Tom Jones"

BY HENRY FIELDING

In the first row of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When the first music was played, he said, "It was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out."

While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs.

Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service." Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, "That here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth."

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was in the strange dress; something," said he, "like what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not armor, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that, sir, if you can. ... No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neighborhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr.

Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told me. ...

Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to be sure! Who's fool then?

Will you? Lud have mercy upon such foolhardiness!--Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.--Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon.

Nay, perhaps it is the devil--for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.--Oh! here he is again.--No farther! No, you have gone far enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hus.h.!.+

dear sir, don't you hear him?" And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same pa.s.sions which succeeded each other in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in him.

During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon the king's countenance. "Well," said he, "how people may be deceived by faces! _Nulla fides fronti_ is, I find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking into the king's face, that he had ever committed a murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction than "that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."

Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, "There, sir, now; what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as you think me, and, to be sure, n.o.body can help some fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit! As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed, you saw right," answered Jones, "Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know it is only a play: and besides, if there was any thing in all this, Madam Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person.--There, there--Aye, no wonder you are in such a pa.s.sion; shake the vile wicked wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To be sure all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings.--Aye, go about your business, I hate the sight of you."

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which Jones asked him which of the players he had liked best? To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question, "The king, without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." "He the best player!" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as ne did.

And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting before in the country; and the king for my money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the other.--Anybody may see he is an actor."

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

BY ROBERT BURNS

Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, an' a' that?

The coward slave, we pa.s.s him by-- We dare be poor for a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that, Our toils obscure, an' a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd [Footnote: gold] for a' that!

What tho' on hamely [Footnote: homely, plain] fare we dine, Wear hoddin [Footnote: homespun] gray, an' a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine-- A man's a man, for a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that, The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that!

Ye see yon birkie [Footnote: fellow], ca'd a lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds wors.h.i.+p at his word, He's but a coof [Footnote: fool (p.r.o.nounce like German _o_ or _oe_)] for a' that; For a' that, an' a' that, His riband, star, an' a' that; The man of independent mind, He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's aboon [Footnote: above] his might-- Gude faith, he maunna fa' [Footnote: must not claim (to make the honest man)] that!

For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities, an' a' that, The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense an' worth, o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree, [Footnote: prize] an' a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that, It's comin' yet, for a' that-- That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that.

ARTEMUS WARD'S LECTURE

From "Complete Works of Artemus Ward" with the permission of the G. W. Dillingham Company, New York, publishers.

BY CHARLES FARRAR BROWN (ARTEMUS WARD)

I don't expect to do great things here--but I have thought that if I could make money enough to buy me a pa.s.sage to New Zealand I should feel that I had not lived in vain. I don't want to live in vain. I'd rather live in Texas--or here.

If you should be dissatisfied with anything here to-night--I will admit you all free in New Zealand--if you will come to me there for the orders. Any respectable cannibal will tell you where I live. This shows that I have a forgiving spirit.

I really don't care for money. I only travel round to see the world and to exhibit my clothes. These clothes I have on have been a great success in America.

How often do large fortunes ruin young men! I should like to be ruined, but I can get on very well as I am.

I am not an Artist. I don't paint myself--though perhaps if I were a middle-aged single lady I should--yet I have a pa.s.sion for pictures.--I have had a great many pictures--photographs--taken of myself. Some of them are very pretty--rather sweet to look at for a short time--and as I said before, I like them. I've always loved pictures. I could draw on wood at a very tender age. When a mere child I once drew a small cartload of raw turnips over a wooden bridge.--The people of the village noticed me. I drew their attention. They said I had a future before me. Up to that time I had an idea it was behind me.

Time pa.s.sed on. It always does, by the way. You may possibly have noticed that Time pa.s.ses on.--It is a kind of way Time has.

I became a man. I haven't distinguished myself at all as an artist--but I have always been more or less mixed up with art. I have an uncle who takes photographs--and I have a servant who--takes anything he can get his hands on.

When I was in Rome--Rome in New York State, I mean--a distinguished sculpist wanted to sculp me. But I said "No." I saw through the designing man. My model once in his hands--he would have flooded the market with my busts--and I couldn't stand it to see everybody going round with a bust of me. Everybody would want one of course--and wherever I should go I should meet the educated cla.s.ses with my bust, taking it home to their families. This would be more than my modesty could stand--and I should have to return home--where my creditors are.

I like art. I admire dramatic art--although I failed as an actor.

It was in my schoolboy days that I failed as an actor.--The play was "The Ruins of Pompeii."--I played the ruins. It was not a very successful performance--but it was better than the "Burning Mountain."

He was not good. He was a bad Vesuvius.

The remembrance often makes me ask--"Where are the boys of my youth?" I a.s.sure you this is not a conundrum. Some are amongst you here--some in America--some are in jail.

Hence arises a most touching question--"Where are the girls of my youth?" Some are married--some would like to be.

Oh, my Maria! Alas! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she is happy--because I am.--Some people are not happy. I have noticed that.

A gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. I said, "Why these weeps?" He said he had a mortgage on his farm--and wanted to borrow $200. I lent him the money--and he went away. Some time afterward he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me forever. I ventured to remind him of the $200 he borrowed. He was much cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him--so told him I would throw off $100. He brightened--shook my hand--and said,--"Old friend-- I won't allow you to outdo me in liberality--I'll throw off the other hundred."

I like Music.--I can't sing. As a singist I am not a success. I am saddest when I sing. So are those who hear me. They are sadder even than I am.

I met a man in Oregon who hadn't any teeth--not a tooth in his head-- yet that man could play on the ba.s.s drum better than any man I ever met. He kept a hotel. They have queer hotels in Oregon. I remember one where they gave me a bag of oats for a pillow--I had nightmares of course. In the morning the landlord said,--"How do you feel--old hoss-- hay?"--I told him I felt my oats.

As a manager I was always rather more successful than as an actor.

Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living American Skeleton for a tour through Australia. He was the thinnest man I ever saw. He was a splendid skeleton. He didn't weigh anything scarcely--and I said to myself--the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous cu- riosity. It is a long voyage--as you know--from New York to Melbourne-- and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. He had never been on the ocean before--and he said it agreed with him--I thought so!--I never saw a man eat so much in my life. Beef, mutton, pork--he swallowed them all like a shark--and between meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs. The result was that, when we reached Melbourne, this infamous skeleton weighed sixty-four pounds more than I did!

I thought I was ruined--but I wasn't. I took him on to California-- another very long sea voyage--and when I got him to San Francisco I exhibited him as a fat man.

This story hasn't anything to do with my entertainment, I know--but one of the princ.i.p.al features of my entertainment is that it contains so many things that don't have anything to do with it.

JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE

By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of this author's work.

BY JOHN HAY

Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso pa.s.sed in his checks The night of the "Prairie Belle"?