"Say not 'Good night,' but in some brighter clime
Bid me 'Good morning.'"
--BARBAULD.
In a small back room in McGowan's hospitable hostelry Handy, Weston,
McGowan himself, the members of the company, and a few others were
gathered for a little bite and a sup before the players returned to
Weston. It was a convivial party--not noisy nor boisterous. Just
cheerful, good-natured crowd. All were happy over the night's fun. They
showed it in their smiling faces and laughing eyes. Strange as it may
appear, the most thoughtful appearing one in the assemblage was the
veteran himself. McGowan noticed his demeanor more quickly than any of
the others, and by the way of cheering or bracing him up he rose from
his chair and proposed for a standing toast the health, wealth and
prosperity of their friend who afforded them the enjoyment they had that
night,--"Our friend, Handy! May he live long and prosper."
It was given with a hearty response. A speech was then called, when Handy
with much reluctance rose and said:
"Friends--I take the liberty of calling you friends after the generous
treatment you have given me and my poor humble little company
to-night--we are only a troupe of strolling players trying to do the best
we can to please you, to make you cheerful, to banish dull care from your
minds in your leisure hours, and make you laugh with happy hearts. No one
was ever hurt or harmed by an honest laugh. No time was ever wasted that
brought with it, through the agency of song, music and acting, brighter
thoughts and happier feelings. And, after all, that seems to me to be the
mission of the players. I am no speech-maker, my friends, I am speaking
to you as the words come from my heart, and my heart is full and happy
to-night. All the world, we are told, is a stage, a place where everyone
must play his part. And how true are those words both men and women know.
I feel as if I had played many and many parts. I have had my ups and
downs; my joys and sorrows, and sometimes I have supped bitter in sorrow.
But no matter, I presume we all have the same story to tell. I am not
going to bother you with a recital of any of them. Let them pass, just as
the summer storm passes away when the sun peeps out from behind the
clouds and lights up everything with its radiance and makes us all
cheerful, contented and happy. Ah, boys! I have been many years on the
road, traveling over this broad land of ours. Aye! a poor player. I have
grown old in the line of making laughter for others and lending a hand to
bring merriment to my aid. The frost of years is beginning to lay its
mark already on my once fiery locks, and the time is drawing near when I
will have to make my final exit and quit work; and when a man stops
working nature is finished with him, and when nature is through with him
it is pretty near time to go. Well, so be it. In years long gone by I
came across a little poem which I carried about with me months and
months, in the war campaign of the sixties, for, friends, I served my
time as a drummer boy with the old Army of the Potomac. Well, this is a
little gem, at least, I thought it so then. I think it so now. It was
written by a woman. It is said it was the last she ever wrote. I read it
and read it until I committed it to memory. 'Tis short, very short. If
you wish to hear it, I'll recite it for you now. Yes?
"Life! we've been long together
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part, when friends are dear,
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear.
"Then steal away--give little warning,
Choose thine own time,
Say not 'Good night,' but in some brighter clime
Bid me--'Good morning.'"
END