Of International Fame.
It is a matter of much interest both North and South that Geo.
C. Miln, the great orator-actor, after many years of absence
from America, will make a tour of the United States next season,
presenting his great lecture, “The Story of a Strolling Player.”
Mr. Miln has played the plays of Shakespeare in almost every
civilized country under the sun. He will be remembered by
Americans as the brilliant orator who succeeded Robert Collyer in
the pulpit of Unity Church, Chicago. His oration on the death of
Garfield is considered one of the modern classics.
]
A Great Lecturer.
By Opie Read.
I wonder whether many of the people of Nashville remember a newspaper
printed in that city in 1876? To the few it was known as the _Evening
Mail_. To the many it was not known at all. We had not advocated
municipal ownership, we who conducted the enterprise, but the sheriff
somehow took it into his head that we did; and as he could not turn the
property over to the city, he kept it for the county. I don’t know what
was finally done with it. I suppose it became but an echo of dust.
The paper was “established” by a number of printers and newspaper men who
had nothing else to do. As we were to share alike in the profits we went
alike to the free lunch counter. It was a pure democracy and the man who
owned fifteen shares of stock received no more than the man who owned
one. The paper was edited with longing and printed with hope. We were
all of us optimists. If a cloud arose in our sky we looked upon it as a
balloon ascension. I remember but one day of reproof and censure. The
foreman came into the “sanctum” and said to the editor-in-chief: “There
is trouble in the composing room, sir.”
The editor, an old gentleman who loved to write and who vaguely believed
that eventually one of his editorials might be read from beginning to
end, looked up and sighed.
“Trouble?”
“Ah, and serious trouble, sir.”
“What is it?”
“Why, Ewing says that he’s got to eat.”
“Eat!” echoed the editor. “What can he mean by such impudence? Did you
reason with him?”
“I did, sir; I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself.”
“And was he?”
“No, sir; he forthwith gave me an example of insubordination. He accused
me of hiding a sandwich in my desk.”
The editor thought a long time. He had written on the situation in
Europe and had given advice to England, France and Germany—he had told
the Powers what to do with Turkey, but this sandwich required deeper
meditation. “How many shares of stock does Ewing hold?” he inquired.
“Ten, I believe, sir.”
“Well, it seems to me that a man holding so many shares ought to be
possessed of more dignity. Let him transfer his stock to some one who
stands not high in his regard, and resign. You may go. But, wait a
moment, foreman. If you should happen to have a sandwich hidden in your
desk, don’t forget me. We have always been good friends, you know.”
It was about this time that Major DeMaine made his appearance in
Nashville. He came with a heavily-worded recommendation from the Boston
School of Oratory. It was declared that he was the greatest orator of
the day or night. He had talked in Faneuil Hall. It appeared in the
paper Flanel Hall, but that made no difference. He would have been the
greatest of all actors but that he was religiously inclined and deplored
the thought of giving up his earnest life to the trivial mimickry of the
stage. He was not well dressed but we ascribed this lack of duds to his
individuality. But some of us questioned his greatness until he came
around to the office and put into the _Mail_ a full page advertisement.
Then we knew that he was great. This full page was an announcement
together with the press notices of his great lecture on Humanity.
Beecher said that it was profound and in an autograph letter Mark Twain
swore that it was funnier than Artemus Ward among the Mormons. We were
possessed of a small job press, and on this machine the tickets were
printed. We were to receive so much a hundred and we looked forward to
a time when we might eat, sitting down. One man, a pampered youth named
Billings, said that he must have a pair of shoes. At first we took this
for _badinage_, for one of this fellow’s whimsical jokes, but soon we
discovered that he meant it. We called a meeting of the faculty. The
editor sighed. For a man who possessed all wisdom he was the most
sighing man I ever knew. With him a sigh answered for declaration and
for epigram. He was never at a loss for sigh. So he sighed and asked
Billings if he had well considered the situation. Billings answered that
he thought he had.
“And you must have shoes, you Beau Brummel! Just at this time of dawning
prosperity you must come forward to swamp our hope with needless
extravagance. Transfer your stock, Billings, and resign.”
The lecture was to be given in a building which stood somewhere in Summer
Street. We were to sell the tickets to our friends and were to share in
the profits. And with what will we went forth! A stranger might have
thought that the city had been invaded by a gang of hold-up men. Well,
the night came. We were present, eighteen of us. The editor and the
business manager were absent, having been invited to attend a luncheon
given by a politician. But eighteen of us were there to hear that great
out-rush of the human mind. It may have been that the learning was too
deep for us, that the humor was too skilfully hidden. There was a large
audience and at first there was much applause, but it dropped off along
about the second round. At the close, however, there came something to
arouse our interest. Upon the table the lecturer emptied about a bushel
of cubes wrapped in paper. “Each one of these cubes contains a piece
of soap,” said he. “It is the finest that has ever been made. And this
is the offer that I shall make to you: I shall sell these cubes at
twenty-five cents each, and in at least half of the papers is contained
a yearly subscription to the _Evening Mail_, a paper which Mr. Watterson
declares is the freest and best-written journal in America. He himself is
thinking of taking the editorship of it on the first day of next July.
Let us open a few of these papers. Ah, we here have a subscription, here
is another—another—why, there are no end of them. I will now pass out
among you.”
They bought his soap. He was giving our paper a boost and none save a
great man could do that. Surely, the day of our prosperity was about
to dawn. “I will be around early in the morning to settle for the
advertisement, the tickets and the many subscriptions,” he said to one of
us. “And now don’t think me presumptuous in what I said. Watterson has
his eye on this paper.”
He did not come around the next day. We called on the business manager
and he said that no arrangements for subscriptions had been made with
him. We spoke to the editor and he sighed. Then, and for days afterward,
there came broken streams of people with orders for yearly subscriptions.
It was difficult to explain. The most of our stockholders had been
present and had heard the promises made by Major DeMaine. So we dozed off
into the bed prepared by the sheriff.
The last time I saw the editor he took my hand with a sigh and said: “It
was a great pity that I went to that political luncheon. Ah, politics,
ruination of mighty empires!”
Years afterward, in company with Col. Zeb. Ward, I was going through the
Arkansas penitentiary. Near the wall I observed an oldish man washing a
buggy. He had a familiar look, in spite of his stripes, and I spoke to
Colonel Ward concerning him. “He is known as Commodore Sassafrac,” said
the Colonel. “He got up a great land scheme down in the bottoms—told the
negroes that he had the management of the great Mexican war land claim.
Seventy million acres were set aside for the colored citizens, and all
they had to do was to show an order from the Commodore, which he gave for
five dollars apiece.”
I went up to him and spoke. He looked at me. I reminded him of the
_Nashville Evening Mail_. “Ah,” said he, “I am pleased to meet anyone
from the glowing past. Back upon that time I look with fondness. Your
great journal made life worth living.”
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