Sir Walter Scott used to say that he had never met any man from whom he
could not learn something. No matter how ignorant the humblest citizen
may appear to be, the chances are that he knows a few things which you do
not know; and if you will “draw him out” you will add to your knowledge.
The Virginia negro who happened to pass along the road while the Chief
Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States was puzzling his brains
over the problem of mending his broken sulky-shaft, knew exactly the one
thing which John Marshall did not know.
The great lawyer was at his wit’s end, helpless and wretched. How could
he mend that broken shaft and continue his journey? He did not know and
he turned to the negro for instruction.
With an air of superiority which was not offensive at that particular
time, the negro drew his pocket-knife, stepped into the bushes, cut a
sapling, whittled a brace and spliced the broken shaft.
When the Chief Justice expressed his wonder, admiration and pleasure, the
negro calmly accepted the tribute to his talent and walked off, remarking,
“_Some_ folks has got sense and some ain’t got none.”
* * * * *
That little story is a hundred years old, but it’s a right good little
story. A school-teacher, whom I loved very dearly, told it to me when
I was a kid. He was the only man I ever knew who had it in him to be a
great man, and who refused to strive for great things because, as he
said, “_It isn’t worth the trouble_.”
He was naturally as great an orator as Blaine or Ben Hill. He was far and
away a loftier type than Bryan, for he had those three essentials which
Bryan lacks—humor, pathos and self-forgetful intensity of feeling. But
after one of his magnificent displays of oratory he would sink back into
jolly indolence, and pursue the even tenor of his way, teaching school.
“It is not worth while. Let the other fellows toil and struggle for fame
and for office, I don’t care. They are not worth the price.”
Few knew what was in this obscure teacher, but those few knew him to be a
giant.
Once, at our College Commencement, the speaker who had been invited
to make the regular address was the crack orator of the state. He was
considered a marvel of eloquence. Well, he came and he delivered his
message; and it was all very chaste and elegant and superb. Indeed, a
fine speech.
He sat down amid loud applause. Everybody satisfied. Then the obscure
genius to whom I have referred rose to talk. By some chance the faculty
had given him a place on the program.
I looked at my old school-teacher as he waddled quietly to the front. I
saw that his face was pale and his eyes blazing with fire. I felt that
the presence and the speech of the celebrated orator had aroused the
indolent giant. I knew he would carry that crowd by storm—would rise,
rise into the very azure of eloquence and hover above us like an eagle in
the air.
And he did.
Men and women, boys and girls, laughed and cheered and cried, and hung
breathless on his every word, as no crowd ever does unless a born orator
gets hold of them. Actually I got to feeling sorry for the celebrity
who had made the set speech. He sat there looking like a cheap piece of
neglected toy-work of last Christmas.
The faces of the leading people after my old teacher had sat down, were
a study. The expression seemed to say, “Who would have thought it was in
him!”