individual courage and character to the common welfare, because ours is
a government of public opinion, and public opinion is but the aggregate
of individual thought. We have the awful responsibility as a community
of doing what we choose; and it is of the last importance that we
choose to do what is wise and right. In the early days of the
antislavery agitation a meeting was called at Faneuil Hall, in Boston,
which a good-natured mob of sailors was hired to suppress. They took
possession of the floor and danced breakdowns and shouted choruses and
refused to hear any of the orators upon the platform. The most eloquent
pleaded with them in vain. They were urged by the memories of the
Cradle of Liberty, for the honor of Massachusetts, for their own honor
as Boston boys, to respect liberty of speech. But they still laughed
and sang and danced, and were proof against every appeal. At last a man
suddenly arose from among themselves, and began to speak. Struck by his
tone and quaint appearance, and with the thought that he might be one
of themselves, the mob became suddenly still, "Well, fellow-citizens,"
he said, "I wouldn't be quiet if I didn't want to." The words were
greeted with a roar of delight from the mob, which supposed it had
found its champion, and the applause was unceasing for five minutes,
during which the strange orator tranquilly awaited his chance to
continue. The wish to hear more hushed the tumult, and when the hall
was still he resumed: "No, I certainly wouldn't stop if I hadn't a mind
to; but then, if I were you, I _would_ have a mind to!" The oddity
of the remark and the earnestness of the tone, held the crowd silent,
and the speaker continued, "not because this is Faneuil Hall, nor for
the honor of Massachusetts, nor because you are Boston boys, but
because you are men, and because honorable and generous men always love
fair play." The mob was conquered. Free speech and fair play were
secured. Public opinion can do what it has a mind to in this country.
If it be debased and demoralized, it is the most odious of tyrants. It
is Nero and Caligula multiplied by millions. Can there then be a more
stringent public duty for every man--and the greater the intelligence
the greater the duty--than to take care, by all the influence he can
command, that the country, the majority, public opinion, shall have a
mind to do only what is just and pure and humane?
AN EXAMPLE OF FAITH
From "The New South." Reprinted with permission
BY HENRY W. GRADY
Permitted, through your kindness, to catch my second wind, let me say
that I appreciate the significance of being the first Southerner to
speak at this board, which bears the substance, if it surpasses the
semblance, of original New England hospitality--and honors the
sentiment that in turn honors you, but in which my personality is lost,
and the compliment to my people made plain.
I bespeak the utmost stretch of your courtesy to-night. I am not
troubled about those from whom I come. You remember the man whose wife
sent him to a neighbor with a pitcher of milk, and who, tripping on the
top step, fell with such casual interruptions as the landings afforded
into the basement, and, while picking himself up, had the pleasure of
hearing his wife call out: "John, did you break the pitcher?"
"No, I didn't," said John, "but I'll be dinged if I don't."
So, while those who call me from behind may inspire me with energy, if
not with courage, I ask an indulgent hearing from you. I beg that you
will bring your full faith in American fairness and frankness to
judgment upon what I shall say. There was an old preacher once who told
some boys of the Bible lesson he was going to read in the morning. The
boys, finding the place, glued together the connecting pages. The next
morning he read on the bottom of one page, "When Noah was one hundred
and twenty years old he took unto himself a wife, who was--" then
turning the page--"140 cubits long, 40 cubits wide, built of gopher
wood--and covered with pitch inside and out." He was naturally puzzled
at this. He read it again, verified it, and then said, "My friends,
this is the first time I ever met this in the Bible, but I accept this
as an evidence of the assertion that we are fearfully and wonderfully
made." If I could get you to hold such faith to-night I could proceed
cheerfully to the task I otherwise approach with a sense of
consecration.
THE RAIL-SPLITTER
From "The Lincoln Story Book," with the permission of G. W. Dillingham
and Co., New York, publishers.
BY H. L. WILLIAMS
The Illinois Republican State Convention of 1860 met at Decatur, in a
wigwam built for the purpose, a type of that noted in the Lincoln
Annals as at Chicago. A special welcome was given to Abraham Lincoln as
a "distinguished citizen of Illinois, and one she will ever be
delighted to honor." The session was suddenly interrupted by the
chairman saying: "There is an old Democrat outside who has something to
present to the convention."
The present was two old fence rails, carried on the shoulder of an
elderly man, recognized by Lincoln as his cousin John Hanks, and by the
Sangamon folks as an old settler in the Bottoms. The rails were
explained by a banner reading:
"Two rails from a lot made by Abraham Lincoln and John Hanks, in the
Sangamon Bottom, in the year 1830."
Thunderous cheers for "the rail-splitter" resounded, for this slur on
the statesman had recoiled on aspersers and was used as a title of
honor. The call for confirmation of the assertion led Lincoln to rise,
and blushing--so recorded--said:
"Gentlemen,--I suppose you want to know something about those things.
Well, the truth is, John and I did make rails in the Sangamon Bottom."
He eyed the wood with the knowingness of an authority on "stumpage,"
and added: "I don't know whether we made those rails or not; the fact
is, I don't think they are a credit to the makers!" It was John Hanks'
turn to blush. "But I do know this: I made rails then, and, I think, I
could make better ones now!"
Whereupon, by acclamation, Abraham Lincoln was declared to be "first
choice of the Republican party in Illinois for the Presidency."
Riding a man in on a rail became of different and honorable meaning
from that out.
This incident was a prepared theatrical effect. Governor Oglesby
arranged with Lincoln's stepbrother, John D. Johnston, to provide two
rails, and with Lincoln's mother's cousin, Dennis Hanks, for the latter
to bring in the rails at the telling juncture. Lincoln's guarded manner
about identifying the rails, and sly slap at his ability to make better
ones, show that he was in the scheme, though recognizing that the dodge
was of value politically.
O'CONNELL'S WIT
From a lecture on Daniel O'Connell in "Speeches and Lectures," with the
permission of Lothrop, Lee and Shepard, Boston, publishers.
BY WENDELL PHILLIPS
We used to say of Webster, "This is a great effort"; of Everett, "It is
a beautiful effort"; but you never used the word "effort" in speaking
of O'Connell. It provoked you that he would not make an effort. I heard
him perhaps a score of times, and I do not think more than three times
he ever lifted himself to the full sweep of his power.
And this wonderful power, it was not a thunderstorm: he flanked you
with his wit, he surprised you out of yourself; you were conquered
before you knew it.
He was once summoned to court out of the hunting field, when a young
friend of his of humble birth was on trial for his life. The evidence
gathered around a hat found next the body of the murdered man, which
was recognized as the hat of the prisoner. The lawyers tried to break
down the evidence, confuse the testimony, and get some relief from the
directness of the circumstances, but in vain, until at last they called
for O'Connell. He came in, flung his riding-whip and hat on the table,
was told the circumstances, and, taking up the hat, said to the
witness, "Whose hat is this?" "Well, Mr. O'Connell, that is Mike's
hat." "How do you know it?" "I will swear to it, sir." "And did you
really find it by the body of the murdered man?" "I did that, sir."
"But you're not ready to swear to that?" "I am, indeed, Mr. O'Connell."
"Pat, do you know what hangs on your word? A human soul. And with that
dread burden, are you ready to tell this jury that the hat, to your
certain knowledge, belongs to the prisoner?" "Y-yes, Mr. O'Connell;
yes, I am."
O'Connell takes the hat to the nearest window, and peers into it--"J-a-
m-e-s, James. Now, Pat, did you see that name in the hat?" "I did, Mr.
O'Connell." "You knew it was there?" "Yes, sir; I read it after I
picked it up."----"No name in the hat, your Honor."
So again in the House of Commons. When he took his seat in the House in
1830, the London _Times_ visited him with its constant indignation,
reported his speeches awry, turned them inside out, and made nonsense
of them; treated him as the New York _Herald_ use to treat us
Abolitionists twenty years ago. So one morning he rose and said,
"Mr. Speaker, you know I have never opened my lips in this House,
and I expended twenty years of hard work in getting the right to enter
it,--I have never lifted my voice in this House, but in behalf of the
saddest people the sun shines on. Is it fair play, Mr. Speaker, is it
what you call 'English fair play' that the press of this city will not
let my voice be heard?" The next day the _Times_ sent him word
that, as he found fault with their manner of reporting him, they never
would report him at all, they never would print his name in their
parliamentary columns. So the next day when prayers were ended
O'Connell rose. Those reporters of the _Times_ who were in the
gallery rose also, ostentatiously put away their pencils, folded their
arms, and made all the show they could, to let everybody know how it
was. Well, you know nobody has a right to be in the gallery during the
session, and if any member notices them, the mere notice clears the
gallery; only the reporters can stay after that notice. O'Connell rose.
One of the members said, "Before the member from Clare opens his
speech, let me call his attention to the gallery and the instance of
that 'passive resistance' which he is about to preach." "Thank you,"
said O'Connell. "Mr. Speaker, I observe the strangers in the gallery."
Of course they left; of course the next day, in the columns of the
London _Times_, there were no parliamentary debates. And for the
first time, except in Richard Cobden's case, the London _Times_
cried for quarter, and said to O'Connell, "If you give up the quarrel,
we will."
A RELIABLE TEAM
From "Hunting the Grizzly," with the permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons,
New York and London, Publishers.
BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT
In the cow country there is nothing more refreshing than the light-
hearted belief entertained by the average man to the effect that any
animal which by main force has been saddled and ridden, or harnessed
and driven a couple of times, is a "broke horse." My present foreman is
firmly wedded to this idea, as well as to its complement, the belief
that any animal with hoofs, before any vehicle with wheels, can be
driven across any country. One summer on reaching the ranch I was
entertained with the usual accounts of the adventures and misadventures
which had befallen my own men and my neighbors since I had been out
last. In the course of the conversation my foreman remarked: "We had a
great time out here about six weeks ago. There was a professor from Ann
Arbor came out with his wife to see the Bad Lands, and they asked if we
could rig them up a team, and we said we guessed we could, and Foley's
boy and I did; but it ran away with him and broke his leg! He was here
for a month. I guess he didn't mind it, though." Of this I was less
certain, forlorn little Medora being a "busted" cow town, concerning
which I once heard another of my men remark, in reply to an inquisitive
commercial traveler: "How many people lives here? Eleven--counting the
chickens--when they're all in town!"
My foreman continued: "By George, there was something that professor
said afterward that made me feel hot. I sent word up to him by Foley's
boy that seein' as how it had come out, we wouldn't charge him nothin'
for the rig; and that professor answered that he was glad we were
showing him some sign of consideration, for he'd begun to believe he'd
fallen into a den of sharks, and that we gave him a runaway team
apurpose. That made me hot, calling that a runaway team. Why, there was
one of them horses never _could_ have run away before; it hadn't
never been druv but twice! and the other horse maybe had run away a few
times, but there was lots of times he _hadn't_ run away. I esteemed
that team full as liable not to run away as it was to run away,"
concluded my foreman, evidently deeming this as good a warranty
of gentleness in a horse as the most exacting could possibly require.
MEG'S MARRIAGE
From a lecture entitled "Clear Grit," published in "Modern Eloquence,"
Vol. IV, Geo. L. Shuman and Company, Chicago.
BY ROBERT COLLYER
In what we call the good old times--say, three hundred years ago--a
family lived on the border between England and Scotland, with one
daughter of a marvelous homeliness. Her name was Meg. She was a capital
girl, as homely girls generally are. She knew she had no beauty, so she
made sure of quality and faculty. But the Scotch say that "while beauty
may not make the best kail, it looks best by the side of the kail-pot."
So Meg had no offer of a husband, and was likely to die in what we call
"single blessedness." Everybody on the border in those days used to
steal, and their best "holt," as we say, was cattle. If they wanted
meat and had no money, they would go out and steal as many beef cattle
as they could lay their hands on, from somebody on the other side of
the border. Well, they generally had no money, and they were always
wanting beef, and they could always be hung for stealing by the man
they stole from if he could catch them, and so they had what an
Irishman would call a fine time entirely. One day a young chief,
wanting some beef as usual, went out with part of his clan, came upon a
splendid herd on the lands of Meg's father, and went to work to drive
them across to his own. But the old fellow was on the lookout, mustered
his clan, bore down on the marauders, beat them, took the young chief
prisoner, and then went home to his peel very much delighted. Meg's
mother, of course, wanted to know all about it, and then she said,
"Noo, laird, what are you gaun to do with the prisoner?" "I am gaun to
hang him," the old man thundered, "just as soon as I have had my
dinner." "But I think ye're noo wise to do that," she said. "He has got
a braw place, ye ken, over the border, and he is a braw fellow. Noo
I'll tell ye what I would do. I would give him his chance to be hung or
marry oor Meg." It struck the old man as a good idea, and so he went
presently down into the dungeon, told the young fellow to get ready to
be hung in thirty minutes, but then got round to the alternative, and
offered to spare his life if he would marry Meg, and give him the beef
into the bargain. He had heard something about Meg's wonderful want of
beauty, and so, with a fine Scotch prudence, he said, "Ye will let me
see her, laird, before I mak' up my mind, because maybe I would rather
be hung." "Aye, mon, that's fair," the old chief answered, and went in
to bid the mother get Meg ready for the interview. The mother did her
best, you may be sure, to make Meg look winsome, but when the poor
fellow saw his unintentional intended he turned round to the chief and
said, "Laird, if ye have nae objection, I think I would rather be
hung." "And sae ye shall, me lad, and welcome," the old chief replied,
in a rage. So they led him out, got the rope around his neck; and then
the young man changed his mind, and shouted, "Laird, I'll tak' her." So
he was marched back into the castle, married before he had time to
change his mind, if that was possible, and the tradition is that there
never was a happier pair in Scotland, and never a better wife in the
world than Meg. But I have told the story because it touches this
point, of the way they hold their own over there when there are great
families of children. They tell me that the family flourishes famously
still; no sign of dying out or being lost about it. Meg's main feature
was a very large mouth, and now in the direct line in almost every
generation the neighbors and friends are delighted, as they say, to get
Meg back. "Here's Meg again," they cry when a child is born with that
wonderful mouth. Sir Walter Scott was one of the descendants of the
family. He had Meg's mouth, in a measure, and was very proud of it when
he would tell the story.
OUTDOING MRS. PARTINGTON
From a speech published in Brewer's "The World's Best Orations," Vol.
IX, Ferd. P. Kaiser, St. Louis, Chicago, publisher.
BY SIDNEY SMITH I have spoken so often on this subject, that I am sure
both you and the gentlemen here present will be obliged to me for
saying but little, and that favor I am as willing to confer, as you can
be to receive it. I feel most deeply the event which has taken place,
because, by putting the two houses of Parliament in collision with each
other, it will impede the public business and diminish the public
prosperity. I feel it as a churchman, because I cannot but blush to see
so many dignitaries of the Church arrayed against the wishes and
happiness of the people. I feel it more than all, because I believe it
will sow the seeds of deadly hatred between the aristocracy and the
great mass of the people. The loss of the bill I do not feel, and for
the best of all possible reasons--because I have not the slightest idea
that it is lost. I have no more doubt, before the expiration of the
winter, that this bill will pass, than I have that the annual tax bills
will pass, and greater certainty than this no man can have, for
Franklin tells us there are but two things certain in this world--death
and taxes. As for the possibility of the House of Lords preventing ere
long a reform of Parliament, I hold it to be the most absurd notion
that ever entered into human imagination. I do not mean to be
disrespectful, but the attempt of the lords to stop the progress of
reform reminds me very forcibly of the great storm of Sidmouth, and of
the conduct of the excellent Mrs. Partington on that occasion. In the
winter of 1824, there set in a great flood upon that town, the tide
rose to an incredible height, the waves rushed in upon the houses, and
everything was threatened with destruction. In the midst of this
sublime and terrible storm, Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach,
was seen at the top of her house with mop and pattens, trundling her
mop, squeezing out the water, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic
Ocean. The Atlantic was roused. Mrs. Partington's spirit was up; but I
need not tell you that the contest was unequal. The Atlantic Ocean beat
Mrs. Partington. She was excellent at a slop or a puddle, but she
should not have meddled with a tempest. Gentlemen, be at your ease--be
quiet and steady. You will beat Mrs. Partington.
CIRCUMSTANCE NOT A CAUSE
From the same speech as the foregoing
BY SIDNEY SMITH
An honorable member of the honorable house, much connected with this
town, and once its representative, seems to be amazingly surprised, and
equally dissatisfied, at this combination of king, ministers, nobles,
and people, against his opinion,--like the gentleman who came home from
serving on a jury very much disconcerted, and complaining he had met
with eleven of the most obstinate people he had ever seen in his life,
whom he found it absolutely impossible by the strongest arguments to
bring over to his way of thinking.
They tell you, gentlemen, that you have grown rich and powerful with
these rotten boroughs, and that it would be madness to part with them,
or to alter a constitution which had produced such happy effects. There
happens, gentlemen, to live near my parsonage a laboring man of very
superior character and understanding to his fellow laborers, and who
has made such good use of that superiority that he has saved what is
(for his station in life) a very considerable sum of money, and if his
existence is extended to the common period he will die rich. It
happens, however, that he is (and long has been) troubled with violent
stomachic pains, for which he has hitherto obtained no relief, and
which really are the bane and torment of his life. Now, if my excellent
laborer were to send for a physician and to consult him respecting this
malady, would it not be very singular language if our doctor were to
say to him: "My good friend, you surely will not be so rash as to
attempt to get rid of these pains in your stomach. Have you not grown
rich with these pains in your stomach? have you not risen under them
from poverty to prosperity? has not your situation since you were first
attacked been improving every year? You surely will not be so foolish
and so indiscreet as to part with the pains in your stomach?" Why, what
would be the answer of the rustic to this nonsensical monition?
"Monster of rhubarb! (he would say) I am not rich in consequence of the
pains in my stomach, but in spite of the pains in my stomach; and I
should have been ten times richer, and fifty times happier, if I had
never had any pains in my stomach at all." Gentlemen, these rotten
boroughs are your pains in the stomach--and you would have been a much
richer and greater people if you had never had them at all. Your wealth
and your power have been owing not to the debased and corrupted parts
of the House of Commons, but to the many independent and honorable
members whom it has always contained within its walls. If there had
been a few more of these very valuable members for close boroughs we
should, I verily believe, have been by this time about as free as
Denmark, Sweden, or the Germanized States of Italy.
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 assembled 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 succumbed 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 passed 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 passed 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