"Long suffering, kind and patient, His hand lightly grasped the standard Hath gilded that banner now! A voice of surpassing sweetness "Your eyes once blind are now opened, "Your standard shall bear my symbol Three lilies stately and noble, Power and comfort and love, Type of the triune Godhead, In awe they knelt by the lilies And worshiped the Christ of Love- Sweet lilies, so fair and stately, 99 SHOWING OFF AN ELOCUTIONIST. A. MINER GRISWOLD. The "Fat Contributor," in some recollections of "Artemus Ward," tells the following good story: In the spring of 1859 I accepted a proffered editorial position on the Cleveland National Democrat, and renewed my acquaintance with "Artemus." On the first evening of my arrival he volunteered to show me around,-a very desirable achievement, as I was to fill the position of city editor. He "showed me around" so successfully that about two o'clock in the morning I began to feel almost as much at home in Cleveland as though I had lived there all my days, to say nothing of my nights. Artemus invited me to share his bed with him for the remainder of the night. Adjoining his room lodged a young professor of elocution, who was endeavoring to establish a school. He was just starting out in business, and was naturally anxious to propitiate the press. "Let's get the professor up," said Artemus, "and have him recite for us." I remonstrated with him, reminded him of the lateness of the hour, that I wasn't acquainted with the professor, and all that; but to no purpose. "He is a public man," said Ward, "and public men are glad to meet members of the press, as restaurants are supposed to get up warm meals at all hours." He gave a thundering rap on the door as he shouted: Professor-r-r!" "Who's there? What d'you want?" cried a muffled voice, evidently from beneath the bed-clothes, for it was a bitter cold night in February. "It is I-Brown, of the Plain Dealer," said Artemus, and, nudging me gently in the ribs, he whispered: "That'll fetch him. The power of the press is invinci ble. It is the Archimedean lever which ——” His remarks were interrupted by the opening of the door, and I could just discover the dim outline of a shirted form shivering in the doorway. "Excuse me for disturbing you, Professor," said Artemus, in his blandest manner, "but I am anxious to introduce my friend here, the new 'local' of the Democrat. He has heard much of you, and declares positively he can't go to bed until he hears you elocute." "Hears me what?" asked the professor, between his chattering teeth. "Hears you elocute-recite-declaim-understand? -specimen of your elocution." In vain did the professor plead the lateness of the hour, and that his fire had gone out. Artemus would accept no excuse. "Permit me, at least," urged the professor, "to put on some clothes and light the gas." "Not at all necessary. Eloquence, my dear boy, is not dependent on gas. Here," straightening up a chair he had just stumbled over," get right up in this chair and give us, The Boy stood on the Burning Deck,'" adding, in a side whisper in my ear, "The burning deck will warm him up!" 6 Gently, yet firmly, did Artemus boost the reluctant professor upon the chair, protesting that no apologies were necessary for his appearance, and assuring him that "clothes don't make the man," although the shivering disciple of Demosthenes and Cicero probably thought that clothes would make a man more comfortable on such a night as that. He gave us "Casabianca," with a good many qua vers of the voice, as he stood quaking, and then followed: "On Linden when the Sun was Low," "Sword of Bunker Hill," etc., "by particular request of our friend," as Artemus Ward said, although I was too nearly suffocated with suppressed laughter to make. even a last dying request had it been necessary. It was too ludicrous to depict,-the professor, an indistinct white object, standing on the chair "elocuting," as Ward had it, and we sitting on the floor, holding our sides, while A. W. would faintly whisper between his pangs of mirth, "Just hear him." It wasn't in Ward's heart to have his fun at the expense of another without recompense; so next day, I remember, he published a lengthy and entirely serious account of our visit to the professor's " rooms," spoke of his wonderful powers as an elocutionist, and expressed the satisfaction and delight with which we listened to his" unequaled recitations." The professor was overjoyed, and probably is ignorant to this day that Artemus was "playing it on him." GOD'S WONDERS.-ELIZA LAMB MARLYN. Grand the expanse of the heavens, but grander the thoughts they suggest; Lovely the blush of the morning, the crimson and gold of the west; Bright are the stars of the midnight, floating in measureless space, But deeper and grander the secret we strive mid their brightness to trace. Fair is this beautiful planet, its carpet of verdure, its seas, Its mantle of life-giving air, its sunshine, its mists, and its breeze; Deep the emotions that nature quickens to life in the soul, But deeper and grander the glimpses we catch of the infinite whole. Cunning the hand of the artist, a study his thought-chiseled face; Bewitching the smile of the maiden, entrancing her beauty and grace; Perfect the cup of the lily, sweet is the breath of the rose, But deeper and grander the spirit that vainly they strive to disclose. Wondrous the symbol of being spread out on every hand, Wondrous the secret of nature, of sky, of the sea, of the land; Vast is the outward creation, undiscovered by man, and un trod, Yet ignorance in its presumption familiarly prates about God. THE OTHER ONE WAS BOOTH.*-J. EDMUND V. COOKE Now, by the rood, as Hamlet says, it grieves me sore to say The stage is not as once it was when I was wont to play. 'Tis true that Irving, dear old chap, still gives a decent show, And Mansfield and young Willard really act the best they know; 'Tis true Dusé and Bernhardt, for we mus'nt be too hard, Are very fair, for women, though, of course, they ought to guard Against some bad-art tendencies; but, as for all the rest, There's hardly one, I may say none, who stands the artist's test. True artists are a rare, rare breed; there were but two, forsooth, In all my time, the stage's prime; and the other one was Booth. Why, Mac-I mean Macready, but we always called him Mac And old Ned Forrest used to say, or so they once told Jack; Or, that is, Jack McCullough, that-well, this is what they said: There were but two who really knew how Shakespeare should be read. They didn't mean the younger Kean, or Jack; and so perhaps It caused a little jealousy among the lesser chaps. They said that Lawrence Barrett was entitled to respect, But as for Tom Salvini, well, his dago dialect Would never do for Shakespeare; so to tell the simple truth There were only two men in it; and the other one was Booth. Don't think conceit is in me tongue: 'tis something I detest; But I may say that in me day I've figured with the best. Why Kalamazoo, and Oshkosh, too, and Kankakee as well, Went fairly wild, nor man nor child stirred when the curtain fell. The S. R. O. was hung each night; our show was such a rage They took the ushers off the floor and ushered from the stage! From Kissimee to San Louee, from Nawrleans to Duluth, Just two stars hit a little bit; and the other one was Booth I liked Ed Booth, for he was such a royal-hearted fellow, We never had a jealousy. When he put on Othello *By permission of the author, J. Edmund V. Cooke, the Poet Reader. For Mr. Cooke's poems "A Patch of Pansies," address 124 Euclid Ave., Cleveland, Ohio |