Before making any specific suggestions to the prospective toaster or toastmaster, let us advise that he consider well the nature and spirit of the occasion which calls for speeches. The toast, after-dinner talk, or address is always given under conditions that require abounding good humor, and the desire to make everybody pleased and comfortable as well as to furnish entertainment should be uppermost.
Perhaps a consideration of the ancient custom that gave rise to the modern toast will help us to understand the spirit in which a toast should be given. It originated with the pagan custom of drinking to gods and the dead, which in Christian nations was modified, with the accompanying idea of a wish for health and happiness added. In England during the sixteenth century it was customary to put a "toast" in the drink, which was usually served hot. This toast was the ordinary piece of bread scorched on both sides. Shakespeare in "The Merry Wives of Windsor" has Falstaff say, "Fetch me a quart of sack and put a toast in't." Later the term came to be applied to the lady in whose honor the company drank, her name serving to flavor the bumper as the toast flavored the drink. It was in this way that the act of drinking or of proposing a health, or the mere act of expressing good wishes or fellowship at table came to be known as toasting.
Since an occasion, then, at which toasts are in order is one intended to promote good feeling, it should afford no opportunity for the exploitation of any personal or selfish interest or for anything controversial, or antagonistic to any of the company present. The effort of the toastmaster should be to promote the best of feeling among all and especially between speakers. And speakers should cooperate with the toastmaster and with each other to that end. The introductions of the toastmaster may, of course, contain some good-natured bantering, together with compliment, but always without sting. Those taking part may "get back" at the toastmaster, but always in a manner to leave no hard feeling anywhere. The toastmaster should strive to make his speakers feel at ease, to give them good standing with their hearers without overpraising them and making it hard to live up to what is expected of them. In short, let everybody boost good naturedly for everybody else.
The toastmaster, and for that matter everyone taking part, should be carefully prepared. It may be safely said that those who are successful after-dinner speakers have learned the need of careful forethought. A practised speaker may appear to speak extemporaneously by putting together on one occasion thoughts and expressions previously prepared for other occasions, but the neophyte may well consider it necessary to think out carefully the matter of what to say and how to say it. Cicero said of Antonius, "All his speeches were,in appearance, the unpremeditated effusion of an honest heart; and yet, in reality, they werepreconceived with so much skillthat the judges were not so well prepared as they should have been to withstand the force of them!"
After considering the nature of the occasion and getting himself in harmony with it, the speaker should next consider the relation of his particular subject to the occasion and to the subjects of the other speakers. He should be careful to hold closely to the subject allotted to him so that he will not encroach upon the ground of other speakers. He should be careful, too, not to appropriate to himself any of their time. And he should consider, without vanity and without humility, his own relative importance and govern himself accordingly. We have all had the painful experience of waiting in impatience for the speech of the evening to begin while some humble citizen made "a few introductory remarks."
In planning his speech and in getting it into finished form, the toaster will do well to remember those three essentials to all good composition with which he struggled in school and college days, Unity, Mass and Coherence. The first means that his talk must have a central thought, on which all his stories, anecdotes and jokes will have a bearing; the second that there will be a proper balance between the parts, that it will not be all introduction and conclusion; the third, that it will hang together, without awkward transitions. A toast may consist, as Lowell said, of "a platitude, a quotation and an anecdote," but the toaster must exercise his ingenuity in putting these together.
In delivering the toast, the speaker must of course be natural. The after-dinner speech calls for a conversational tone, not for oratory of voice or manner. Something of an air of detachment on the part of the speaker is advisable. The humorist who can tell a story with a straight face adds to the humorous effect.
A word might be said to those who plan the program. In the number of speakers it is better to err in having too few than too many. Especially is this true if there is one distinguished person who isthespeaker of the occasion. In such a case the number of lesser lights may well be limited to two or three. The placing of the guest of honor on the program is a matter of importance. Logically he would be expected to come last, as the crowning feature. But if the occasion is a large semi-public affair—a political gathering, for example—where strict etiquet does not require that all remain thru the entire program, there will always be those who will leave early, thus missing the best part of the entertainment. In this case some shifting of speakers, even at the risk of an anti-climax, would be advisable. On ordinary occasions, where the speakers are of much the same rank, order will be determined mainly by subject. And if the topics for discussion are directly related, if they are all component parts of a general subject, so much the better.
Now we are going to add a special paragraph for the absolutely inexperienced person—who has never given, or heard anyone else give, a toast. It would seem hardly possible in this day of banquets to find an individual who has missed these occasions entirely—but he is to be found. Especially is this true in a world where toasting and after-dinner speaking are coming to be more and more in demand at social functions—the college world. Here the young man or woman, coming from a country town where the formal banquet is unknown, who has never heard an after-dinner speech, may be confronted with the necessity of responding to a toast on, say "Needles and Pins." Such a one would like to be told first of all what an after-dinner speech is. It is only a short, informal talk, usually witty, at any rate kindly, with one central idea and a certain amount of illustrative material in the way of anecdotes, quotations and stories. The best advice to such a speaker is: Make your first effort simple. Don't be over ambitious. If, as was suggested in the example cited a moment ago, the subject is fanciful—as it is very apt to be at a college banquet—any interpretation you choose to put upon it is allowable. If the interpretation is ingenious, your case is already half won. Such a subject is in effect a challenge. "Now, let's see what you can make of this," is what it implies. First get an idea; then find something in the way of illustrative material. Speak simply and naturally and sit down and watch how the others do it. Of course the subject on such occasions is often of a more serious nature—Our Class; The Team; Our President—in which case a more serious treatment is called for, with a touch of honest pride and sentiment.
To sum up what has been said, with borrowings from what others have said on the subject, the following general rules have been formulated:
Prepare carefully. Self-confidence is a valuable possession, but beware of being too sure of yourself. Pride goes before a fall, and overconfidence in his ability to improvise has been the downfall of many a would-be speaker. The speaker should strive to give the effect of spontaneity, but this can be done only with practice. The toast calls for the art that conceals art.
Let your speech have unity. As some one has pointed out, the after-dinner speech is a distinct form of expression, just as is the short story. As such it should give a unity of impression. It bears something of the same relation to the oration that the short story does to the novel.
Let it have continuity. James Bryce says: "There is a tendency today to make after-dinner speaking a mere string of anecdotes, most of which may have little to do with the subject or with one another. Even the best stories lose their charm when they are dragged in by the head and shoulders, having no connection with the allotted theme. Relevance as well as brevity is the soul of wit."
Do not grow emotional or sentimental. American traditions are largely borrowed from England. We have the Anglo-Saxon reticence. A parade of emotion in public embarrasses us. A simple and sincere expression of feeling is often desirable in a toast—but don't overdo it.
Avoid trite sayings. Don't use quotations that are shopworn, and avoid the set forms for toasts—"Our sweethearts and wives—may they never meet," etc.
Don't apologise. Don't say that you are not prepared; that you speak on very short notice; that you are "no orator as Brutus is." Resolve to do your best and let your effort speak for itself.
Avoid irony and satire. It has already been said that occasions on which toasts are given call for friendliness and good humor. Yet the temptation to use irony and satire may be strong. Especially may this be true at political gatherings where there is a chance to grow witty at the expense of rivals. Irony and satire are keen-edged tools; they have their uses; but they are dangerous. Pope, who knew how to use them, said:
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreetTo run amuck and tilt at all I meet.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreetTo run amuck and tilt at all I meet.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run amuck and tilt at all I meet.
Use personal references sparingly. A certain amount of good-natured chaffing may be indulged in. Yet there may be danger in even the most kindly of fun. One never knows how a jest will be taken. Once in the early part of his career, Mark Twain, at a New England banquet, grew funny at the expense of Longfellow and Emerson, then in their old age and looked upon almost as divinities. His joke fell dead, and to the end of his life he suffered humiliation at the recollection.
Be clear. While you must not draw an obvious moral or explain the point to your jokes, be sure that the point is there and that it is put in such a way that your hearers cannot miss it. Avoid flights of rhetoric and do not lose your anecdotes in a sea of words.
Avoid didacticism. Do not try to instruct. Do not give statistics and figures. They will not be remembered. A historical resume of your subject from the beginning of time is not called for; neither are well-known facts about the greatness of your city or state or the prominent person in whose honor you may be speaking. Do not tell your hearers things they already know.
Be brief. An after-dinner audience is in a particularly defenceless position. It is so out in the open. There is no opportunity for a quiet nod or two behind a newspaper or the hat of the lady in front. If you bore your hearers by overstepping your time politeness requires that they sit still and look pleased. Spare them. Remember Bacon's advice to the speaker: "Let him be sure to leave other men their turns to speak." But suppose you come late on the program! Suppose the other speakers have not heeded Bacon? What are you going to do about it? Here is a story that James Bryce tells of the most successful after-dinner speech he remembers to have heard. The speaker was a famous engineer, the occasion a dinner of the British Association for the Advancement of Science. "He came last; and midnight had arrived. His toast was Applied Science, and his speech was as follows: 'Ladies and gentlemen, at this late hour I advise you to illustrate the Applications of Science by applying a lucifer match to the wick of your bedroom candle. Let us all go to bed'."
If you are capable of making a similar sacrifice by cutting short your own carefully-prepared, wise, witty and sparkling remarks, your audience will thank you—and they may ask you to speak again.
"Pa," said little Joe, "I bet I can do something you can't."
"Well, what is it?" demanded his pa.
"Grow," replied the youngster triumphantly.—H.E. Zimmerman.
He was a New Yorker visiting in a South Carolina village and he sauntered up to a native sitting in front of the general store, and began a conversation.
"Have you heard about the new manner in which the planters are going to pick their cotton this season?" he inquired.
"Don't believe I have," answered the other.
"Well, they have decided to import a lot of monkeys to do the picking," rejoined the New Yorker. "Monkeys learn readily. They are thorough workers, and obviously they will save their employers a small fortune otherwise expended in wages."
"Yes," ejaculated the native, "and about the time this monkey brigade is beginning to work smoothly, a lot of you fool northerners will come tearing down here and set 'em free."
SHE—"I consider, John, that sheep are the stupidest creatures living."
HE—(absent-mindedly)—"Yes, my lamb."
The late Dr. Henry Thayer, founder of Thayer's Laboratory in Cambridge, was walking along a street one winter morning. The sidewalk was sheeted with ice and the doctor was making his way carefully, as was also a woman going in the opposite direction. In seeking to avoid each other, both slipped and they came down in a heap. The polite doctor was overwhelmed and his embarrassment paralyzed his speech, but the woman was equal to the occasion.
"Doctor, if you will be kind enough to rise and pick out your legs, I will take what remains," she said cheerfully.
"Help! Help!" cried an Italian laborer near the mud flats of the Harlem river.
"What's the matter there?" came a voice from the construction shanty.
"Queek! Bringa da shov'! Bringa da peek! Giovanni's stuck in da mud."
"How far in?"
"Up to hees knees."
"Oh, let him walk out."
"No, no! He no canna walk! He wronga end up!"
There once was a lady from Guam,Who said, "Now the sea is so calmI will swim, for a lark";But she met with a shark.Let us now sing the ninetieth psalm.
There once was a lady from Guam,Who said, "Now the sea is so calmI will swim, for a lark";But she met with a shark.Let us now sing the ninetieth psalm.
There once was a lady from Guam,
Who said, "Now the sea is so calm
I will swim, for a lark";
But she met with a shark.
Let us now sing the ninetieth psalm.
BRICKLAYER (to mate, who had just had a hodful of bricks fall on his feet)—"Dropt 'em on yer toe! That's nothin'. Why, I seen a bloke get killed stone dead, an' 'e never made such a bloomin' fuss as you're doin'."
A preacher had ordered a load of hay from one of his parishioners. About noon, the parishioner's little son came to the house crying lustily. On being asked what the matter was, he said that the load of hay had tipped over in the street. The preacher, a kindly man, assured the little fellow that it was nothing serious, and asked him in to dinner.
"Pa wouldn't like it," said the boy.
But the preacher assured him that he would fix it all right with his father, and urged him to take dinner before going for the hay. After dinner the boy was asked if he were not glad that he had stayed.
"Pa won't like it," he persisted.
The preacher, unable to understand, asked the boy what made him think his father would object.
"Why, you see, pa's under the hay," explained the boy.
There was an old Miss from Antrim,Who looked for the leak with a glim.Alack and alas!The cause was the gas.We will now sing the fifty-fourth hymn.—Gilbert K. Chesterton.
There was an old Miss from Antrim,Who looked for the leak with a glim.Alack and alas!The cause was the gas.We will now sing the fifty-fourth hymn.
There was an old Miss from Antrim,
Who looked for the leak with a glim.
Alack and alas!
The cause was the gas.
We will now sing the fifty-fourth hymn.
—Gilbert K. Chesterton.
—Gilbert K. Chesterton.
There was a young lady named Hannah,Who slipped on a peel of banana.More stars she espiedAs she lay on her sideThan are found in the Star Spangled Banner.A gentleman sprang to assist her;He picked up her glove and her wrister;"Did you fall, Ma'am?" he cried;"Did you think," she replied,"I sat down for the fun of it, Mister?"
There was a young lady named Hannah,Who slipped on a peel of banana.More stars she espiedAs she lay on her sideThan are found in the Star Spangled Banner.
There was a young lady named Hannah,
Who slipped on a peel of banana.
More stars she espied
As she lay on her side
Than are found in the Star Spangled Banner.
A gentleman sprang to assist her;He picked up her glove and her wrister;"Did you fall, Ma'am?" he cried;"Did you think," she replied,"I sat down for the fun of it, Mister?"
A gentleman sprang to assist her;
He picked up her glove and her wrister;
"Did you fall, Ma'am?" he cried;
"Did you think," she replied,
"I sat down for the fun of it, Mister?"
At first laying down, as a fact fundamental,That nothing with God can be accidental.—Longfellow.
At first laying down, as a fact fundamental,That nothing with God can be accidental.
At first laying down, as a fact fundamental,
That nothing with God can be accidental.
—Longfellow.
—Longfellow.
Hopkinson Smith tells a characteristic story of a southern friend of his, an actor, who, by the way, was in the dramatization ofColonel Carter. On one occasion the actor was appearing in his native town, and remembered an old negro and his wife, who had been body servants in his father's household, with a couple of seats in the theatre. As it happened, he was playing the part of the villain, and was largely concerned with treasons, stratagems and spoils. From time to time he caught a glimpse of the ancient couple in the gallery, and judged from their fearsome countenance and popping eyes that they were being duly impressed.
After the play he asked them to come and see him behind the scenes. They sat together for a while in solemn silence, and then the mammy resolutely nudged her husband. The old man gathered himself together with an effort, and said: "Marse Cha'les, mebbe it ain' for us po' niggers to teach ouh young masser 'portment. But we jes' got to tell yo' dat, in all de time we b'long to de fambly, none o' ouh folks ain' neveh befo' mix up in sechlike dealin's, an' we hope, Marse Cha'les, dat yo' see de erroh of yo' ways befo' yo' done sho' nuff disgrace us."
In a North of England town recently a company of local amateurs produced Hamlet, and the following account of the proceedings appeared in the local paper next morning:
"Last night all the fashionables and elite of our town gathered to witness a performance ofHamletat the Town Hall. There has been considerable discussion in the press as to whether the play was written by Shakespeare or Bacon. All doubt can be now set at rest. Let their graves be opened; the one who turned over last night is the author."
Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature.—Shakespeare.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold—For this the tragic muse first trod the stage.—Pope.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold—For this the tragic muse first trod the stage.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold—
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage.
—Pope.
—Pope.
An "Uncle Tom's Cabin" company was starting to parade in a small New England town when a big gander, from a farmyard near at hand waddled to the middle of the street and began to hiss.
One of the double-in-brass actors turned toward the fowl and angrily exclaimed:
"Don't be so dern quick to jump at conclusions. Wait till you see the show."—K.A. Bisbee.
When William H. Crane was younger and less discreet he had a vaunting ambition to playHamlet. So with his first profits he organized his own company and he went to an inland western town to give vent to his ambition and "try it on."
When he came back to New York a group of friends noticed that the actor appeared to be much downcast.
"What's the matter, Crane? Didn't they appreciate it?" asked one of his friends.
"They didn't seem to," laconically answered the actor.
"Well, didn't they give any encouragement? Didn't they ask you to come before the curtain?" persisted the friend.
"Ask me?" answered Crane. "Man, they dared me!"
LEADING MAN IN TRAVELING COMPANY—"We playHamletto-night, laddie, do we not?"
SUB-MANAGER—"Yes, Mr. Montgomery."
LEADING MAN—"Then I must borrow the sum of two-pence!"
SUB-MANAGER—"Why?"
LEADING MAN—"I have four days' growth upon my chin. One cannot playHamletin a beard!"
SUB-MANAGER—"Um—well—we'll put on Macbeth!"
HE—"But what reason have you for refusing to marry me?"
SHE—"Papa objects. He says you are an actor."
HE-"Give my regards to the old boy and tell him I'm sorry he isn't a newspaper critic."
The hero of the play, after putting up a stiff fight with the villain, had died to slow music.
The audience insisted on his coming before the curtain.
He refused to appear.
But the audience still insisted.
Then the manager, a gentleman with a strong accent, came to the front.
"Ladies an' gintlemen," he said, "the carpse thanks ye kindly, but he says he's dead, an' he's goin to stay dead."
Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske, the actress, was having her hair dressed by a young woman at her home. The actress was very tired and quiet, but a chance remark from the dresser made her open her eyes and sit up.
"I should have went on the stage," said the young woman complacently.
"But," returned Mrs. Fiske, "look at me—think how I have had to work and study to gain what success I have, and win such fame as is now mine!"
"Oh, yes," replied the young woman calmly; "but then I have talent."
Orlando Day, a fourth-rate actor in London, was once called, in a sudden emergency, to supply the place of Allen Ainsworth at the Criterion Theatre for a single night.
The call filled him with joy. Here was a chance to show the public how great a histrionic genius had remained unknown for lack of an opportunity. But his joy was suddenly dampened by the dreadful thought that, as the play was already in the midst of its run, none of the dramatic critics might be there to watch his triumph.
A bright thought struck him. He would announce the event. Rushing to a telegraph office, he sent to one of the leading critics the following telegram: "Orlando Day presents Allen Ainsworth's part to-night at the Criterion."
Then it occurred to him, "Why not tell them all?" So he repeated the message to a dozen or more important persons.
At a late hour of the same day, in the Garrick Club, a lounging gentleman produced one of the telegrams, and read it to a group of friends. A chorus of exclamations followed the reading: "Why, I got precisely the same message!" "And so did I." "And I, too." "Who is Orlando Day?" "What beastly cheek!" "Did the ass fancy that one would pay any attention to his wire?"
J. M. Barrie, the famous author and playwright, who was present, was the only one who said nothing.
"Didn't he wire you too?" asked one of the group.
"Oh, yes."
"But of course you didn't answer."
"Oh, but it was only polite to send an answer after he had taken the trouble to wire me. So, of course, I answered him."
"You did! What did you say?"
"Oh, I just telegraphed him: 'Thanks for timely warning.'"
Twinkle, twinkle, lovely star!How I wonder if you areWhen at home the tender ageYou appear when on the stage.—Mary A. Fairchild.
Twinkle, twinkle, lovely star!How I wonder if you areWhen at home the tender ageYou appear when on the stage.
Twinkle, twinkle, lovely star!
How I wonder if you are
When at home the tender age
You appear when on the stage.
—Mary A. Fairchild.
—Mary A. Fairchild.
Recipe for an actor:
To one slice of ham add assortment of roles.Steep the head in mash notes till it swells,Garnish with onions, tomatoes and beets,Or with eggs—from afar—in the shells.—Life.
To one slice of ham add assortment of roles.Steep the head in mash notes till it swells,Garnish with onions, tomatoes and beets,Or with eggs—from afar—in the shells.
To one slice of ham add assortment of roles.
Steep the head in mash notes till it swells,
Garnish with onions, tomatoes and beets,
Or with eggs—from afar—in the shells.
—Life.
—Life.
Recipe for an ingenue:
A pound and three-quarters of kitten,Three ounces of flounces and sighs;Add wiggles and giggles and gurgles,And ringlets and dimples and eyes.—Life.
A pound and three-quarters of kitten,Three ounces of flounces and sighs;Add wiggles and giggles and gurgles,And ringlets and dimples and eyes.
A pound and three-quarters of kitten,
Three ounces of flounces and sighs;
Add wiggles and giggles and gurgles,
And ringlets and dimples and eyes.
—Life.
—Life.
"I know a nature-faker," said Mr. Bache, the author, "who claims that a hen of his last month hatched, from a setting of seventeen eggs, seventeen chicks that had, in lieu of feathers, fur.
"He claimed that these fur-coated chicks were a proof of nature's adaptation of all animals to their environment, the seventeen eggs having been of the cold-storage variety."
In a large store a child, pointing to a shopper exclaimed, "Oh, mother, that lady lives the same place we do. I just heard her say, 'Send it up C.O.D.' Isn't that where we live?"
An Englishman went into his local library and asked for Frederic Harrison'sGeorge Washington and other American Addresses. In a little while he brought back the book to the librarian and said:
"This book does not give me what I require; I want to find out the addresses of several American magnates; I know where George Washington has gone to, for he never told a lie."
Not long ago a patron of a café in Chicago summoned his waiter and delivered himself as follows:
"I want to know the meaning of this. Look at this piece of beef. See its size. Last evening I was served with a portion more than twice the size of this."
"Where did you sit?" asked the waiter.
"What has that to do with it? I believe I sat by the window."
"In that case," smiled the waiter, "the explanation is simple. We always serve customers by the window large portions. It's a good advertisement for the place."
"Advertising costs me a lot of money."
"Why I never saw your goods advertised."
"They aren't. But my wife reads other people's ads."
When Mark Twain, in his early days, was editor of a Missouri paper, a superstitious subscriber wrote to him saying that he had found a spider in his paper, and asking him whether that was a sign of good luck or bad. The humorist wrote him this answer and printed it:
"Old subscriber: Finding a spider in your paper was neither good luck nor bad luck for you. The spider was merely looking over our paper to see which merchant is not advertising, so that he can go to that store, spin his web across the door and lead a life of undisturbed peace ever afterward."
"Good Heavens, man! I saw your obituary in this morning's paper!"
"Yes, I know. I put it in myself. My opera is to be produced to-night, and I want good notices from the critics."—C. Hilton Turvey.
Paderewski arrived in a small western town about noon one day and decided to take a walk in the afternoon. While strolling ling along he heard a piano, and, following the sound, came to a house on which was a sign reading:
"Miss Jones. Piano lessons 25 cents an hour."
Pausing to listen he heard the young woman trying to play one of Chopin's nocturnes, and not succeeding very well.
Paderewski walked up to the house and knocked. Miss Jones came to the door and recognized him at once. Delighted, she invited him in and he sat down and played the nocturne as only Paderewski can, afterward spending an hour in correcting her mistakes. Miss Jones thanked him and he departed.
Some months afterward he returned to the town, and again took the same walk.
He soon came to the home of Miss Jones, and, looking at the sign, he read:
"Miss Jones. Piano lessons $1.00 an hour. (Pupil of Paderewski.)"
Shortly after Raymond Hitchcock made his first big hit in New York, Eddie Foy, who was also playing in town, happened to be passing Daly's Theatre, and paused to look at the pictures of Hitchcock and his company that adorned the entrance. Near the pictures was a billboard covered with laudatory extracts from newspaper criticisms of the show.
When Foy had moodily read to the bottom of the list, he turned to an unobtrusive young man who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye.
"Say, have you seen this show?" he asked.
"Sure," replied the young man.
"Any good? How's this guy Hitchcock, anyhow?"
"Any good?" repeated the young man pityingly. "Why, say, he's the best in the business. He's got all these other would-be side-ticklers lashed to the mast. He's a scream. Never laughed so much at any one in all my life."
"Is he as good as Foy?" ventured Foy hopefully.
"As good as Foy!" The young man's scorn was superb. "Why, this Hitchcock has got that Foy person looking like a gloom. They're not in the same class. Hitchcock's funny. A man with feelings can't compare them. I'm sorry you asked me, I feel so strongly about it."
Eddie looked at him very sternly and then, in the hollow tones of a tragedian, he said:
"I am Foy."
"I know you are," said the young man cheerfully. "I'm Hitchcock!"
Advertisements are of great use to the vulgar. First of all, as they are instruments of ambition. A man that is by no means big enough for the Gazette, may easily creep into the advertisements; by which means we often see an apothecary in the same paper of news with a plenipotentiary, or a running footman with an ambassador.—Addison.
See alsoSalesmen and Salesmanship.
Her exalted rank did not give Queen Victoria immunity from the trials of a grandmother. One of her grandsons, whose recklessness in spending money provoked her strong disapproval, wrote to the Queen reminding her of his approaching birthday and delicately suggesting that money would be the most acceptable gift. In her own hand she answered, sternly reproving the youth for the sin of extravagance and urging upon him the practise of economy. His reply staggered her:
"Dear Grandma," it ran, "thank you for your kind letter of advice. I have sold the same for five pounds."
"Dear Grandma," it ran, "thank you for your kind letter of advice. I have sold the same for five pounds."
Many receive advice, only the wise profit by it.—Publius Syrus.
A flea and a fly in a flue,Were imprisoned; now what could they do?Said the fly, "let us flee.""Let us fly," said the flea,And they flew through a flaw in the flue.
A flea and a fly in a flue,Were imprisoned; now what could they do?Said the fly, "let us flee.""Let us fly," said the flea,And they flew through a flaw in the flue.
A flea and a fly in a flue,
Were imprisoned; now what could they do?
Said the fly, "let us flee."
"Let us fly," said the flea,
And they flew through a flaw in the flue.
The impression that men will never fly like birds seems to be aeroneous.—La Touche Hancock.
"Mother, may I go aeroplane?""Yes, my darling Mary.Tie yourself to an anchor chainAnd don't go near the airy."—Judge.
"Mother, may I go aeroplane?""Yes, my darling Mary.Tie yourself to an anchor chainAnd don't go near the airy."
"Mother, may I go aeroplane?"
"Yes, my darling Mary.
Tie yourself to an anchor chain
And don't go near the airy."
—Judge.
—Judge.
Harry N. Atwood, the noted aviator, was the guest of honor at a dinner in New York, and on the occasion his eloquent reply to a toast on aviation terminated neatly with these words:
"The aeroplane has come at last, but it was a long time coming. We can imagine Necessity, the mother of invention, looking up at a sky all criss-crossed with flying machines, and then saying, with a shake of her old head and with a contented smile:
"'Of all my family, the aeroplane has been the hardest to raise.'"
A genius who once did aspireTo invent an aerial flyer,When asked, "Does it go?"Replied, "I don't know;I'm awaiting some damphule to try 'er."
A genius who once did aspireTo invent an aerial flyer,When asked, "Does it go?"Replied, "I don't know;I'm awaiting some damphule to try 'er."
A genius who once did aspire
To invent an aerial flyer,
When asked, "Does it go?"
Replied, "I don't know;
I'm awaiting some damphule to try 'er."
A Frenchman once remarked:
"The table is the only place where one is not bored for the first hour."
Every rose has its thornThere's fuzz on all the peaches.There never was a dinner yetWithout some lengthy speeches.
Every rose has its thornThere's fuzz on all the peaches.There never was a dinner yetWithout some lengthy speeches.
Every rose has its thorn
There's fuzz on all the peaches.
There never was a dinner yet
Without some lengthy speeches.
Joseph Chamberlain was the guest of honor at a dinner in an important city. The Mayor presided, and when coffee was being served the Mayor leaned over and touched Mr. Chamberlain, saying, "Shall we let the people enjoy themselves a little longer, or had we better have your speech now?"
"Friend," said one immigrant to another, "this is a grand country to settle in. They don't hang you here for murder."
"What do they do to you?" the other immigrant asked.
"They kill you," was the reply, "with elocution."
When Daniel got into the lions' den and looked around he thought to himself, "Whoever's got to do the after-dinner speaking, it won't be me."
Joseph H. Choate and Chauncey Depew were invited to a dinner. Mr. Choate was to speak, and it fell to the lot of Mr. Depew to introduce him, which he did thus: "Gentlemen, permit me to introduce Ambassador Choate, America's most inveterate after-dinner speaker. All you need to do to get a speech out of Mr. Choate is to open his mouth, drop in a dinner and up comes your speech."
Mr. Choate thanked the Senator for his compliment, and then said: "Mr. Depew says if you open my mouth and drop in a dinner up will come a speech, but I warn you that if you open your mouths and drop in one of Senator Depew's speeches up will come your dinners."
Mr. John C. Hackett recently told the following story:
"I was up in Rockland County last summer, and there was a banquet given at a country hotel. All the farmers were there and all the village characters. I was asked to make a speech.
"'Now,' said I, with the usual apologetic manner, 'it is not fair to you that the toastmaster should ask me to speak. I am notorious as the worst public speaker in the State of New York. My reputation extends from one end of the state to the other. I have no rival whatever, when it comes—' I was interrupted by a lanky, ill-clad individual, who had stuck too close to the beer pitcher.
"'Gentlemen,' said he, 'I take 'ception to what this here man says. He ain't the worst public speaker in the state. I am. You all know it, an' I want it made a matter of record that I took 'ception.'
"'Well, my friend,' said I, 'suppose we leave it to the guests. You sit down while I say my piece, and then I'll sit down and let you give a demonstration.' The fellow agreed and I went on. I hadn't gone far when he got up again.
"''S all right,' said he, 'you win; needn't go no farther!'"
Mark Twain and Chauncey M. Depew once went abroad on the same ship. When the ship was a few days out they were both invited to a dinner. Speech-making time came. Mark Twain had the first chance. He spoke twenty minutes and made a great hit. Then it was Mr. Depew's turn.
"Mr. Toastmaster and Ladies and Gentlemen," said the famous raconteur as he arose, "Before this dinner Mark Twain and myself made an agreement to trade speeches. He has just delivered my speech, and I thank you for the pleasant manner in which you received it. I regret to say that I have lost the notes of his speech and cannot remember anything he was to say."
Then he sat down. There was much laughter. Next day an Englishman who had been in the party came across Mark Twain in the smoking-room. "Mr Clemens," he said, "I consider you were much imposed upon last night. I have always heard that Mr. Depew is a clever man, but, really, that speech of his you made last night struck me as being the most infernal rot."
See alsoOrators; Politicians; Public Speakers.
The good die young. Here's hoping that you may live to a ripe old age.
"How old are you, Tommy?" asked a caller.
"Well, when I'm home I'm five, when I'm in school I'm six, and when I'm on the cars I'm four."
"How effusively sweet that Mrs. Blondey is to you, Jonesy," said Witherell. "What's up? Any tender little romance there?"
"No, indeed—why, that woman hates me," said Jonesy.
"She doesn't show it," said Witherell.
"No; but she knows I know how old she is—we were both born on the same day," said Jonesy, "and she's afraid I'll tell somebody."
As every southerner knows, elderly colored people rarely know how old they are, and almost invariably assume an age much greater than belongs to them. In an Atlanta family there is employed an old chap named Joshua Bolton, who has been with that family and the previous generation for more years than they can remember. In view, therefore, of his advanced age, it was with surprise that his employer received one day an application for a few days off, in order that the old fellow might, as he put it, "go up to de ole State of Virginny" to see his aunt.
"Your aunt must be pretty old," was the employer's comment.
"Yassir," said Joshua. "She's pretty ole now. I reckon she's 'bout a hundred an' ten years ole."
"One hundred and ten! But what on earth is she doing up in Virginia?"
"I don't jest know," explained Joshua, "but I understand she's up dere livin' wif her grandmother."
When "Bob" Burdette was addressing the graduating class of a large eastern college for women, he began his remarks with the usual salutation, "Young ladies of '97." Then in a horrified aside he added, "That's an awful age for a girl!"
THE PARSON (about to improve the golden hour)—"When a man reaches your age, Mr. Dodd, he cannot, in the nature of things, expect to live very much longer, and I—"
THE NONAGENARIAN—"I dunno, parson. I be stronger on my legs than I were when I started!"
A well-meaning Washington florist was the cause of much embarrassment to a young man who was in love with a rich and beautiful girl.
It appears that one afternoon she informed the young man that the next day would be her birthday, whereupon the suitor remarked that he would the next morning send her some roses, one rose for each year.
That night he wrote a note to his florist, ordering the delivery of twenty roses for the young woman. The florist himself filled the order, and, thinking to improve on it, said to his clerk:
"Here's an order from young Jones for twenty roses. He's one of my best customers, so I'll throw in ten more for good measure."—Edwin Tarrisse.
A small boy who had recently passed his fifth birthday was riding in a suburban car with his mother, when they were asked the customary question, "How old is the boy?" After being told the correct age, which did not require a fare, the conductor passed on to the next person.
The boy sat quite still as if pondering over some question, and then, concluding that full information had not been given, called loudly to the conductor, then at the other end of the car: "And mother's thirty-one!"
The late John Bigelow, the patriarch of diplomats and authors, and the no less distinguished physician and author, Dr. S. Weir Mitchell, were together, several years ago, at West Point. Dr. Bigelow was then ninety-two, and Dr. Mitchell eighty.
The conversation turned to the subject of age. "I attribute my many years," said Dr. Bigelow, "to the fact that I have been most abstemious. I have eaten sparingly, and have not used tobacco, and have taken little exercise."
"It is just the reverse in my case," explained Dr. Mitchell. "I have eaten just as much as I wished, if I could get it; I have always used tobacco, immoderately at times; and I have always taken a great deal of exercise."
With that, Ninety-Two-Years shook his head at Eighty-Years and said, "Well, you will never live to be an old man!"—Sarah Bache Hodge.
A wise man never puts away childish things.—Sidney Dark.