“‘An’ why should oi not, sor? Sure the pig has never been sick a day in his life.’”
The late Mark Twain had a world-wide reputation not only as a lecturer but humorist as well. His quaint humor was apparent at all times. On one occasion there was a long religious discussion on eternal life and future punishment for the wicked. Mark Twain, who was present, took no part in the discussion. A lady finally asked him his opinion. “What do you think, Mr. Twain, about the existence of a heaven or hell?” “I do not want to express an opinion,” said Mark, gravely. “It is policy for me to remain silent. I have friends in both places.”
A writer has described his appearance during the delivery of one of his quaint after-dinner speeches:
“He arose slowly and stood, half stooping over the table. Both hands were on the table, palms to the front. There was a look of intense earnestness about his eyes. It seemed that the weight of an empire was upon his shoulders. His sharp eyes looked out from under his shaggy eyebrows, moving from one guest to another, as a lawyer scans his jury in a death trial. Then he commenced) very slowly:
“‘Our children—yours—and—mine. They seem like little things to talk about—our children—but little things often make up the sum of human life—that’s a good sentence. I repeat it, little things often produce great things. Now, to illustrate, take Sir Isaac Newton—I presume some of you have heard of Mr. Newton. Well, once when Sir Isaac Newton—a mere lad—got over into the man’s apple orchard—I don’t know what he was doing there—[laughter]—I didn’t come all the way from Hartford to q-u-e-s-t-i-o-n Mr. Newton’s honesty—but when he was there—in the man’s orchard—he saw an apple fall and he was a-t-t-racted towards it [laughter] and that led to the discovery—nor of Mr. Newton—[laughter]—but of the great law of attraction and gravitation.’”
Henry Watterson, editor of the Louisville Courier-Journal, is not only a writer of national fame, but also a well-known orator. He declined a Senatorial toga in 1883, saying: “I will stay where I am. Office is not for me. Beginning in slavery to end in poverty. It is odious to my sense of freedom.”
Watterson opposed the war for secession at first, but when Tennessee voted for disunion he went back to her and entered the Confederate service.
At the close of the war a Union officer met the brilliant young Kentuckian. They were both radicals. Each had fire in his eye. The Yankee general eyed Watterson a moment, and then hissed out: “How do you Rebels feel now, since you’ve been whipped by the Yankees?” “Feel a good deal like Lazarus licked by the dogs!” replied the fiery Watterson.
Mr. Watterson’s love for Lincoln was natural. Lincoln was born in Kentucky and Nancy Hanks’ old cabin still stands in the hills south of Louisville. The old rail fence, the rails split by Lincoln, are still on the old farm covered by clematis and morning-glories. Lincoln was a rugged politician and Watterson is a polished journalist, but the great journalist loved the homely Lincoln. He can not stay his polished pen when it writes about his great Kentuckian, and he can not hold his silver tongue when it praises the great American.
“Speaking of Lincoln’s wit,” said Watterson one Say; “the argument he used with Douglas at Knoxville College in 1860 was superb. It was wit and wisdom boiled down.”
“I can see Lincoln now,” continued Watterson. “He looked Douglas in the eye, saying: ‘This tariff, Judge Douglas, should be logical—just tariff enough—just tariff enough, so that we can make these things at home without lowering our wages. In fact, Mr. Douglas,’ continued Lincoln, ‘this tariff should be a good deal like a man’s legs—just long enough!’
“Douglas had little short legs reaching Lincoln’s coat-tail, and, turning to Lincoln, he said: ‘Now, Mr. Lincoln, you are a little indefinite. How long should a man’s legs be?’
“‘A man’s legs, Mr. Douglas,’ said Lincoln, with mock gravity, ‘should be just long enough to reach—from—his—body—to—the—ground-no surplus, no D-E-F-I-C-I-T !’”
Mr. Watterson has a rugged face and a rugged voice. Although he is generally anecdotal and analytical, he has climaxes of eloquent oratory. He clings to the belief, expressed years ago, that Lincoln was a man inspired of God.
A well known orator, who was intimately acquainted with Mr. Lincoln before the war, was asked how he acquired such a remarkable control of language. He replied: “When I was a boy over in Indiana, all the local politicians used to come to our cabin to discuss politics with my father. I used to sit by and listen to them. After they were gone I would go up to my room in my attic and walk up and down till I made out just what they meant, and then I would lie awake for hours putting their ideas into words so that the boys around our way could understand.”
Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas
A writer has said: heard Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas. The one six feet and four inches in height, the other hardly five feet four. The one awkward to the verge of grotesqueness, the other as dignified as Daniel Webster; Lincoln with a high pitched voice, Douglas with a basso profundo; Lincoln abounding in transitions, weirdly fascinating by his strange figure, postures and gestures, Douglas rarely departing from a dignified oratorical manner. Yet it was the declaration of arguments. He used no ornaments, was not verbose, was easily understood, possessed immense power of assertion, perfect coherence in argument, and wore the aspect of deep seriousness and sense of responsibility. He appeared to advantage in private life and was always ready to converse upon his principles and plans.
Douglas’ skill and power were attained by a careful study of great orations of the early days of the republic and British Parliament. When a judge of the Supreme Court he familiarized himself with decisions important for clearness of statement and strength of argument, and when he first took his seat in Congress he listened critically to the orators. He had the habit of invariably reflecting upon his own speeches after delivery, to ascertain by what means he succeeded, or to note why he failed or might have made a deeper impression.
Abraham Lincoln, with limited opportunities, disciplined and informed his mind while his body was strengthening and elongating, until intellectually and physically he was head and shoulders above his companions. His powers were developed by private arguments and off-hand speeches. Not, however, until he canvassed the State as a candidate for the Senate of the United States, with Stephen A. Douglas as his opponent, did his fame spread throughout the land. It was in his speech accepting his nomination that he spoke the following words, perhaps the most comprehensive, the most conservative, yet the most agitating ever uttered in the United States:
“A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this government cannot endure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved. I do not expect the house to fall; but, I do expect that it will cease to be divided. It will become all the one thing or all the other. Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it, or its advocates will push it forward until it shall become alike lawful in all the States, old as well as new, North as well as South.”
Roosevelt the Orator
“Think of a sledge-hammer, a steam-roller, a slow-moving, stone-walling batsman;” then, “think of a combination of all three,” and you have some idea of Mr. Roosevelt’s oratory, says “One Who Has Heard Him,” in the London Daily Mail. An orator must first of all make himself heard. Nobody ever found fault with Mr. Roosevelt on this score, we are told.
He speaks slowly and very clearly. Every word, every syllable even, is sep-ar-ate and dis-tinct. His one gesture is tremendous. He raises his right arm. He holds it threateningly above his head. It trembles with emphasis. It grips the hearers tight. They watch it as one watches a thunder-cloud ready to burst or a great tree about to fall. Then with