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Public Speaking

I >> Irvah Lester Winter >> Public Speaking




On one occasion when we were out together we killed a bear, and after
skinning it, took a bath in a lake. I noticed he had a scar on the side
of his foot, and asked him how he got it, to which he responded, with
indifference:--

"Oh, that? Why, a man shoo tin' at me to make me dance, that was all."

I expressed some curiosity in the matter, and he went on:

"Well, the way of it was this: It was when I was keeping a saloon in
New Mexico, and there was a man there by the name of Fowler, and there
was a reward on him of three thousand dollars--"

"Put on him by the State?"

"No, put on by his wife," said my friend; "and there was this--"

"Hold on," I interrupted; "put on by his wife, did you say?"

"Yes, by his wife. Him and her had been keepin' a faro bank, you see,
and they quarreled about it, so she just put a reward on him, and so--"

"Excuse me," I said, "but do you mean to say that this reward was put
on publicly?" to which my friend answered with an air of gentlemanly
boredom at being interrupted to gratify my thirst for irrelevant
detail:--

"Oh, no, not publicly. She just mentioned it to six or eight intimate
personal friends."

"Go on," I responded, somewhat overcome by this instance of the
primitive simplicity with which New Mexican matrimonial disputes were
managed, and he continued:--

"Well, two men come ridin' in to see me to borrow my guns. My guns was
Colt's self-cockers. It was a new thing then, and they was the only
ones in town. These come to me, and 'Simpson,' says they, 'we want to
borrow your guns; we are goin' to kill Fowler.'

"'Hold on for a moment,' said I, 'I am willin' to lend you them guns,
but I ain't goin' to know what you'r' goin' to do with them, no, sir;
but of course you can have the guns.'" Here my friend's face lightened
pleasantly, and he continued:--

"Well, you may easily believe I felt surprised next day when Fowler
come ridin' in, and, says he, 'Simpson, here's your guns!' He had shot
them two men! 'Well, Fowler,' says I, 'if I had known them men was
after you, I'd never have let them have the guns nohow,' says I. That
wasn't true, for I did know it, but there was no cause to tell him
that."

I murmured my approval of such prudence, and Simpson continued, his
eyes gradually brightening with the light of agreeable reminiscence:--

"Well, they up and they took Fowler before the justice of peace. The
justice of the peace was a Turk."

"Now, Simpson, what do you mean by that?" I interrupted.

"Well, he come from Turkey," said Simpson, and I again sank back,
wondering briefly what particular variety of Mediterranean outcast had
drifted down to Mexico to be made a justice of the peace. Simpson
laughed and continued: "That Fowler was a funny fellow. The Turk, he
committed Fowler, and Fowler, he riz up and knocked him down and
tromped all over him and made him let him go!"

"That was an appeal to a higher law," I observed. Simpson assented
cheerily, and continued:--

"Well, that Turk, he got nervous for fear Fowler was goin' to kill him,
and so he comes to me and offers me twenty-five dollars a day to
protect him from Fowler; and I went to Fowler, and 'Fowler,' says I,
'that Turk's offered me twenty-five dollars a day to protect him from
you. Now, I ain't goin' to get shot for no twenty-five dollars a day,
and if you are goin' to kill the Turk, just say so and go and do it;
but if you ain't goin' to kill the Turk, there's no reason why I
shouldn't earn that twenty-five dollars a day!' and Fowler, says he, 'I
ain't goin' to touch the Turk; you just go right ahead and protect
him.'"

So Simpson "protected" the Turk from the imaginary danger of Fowler,
for about a week, at twenty-five dollars a day.

Then one evening he happened to go out and meet Fowler, "and," said he,
"the moment I saw him I know he felt mean, for he begun to shoot at my
feet," which certainly did seem to offer presumptive evidence of
meanness. Simpson continued:--

"I didn't have no gun, so I just had to stand there and take it until
something distracted his attention, and I went off home to get my gun
and kill him, but I wanted to do it perfectly lawful; so I went up to
the mayor (he was playin' poker with one of the judges), and says I to
him, 'Mr. Mayor,' says I, 'I am goin' to shoot Fowler.' And the mayor
he riz out of his chair and he took me by the hand, and says he, 'Mr.
Simpson, if you do I will stand by you'; and the judge he says, 'I'll
go on your bond.'"

Fortified by this cordial approval of the executive and judicial
branches of the government, Mr. Simpson started on his quest.
Meanwhile, however, Fowler had cut up another prominent citizen, and
they already had him in jail. The friends of law and order, feeling
some little distrust as to the permanency of their own zeal for
righteousness, thought it best to settle the matter before there was
time for cooling, and accordingly, headed by Simpson, the mayor, the
judge, the Turk, and other prominent citizens of the town, they broke
into the jail and hanged Fowler. The point in the hanging which
especially tickled my friend's fancy as he lingered over the
reminiscence was one that was rather too ghastly to appeal to our own
sense of humor. In the Turk's mind there still rankled the memory of
Fowler's very unprofessional conduct while figuring before him as a
criminal. Said Simpson, with a merry twinkle of the eye: "Do you know,
that Turk, he was a right funny fellow too after all. Just as the boys
were going to string up Fowler, says he, 'Boys, stop; one moment,
gentlemen,--Mr. Fowler, good-by,' and he blew a kiss to him!"


GUNGA DIN

From "Departmental Ditties," with the permission of A. P. Watt and
Son, London, and Doubleday, Page and Company, New York.

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao! [Footnote: Bring water swiftly.]
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!" [Footnote: O Brother]
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I'll marrow you this minute, [Footnote: Hit you]
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick [Footnote: Water skin] on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire,"
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
"For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died:
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone--
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals,
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the living Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


ADDRESS OF SERGEANT BUZFUZ

From "The Pickwick Papers"

BY CHARLES DICKENS

Sergeant Buzfuz rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave
nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to Dodson, and
conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders,
settled his wig, and addressed the jury.

Sergeant Buzfuz began by saying that never, in the whole course of his
professional experience,--never, from the very first moment of his
applying himself to the study and practice of the law, had he
approached a case with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed
upon him,--a responsibility he could never have supported, were he not
buoyed up and sustained by a conviction, so strong that it amounted to
positive certainty, that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other
words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client,
_must_ prevail with the high-minded and intelligent dozen of men
whom he now saw in that box before him.

Counsel always begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the best
terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they
must be. A visible effect was produced immediately; several jurymen
beginning to take voluminous notes.

"The plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr.
Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of
his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided
almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose
and peace which a custom-house can never afford."

This was a pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had
been knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar.

"Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few
attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen,
the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness and
of systematic villainy."

Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence, gave a violent
start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Sergeant Buzfuz, in the
august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind.

"I say systematic villainy, gentlemen," said Sergeant Buzfuz, looking
through Mr. Pickwick, and talking _at_ him, "and when I say
systematic villainy, let me tell the defendant, Pickwick,--if he be in
court, as I am informed he is,--that it would have been more decent in
him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had
stopped away.

"I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to
reside without interruption or intermission at Mrs. Bardell's house. I
shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some
occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you,
by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned
friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy
on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won any _alley
tors_ or _commoneys_ lately (both of which I understand to be a
particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town),
made use of this remarkable expression: 'How should you like to have
another father?' I shall prove to you, gentlemen, on the testimony of
three of his own friends,--most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen,--most
unwilling witnesses,--that on that morning he was discovered by them
holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his
caresses and endearments.

"And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between
these parties,--letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of
the defendant. Let me read the first:--'Garraway's, twelve o'clock.
Dear Mrs. B.--Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick.' Gentlemen, what
does this mean? Chops! Gracious heavens! and Tomato sauce! Gentlemen,
is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away
by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever,
which is in itself suspicious. 'Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home
till to-morrow. Slow coach.' And then follows this very remarkable
expression. 'Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan.' Why,
gentlemen, who _does_ trouble himself about a warming-pan? Why is
Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this
warming-pan, unless it is, as I assert it to be, a mere cover for
hidden fire,--a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise,
agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully
contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and
which I am not in a condition to explain?

"Enough of this. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined. But
Pickwick, gentlemen,--Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic
oasis in the desert of Goswell Street,--Pickwick, who has choked up the
well, and thrown ashes on the sward,--Pickwick, who comes before you
to-day with his heartless Tomato sauce and warming-pans,--Pickwick
still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a
sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen, heavy damages, are
the only punishment with which you can visit him, the only recompense
you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an
enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a
dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized
countrymen."


A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER

BY MACCABE

Ladies and Gentlemen: I see so many foine-lookin' people sittin' before
me that if you'll excuse me I'll be after takin' a seat meself. You
don't know me, I'm thinking, as some of yees 'ud be noddin' to me afore
this. I'm a walkin' pedestrian, a travelin' philosopher. Terry
O'Mulligan's me name. I'm from Dublin, where many philosophers before
me was raised and bred. Oh, philosophy is a foine study! I don't know
anything about it, but it's a foine study! Before I kirn over I
attended an important meetin' of philosophers in Dublin, and the
discussin' and talkin' you'd hear there about the world 'ud warm the
very heart of Socrates or Aristotle himself. Well, there was a great
many _imminent_ and learned _min_ there at the meetin', and I
was there too, and while we was in the very thickest of a heated
argument, one comes to me and says he, "Do you know what we're talkin'
about?" "I do," says I, "but I don't understand yees." "Could ye
explain the sun's motion around the earth?" says he. "I could," says I,
"but I'd not know could you understand or not." "Well," says he, "we'll
see," says he. Sure'n I didn't know anything, how to get out of it
then, so I piled in, "for," says I to myself, "never let on to any one
that you don't know anything, but make them believe that you do know
all about it." So says I to him, takin' up me shillalah this way
(holding a very crooked stick perpendicular), "We'll take that for the
straight line of the earth's equator"--how's that for gehography? (to
the audience). Ah, that was straight till the other day I bent it in an
argument. "Wery good," says he. "Well," says I, "now the sun rises in
the east" (placing the disengaged hand at the eastern end of the
stick). Well, he couldn't deny that. "And when he gets up he

Darts his rosy beams
Through the mornin' gleams."

Do you moind the poetry there? (to the audience with a smile). "And he
keeps on risin' and risin' till he reaches his meriden." "What's that?"
says he. "His dinner-toime," says I; "sure'n that's my Latin for
dinner-toime, and when he gets his dinner

He sinks to rest
Behind the glorious hills of the west."

Oh, begorra, there's more poetry! I fail it creepin' out all over me.
"There," says I, well satisfied with myself, "will that do for ye?"
"You haven't got done with him yet," says he. "Done with him," says I,
kinder mad like; "what more do you want me to do with him? Didn't I
bring him from the east to the west? What more do you want?" "Oh," says
he, "you'll have to bring him back again to the east to rise next
mornin'." By Saint Patrick! and wasn't I near betrayin' me ignorance,
Sure'n I thought there was a large family of suns, and they rise one
after the other. But I gathered meself quick, and, says I to him,
"Well," says I, "I'm surprised you axed me that simple question. I
thought any man 'ud know," says I, "when the sun sinks to rest in the
west--when the sun--" says I. "You said that before," says he. "Well, I
want to press it stronger upon you," says I. "When the sun sinks to
rest in the east--no--west, why he--why he waits till it grows dark,
and then he goes _back in the noight toime_!"


RESPONSE TO A TOAST

From "A Charity Dinner"

BY LITCHFIELD MOSELEY

"Milors and Gentlemans!" commences the Frenchman, elevating his
eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. "Milors and Gentlemans--You
excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have say to me,
'Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat I have no toast to make; but he
nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody but
von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid your kind permission,
I vill make de toast. 'De brevete is de sole of de feet,' as you great
philosophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his,
de Pronouncing Dictionnaire; and, derefore, I vill not say ver moch to
de point. Ven I vas a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to
promenade de streets of Marseilles et of Rouen, vid no feet to put onto
my shoe, I nevare to have expose dat dis day vould to have arrive. I
vas to begin de vorld as von garçon--or, vat you call in dis countrie,
von vaitaire in a café--vere I vork ver hard, vid no habillemens at all
to put onto myself, and ver little food to eat, excep' von old blue
blouse vat vas give to me by de proprietaire, just for to keep myself
fit to be showed at; but, tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch
for me since dat time, and I have rose myself, seulement par mon
industrie et perseverance. Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de
flowing speech, de oration magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur
Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von great privilege for von étrangé to sit
at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand, dat majestique
man, who are de terreur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis;
and who is also, I for to suppose, a halterman and de chef of you
common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I feel dat I can perspire to
no greatare honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but,
hélas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I are not freeman of your great
cité, not von liveryman servant of von of you compagnies joint-stock.
But I must not forget de toast. Milors and Gentlemans! De immortal
Shakispeare he have write, 'De ting of beauty are de joy for
nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more entrancing
dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, der vinking eye of de beautiful
lady! It is de ladies who do sweeten de cares of life. It is de ladies
who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer
but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to de dear sex, de
toast dat I have to propose is, "De Ladies! God bless dem all!"


PARTRIDGE AT THE PLAY

From "Tom Jones"

BY HENRY FIELDING

In the first row of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her
youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge
immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When
the first music was played, he said, "It was a wonder how so many
fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out."
While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs.
Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of
the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service." Nor could
he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted,
"That here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest
poor family for a whole twelvemonth."

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began,
Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance
of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was in the
strange dress; something," said he, "like what I have seen in a
picture. Sure it is not armor, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the
ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that,
sir, if you can. ... No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses
as that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the
neighborhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene
between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr.
Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a
trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him
what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the
stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told me. ...
Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if that little man
there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened
in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to be sure! Who's fool then?
Will you? Lud have mercy upon such foolhardiness!--Whatever happens,
it is good enough for you.--Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon.
Nay, perhaps it is the devil--for they say he can put on what likeness
he pleases.--Oh! here he is again.--No farther! No, you have gone far
enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's
dominions." Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hush!
dear sir, don't you hear him?" And during the whole speech of the
ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on
Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each
other in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in him.

During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly
admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon
the king's countenance. "Well," said he, "how people may be deceived by
faces! _Nulla fides fronti_ is, I find, a true saying. Who would
think, by looking into the king's face, that he had ever committed a
murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he
should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction than "that he might
possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."

Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost
made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, "There, sir, now; what
say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as you
think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not be
in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is there, for
all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit! As I am a living
soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed, you saw
right," answered Jones, "Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know it is
only a play: and besides, if there was any thing in all this, Madam
Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid,
I believe, if the devil was here in person.--There, there--Aye, no
wonder you are in such a passion; shake the vile wicked wretch to
pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To be sure all
duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings.--Aye, go about
your business, I hate the sight of you."

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of
which Jones asked him which of the players he had liked best? To this
he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question, "The
king, without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you
are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are all agreed,
that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." "He
the best player!" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, "why, I
could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had seen a ghost, I
should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as ne did.
And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and
his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any
man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done
exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me; but indeed,
madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting
before in the country; and the king for my money; he speaks all his
words distinctly, half as loud again as the other.--Anybody may see he
is an actor."

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