to the ground, where Master Jones's feet speedily finished it; Miss Louisa Twigg let hers fall into her lap, and covered it with her pocket-handkerchief. Uneasy signals passed between her and her sister. I could not, at first, understand what event had occurred to make these ladies so unhappy.

At last the secret came out. The Misses Cutbush had bouquets like little haystacks before them. Our small nosegays, which had quite satisfied the girls until now, had become odious in their little jealous eyes; and the Cutbushes triumphed over them.

I have joked the ladies subsequently on this adventure; but not one of them will acknowledge the charge against them. It was mere accident that made them drop the flowers-pure accident. They jealous of the Cutbushes-not they, indeed; and, of course, each person on this head is welcome to his own opinion.

How different, meanwhile, was the behavior of my young friend Master Jones, who is not as yet sophisticated by the world. He not only nodded to his father's servant, who had taken a place in the pit, and was to escort his young master home, but he discovered a school-fellow in the pit likewise. "By Jove, there's Smith!" he cried out, as if the sight of Smith was the most extraordinary event in the world. He pointed out Smith to all of us. He never ceased nodding, winking, grinning, telegraphing, until he had succeeded in attracting the attention not only of Master Smith, but of the greater part of the house; and whenever anything in the play struck him as worthy of applause, he instantly made signals to Smith below, and shook his fist at him, as much as to say, "By Jove, old fellow, ain't it good? I say, Smith, isn't it prime, old boy?" He actually made remarks on his fingers to Master Smith during the performance.

I confess he was one of the best night's entertainment to me. How Jones and Smith will talk about that play when they meet after holidays! And not only then will they remember it, but all their lives long. Why do you remember that play you saw thirty years ago, and forget the one over which you yawned last week? "Ah, my brave little boy," I thought in my heart, "Twenty years hence you will recollect this, and

have forgotten many a better thing. You will have been in love twice or thrice by that time, and have forgotten it; you will have buried your wife and forgotten her; you will have had ever so many friendships and forgotten them. You and Smith won't care for each other, very probably; but you'll remember all the actors and the plot of this piece we are seeing.'

I protest I have forgotten it myself. In our back row we could not see or hear much of the performance (and no great loss)-fitful bursts of elocution only occasionally reaching us, in which we could recognize the well-known nasal twang of the excellent Mr. Stupor, who performed the part of the young hero; or the ringing laughter of Mrs. Belmore, who had to giggle through the whole piece.

It was one of Mr. Boyster's comedies of English life. Frank Nightrake (Stupor) and his friend Bob Fitzoffley appeared in the first scene, having a conversation with that impossible valet of English comedy, whom any gentleman would turn out-ofdoors before he could get through half a length of the dialog assigned. I caught only a glimpse of this act. Bob, like a fashionable young dog of the aristocracy (the character was played by Bulwer, a meritorious man, but very stout, and nearly fifty years of age), was drest in a rhubarb-colored body-coat with brass buttons, a couple of under-waistcoats, a blue satin stock with a paste brooch in it, and an eighteenpenny cane, which he never let out of his hand, and with which he poked fun at everybody. Frank Nightrake, on the contrary, being at home, was attired in a very close-fitting chintz dressinggown, lined with glazed red calico, and was seated before a large pewter teapot, at breakfast. And, as your true English comedy is the representation of nature, I could not but think how like these figures on the stage, and the dialog which they used, were to the appearance and talk of English gentlemen of the present day.

The dialog went on somewhat in the following fashion:

Bob Fitzoffley (enters whistling).-"The top of the morning to thee, Frank! What! at breakfast already? At chocolate and the Morning Post, like a dowager of sixty? Slang (he pokes the servant with his cane), what has come to thy master, thou

Prince of Valets! thou pattern of Slaveys! thou swiftest of Mercuries! Has the Honorable Francis Nightrake lost his heart, or his head, or his health?"

Frank (laying down the paper).-"Bob, Bob, I have lost all three! I have lost my health, Bob, with thee and thy like, over the Burgundy at the club; I have lost my head, Bob, with thinking how I shall pay my debts; and I have lost my heart, Bob, oh, to such a creature!"

Bob.-"Pish! What a sigh is that about a woman! Thou shalt be Endymion, the nightrake of old, and conquer this shy goddess. Hey, Slang?"

Herewith Slang takes the lead of the conversation, and propounds a plot for running away with the heiress; and I could not help remarking how like the comedy was to life-how the gentlemen always say "thou" and "prythee" and "go to,' and talk about heathen goddesses to each other; how their servants are always their particular intimates; how when there is serious love-making between a gentleman and lady, a comic attachment invariably springs up between the valet and the waiting-maid of each; how Lady Grace Gadabout, when she calls upon Rose Ringdove to pay a morning visit, appears in a low satin dress, with jewels in her hair; how Saucebox, her attendant, wears diamond brooches, and rings on all her fingers: while Mrs. Tallyho, on the other hand, transacts all the business of life in a riding-habit, and always points her jokes by a cut of the whip.

This playfulness produced a roar all over the house, whenever it was repeated, and always made our little friends clap their hands and shout in a chorus.

Like that bon-vivant who envied the beggars staring into the cookshop windows, and wished he could be hungry, I envied the boys, and wished I could laugh, very much. In the last act, I remember-for it is now very nearly a week ago-everybody took refuge either in a secret door, or behind a screen,

or curtain, or under a table, or up a chimney: and the house roared as each person came out from his place of concealment. And the old fellow in top-boots, joining the hands of the young couple (Fitzoffley, of course, pairing off with the widow), gave them his blessing, and thirty thousand pounds.

And ah, ye gods! if I wished before that comedies were like life, how I wished that life was like comedies! Whereon the drop fell; and Augustus, clapping to the opera-glass, jumped up, crying "Hurray! now for the pantomime."

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. "An Evening at the Theater," from "Sketches and Travels in London."

4. Dogb. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable?

1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read.

Dogb. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal: God hath blest you with a good name: to be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

2 Watch. Both which, master constable—

Dogb. You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's

name.

"Much Ado About Nothing."

SHAKESPEARE.

CHAPTER XI

POWER IN EXTEMPORANEOUS SPEAKING

The question of the use of manuscript in speaking before an audience has been widely discust. If it were left to the public, the decision would be unanimously in favor of the extemporaneous style. An audience has a distinct prejudice against a speech or sermon read from a paper. If a speaker refers even to notes, it is considered a point against him. The public expect to see the speaker unencumbered by written notes of any kind. If he has to use them, they conclude he is not master of himself nor of the occasion.

If an address is read from a paper, the listener feels he could as well read it himself at his own home. In the speech or sermon that is read he misses the action of the speaker, the eye to eye communication, the free and spontaneous expression of the voice and body, the direct appeal, the varied pausing, and the infinite shades of modulation attached to extemporaneous delivery. A read speech is likely to be too right-onward in its movement, savoring of the essay, and losing much of the personal element so necessary to effective speaking.

In the early training of a public speaker it is perhaps advisable in most cases to adhere to the manuscript. But as confidence is gained the aim should be to speak entirely without notes of any kind. In these first efforts there