Gibbon on Fame and Happiness

1910

Edward Gibbon, the historian, was not one to underestimate the pleasures of intellectual occupation or the value of literary fame. "I have drawn a high prize in the lottery of life," he wrote in his autobiography. "I am disgusted with the affectation of men of letters who complain that they have renounced a substance for a shadow, and that their fame affords a poor compensation for envy, censure and persecution.

"My own experience has taught me a very different lesson; twenty happy years have been animated by the labors of my history and its success has given me a name, a rank, a character in the world to which I should otherwise not have been entitled.

"D'Alembert relates that as he was walking in the gardens of Sans Souci with the king of Prussia, Frederick said to him, 'Do you see that old woman, a poor weeder, asleep on that sunny bank? She is probably a more happy being than either of us.'

"The king and philosopher may speak for themselves; for my part, I do not envy the old woman." — Youth's Companion.


Social Requirement

When a young girl appears at the theater with a young man who is a stranger in town, she should circulate a note among her friends telling who he is. It is very hard for the women to enjoy a performance with their curiosity unsatisfied. — Atchison Globe.

Easy Company

1900

Frenchmen are born diplomatists, yet in a free and unguarded moment even one of that tactful race will sometimes speak his mind without a tinge of flattery.

Such an ungarnished speech is recorded of a young Frenchman who, during a visit in London, was taken to see Madame Tussaud's famous waxworks.

"What do you think of them?" asked the friend who was acting as guide on that occasion. "Oh," said the young man, with a slight shrug, "they seem to me very like the people at an ordinary English party, only perhaps a little stiller."


Rewards of Fame

The Chicago Tribune intimates that, even if "republics are ungrateful," our great men are not forgotten.

"Still," said the old friend who had called to converse with the venerable sage, "in your advancing age it must be a comfort to know your fame is secure."

"Yes," replied the aged scientist, "I am told there is a new disease and a five-cent cigar named for me." — Youth's Companion.

Musicians of the Street — Picturesque New York Figures

1887

MUSICIANS OF THE STREET.

The Picturesque Figures Who Make Melody on the Sidewalk.

[Special Correspondence.]

NEW YORK, Nov. 15. — Street musicians in New York are not limited to the hand organ. Every portable instrument under the sun stops at times and tunes up under your windows. Yesterday two men, one with a bagpipe, the other with a pibroch, went through my street making music weird, wild and pathetically sweet. Here and there a nickel was thrown to them from the upper stories, and here and there fell a tear. The concert was musical. They had not the hackneyed, manners of hardened street musicians. Solicitation was new to them. But they woke the echoes with old Scottish airs that moved hearts and moistened eyes.

If one might judge of them and their history, one might say that they were Scotchmen, stranded in New York without money and took this simple plan of earning a little. Sometimes a man stops on a corner after nightfall and sings a song, not in the cracked and dreadful voice of the blind professional street singer, but in sweet and melodious notes. One by one the passing people halt to hear him, and a few remember to pay for the pleasure he has given. He is perhaps of higher station, and temporarily in distress, Possibly he does it for a lark, for the pleasure of giving pleasure to those whose pleasures are few.

Sometimes a very old man, dignified and patriarchal, plays upon a large clarionet, making such music as the souls of musicians love. It is evident that in this humble guise a master breathes upon the instrument. That he has descended from some height of talent, and perhaps fame, is evident. His garments, too, have come down. When he trembles during the pauses in his music his hearers feel their throats thicken and somehow their hands find their way to their pockets. The throng about him increases all the time. His selections are not the much harped upon airs from the popular operas; they are the classic airs of the past. And when he was applauded the pale, old face flushed up with pleasure, and he acknowledged the compliment with the grace of an artist.

Histories, forsooth, have the street musicians. They have lived romances and supped on tragedies. Poverty walks on one side of them and art on the other. The way has been long and up hill all the way, with here and there a light, a halt and a bit of joy. They suggest blind Homer. They do more. They keep our hearts tender. — G. G.