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"My spirit was broken; I turned to go,

When a gruff voice thundered, 'Pauper, stay! There's a shilling a week!' Now list, I pray : Out of that I have sixpence for lodging to pay; That's a penny a day for the six, sir, you know, And the seventh I feast on the thoughts of my woe."

"And what is thy pittance, poor old Dan? The price of thy toil on that stubborn stone, That crack, crack, crack, and constant groan?" "Twopence a day," quoth he, with a moan, Down o'er my cheeks the big tear ran, And I pitied the fate of that poor old man.

Ye who are wealthy, a lesson learn-
Hear what the blessed Jesus said,
"Give us each day our daily bread;"

And drive out want from the poor man's shed: Work him, but love him, and pay him in turn, And the aged for hunger shall cease to mourn.

Would you have England without a brand?
Would you have Devon the merry shire?
See that each poor old withered sire,
Doomed on its bosom soon to expire,

Dies not an outcast, hammer in hand,

While there's corn in your garner and gold in the land. (From "Ballads and Songs." By permission of the Author.)

THE ART OF STORY-TELLING.

SIR RICHARD STEELE.

[Richard Steele, though a native of Dublin, was of English parents. He was born 1675. His father, who was secretary to the Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, had influence enough to get his son placed in the Charterhouse, London. Here he first met Addison, with whom he was subsequently associated in the Spectator, and

they were again together at Oxford. At the end of three years Steele left the University without taking a degree, and enlisted as a private in the Horse Guards. In consequence of taking this step he was disinherited by a rich relative, but he became a favourite in the army, and being made secretary to his colonel, Lord Cutts, he rose to the rank of captain. He then plunged into all the gaieties of the town, and became "familiar with duns and bailiffs, misery, folly, and repentance." To obtain funds he commenced authorship, and published, in 1701, a treatise called "The Christian Hero." He next produced a comedy, "The Funeral; or, Grief à-la-Mode," which was performed at Drury Lane, 1704, with great success. He was now a popular man, and got appointed Gazetteer and Gentleman Usher to Prince George. He married, and inherited from his wife, who soon died, a fortune derived from an estate in Barbadoes: a second marriage added to his income, but he was always extravagant and always in debt. His connexion with the Tatler, Spectator (in which Steele wrote 240 of the papers), and Guardian, extending from 1709 to 1714, is too well known to require repetition. He started some other periodicals on the same plan, but the famous "essays" had had their day, and they slept for awhile, but only to be revived and incorporated with all that is imperishable in English literature.

At the death of Queen Anne, Steele was made a magistrate, surveyor of the royal stables, and was knighted by George I. He also entered Parliament as member for Boroughbridge, and made some show as an orator and debater; but amid all his honours and literary successes his pecuniary difficulties increased, and he ultimately retired to his country seat in Wales, where he lived almost forgotten by his contemporaries, and died Sept. 1, 1729.]

I HAVE often thought that a story-teller is born, as well as a poet. It is, I think, certain that some men have such a peculiar cast of mind, that they see things. in another light than men of grave dispositions. Men of a lively imagination and a mirthful temper will represent things to their hearers in the same manner as they themselves were affected with them; and whereas serious spirits might perhaps have been disgusted at the sight of some odd occurrences in life, yet the very same occurrences shall please them in a well-told story, where the disagreeable parts of the images are concealed, and those only which are pleasing exhibited to the fancy. Story-telling is therefore not an art, but what we call a "knack;" it does not so much subsist upon wit as upon humour; and I will add, that it is not perfect without

proper gesticulations of the body, which naturally attend such merry emotions of the mind. I know very well that a certain gravity of countenance sets some stories off to advantage, where the hearer is to be surprised in the end. But this is by no means a general rule; for it is frequently convenient to aid and assist by cheerful looks and whimsical agitations. I will go yet further, and affirm that the success of a story very often depends upon the make of the body, and the formation of the features of him who relates it. I have been of this opinion ever since I criticised upon the chin of Dick Dewlap. I very often had the weakness to repine at the prosperity of his conceits, which made him pass for a wit with the widow at the coffee-house, and the ordinary mechanics that frequent it; nor could I myself forbear laughing at them most heartily, though upon examination I thought most of them very flat and insipid. I found, after some time, that the merit of his wit was founded upon the shaking of a fat paunch and the tossing up of a pair of rosy jowls. Poor Dick had a fit of sickness, which robbed him of his fat and his fame at once, and it was full three months before he regained his reputation, which rose in proportion to his floridity. He is now very jolly and ingenious, and hath a good constitution for wit.

Those who are thus adorned with the gifts of nature, are apt to show their parts with too much ostentation. I would therefore advise all the professors of this art never to tell stories but as they seem to grow out of the subject-matter of the conversation, or as they serve to illustrate or enliven it. Stories that are very common are generally irksome, but may be aptly introduced provided they be only hinted at, and mentioned by way of allusion. Those that are altogether new, should never be ushered in without a short and pertinent character of the chief persons concerned, because by that means you may make the company acquainted with them; and it is a certain rule that slight and trivial accounts of those who are familiar to us, administer

more mirth than the brightest points of wit in unknown characters. A little circumstance in the complexion or dress of the man you are talking of, sets his image before the hearer if it be chosen aptly for the story. Thus I remember Tom Lizard, after having made his sisters merry with an account of a formal old man's way of complimenting, owned very frankly that his story would not have been worth one farthing if he had made the hat of him whom he represented one inch narrower. Besides the marking distinct characters, and selecting pertinent circumstances, it is likewise necessary to leave off in time and end smartly, so that there is a kind of drama in the forming of a story; and the manner of conducting and pointing it is the same as in an epigram. It is a miserable thing, after one hath raised the expectation of the company by humorous characters and a pretty conceit, to pursue the matter too far. There is no retreating; and how poor is it for a story-teller to end his relation by saying, "That's all!"

As the choosing of pertinent circumstances is the life of a story, and that wherein humour principally consists, so the collectors of impertinent particulars are the very bane and opiates of conversation. Old men are great transgressors this way. Poor Ned Poppy-he's gone! —was a very honest man, but was so excessively tedious over his pipe, that he was not to be endured. He knew so exactly what they had for dinner when such a thing happened, in what ditch his bay horse had his sprain at that time, and how his man John-no, it was William started a hare in the common field, that he never got to the end of his tale. Then he was extremely particular in marriages and intermarriages, and cousins twice or thrice removed, and whether such a thing happened at the latter end of July or the beginning of August. He had a marvellous tendency likewise to digressions; insomuch, that if a considerable person was mentioned in his story, he would straightway launch out into an episode of him; and again, if in that person's story he had occasion to remember a third man,

He

he broke off, and gave us his history and so on. always put me in mind of what Sir William Temple informs us of the tale-tellers in the north of Ireland, who are hired to tell stories of giants and enchanters to lull people asleep. These historians are obliged by their bargain to go on without stopping; so that after the patient hath, by this benefit, enjoyed a long nap, he is sure to find the operator proceeding in his work. Ned procured the like effect in me the last time I was with him. As he was in the third hour of his story, and very thankful that his memory did not fail him, I fairly nodded in the elbow-chair. He was much affronted at this, till I told him, "Old Friend, you have your infirmity and I have mine.”

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But of all evils in story-telling, the humour of telling tales one after another in great numbers is the least supportable. Sir Harry Pandolf and his son gave my Lady Lizard great offence in this particular. Sir Harry hath what they call a string of stories, which he tells over every Christmas. When our family visits there, we are constantly after supper entertained with the "Glastonbury Thorn." When we have wondered at that a little, "Ay, but father," saith the son, "let us have the Spirit in the Wood.'" After that hath been laughed at, "Ay, but father," cries the booby again, "tell us how you served the robber." "Alack-a-day," saith Sir Harry, with a smile, and rubbing his forehead, "I have almost forgot that, but it is a pleasant conceit to be sure." Accordingly he tells that and twenty more in the same independent order, and without the least variation at this day, as he hath done to my knowledge ever since the Revolution. I must not forget a very odd compliment that Sir Harry always makes my lady when he dines here. After dinner he says, with a feigned concern in his countenance, "Madam, I have lost by you to-day." "How so, Sir Harry?" replies my lady. Madam," says he, "I have lost an excellent appetite." At this his son and heir laughs immoderately, and winks upon Mrs. Annabella. This is the

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