God it
shall be my dying sentiment. Independence now, and independence forever."

That was all of the piece. I gave the whole thing in a mouthful, and
started for my seat, got halfway there and remembered I had forgotten to
bow, turned, went back to the platform, bowed with a jerk, started again
for my seat, and hearing some one laugh, ran.

Reaching the seat, I burst into tears.

The teacher came over, patted my head, kissed my cheek, and told me I had
done first-rate, and after hearing several others speak I calmed down and
quite agreed with her.

* * * * *

It was Daniel Webster who caused the Friday Afternoon to become an
institution in the schools of America. His early struggles were dwelt upon
and rehearsed by parents and pedagogues until every boy was looked upon as
a possible Demosthenes holding senates in thrall.

If physical imperfections were noticeable, the fond mother would explain
that Demosthenes was a sickly, ill-formed youth, who only overcame a lisp
by orating to the sea with his mouth full of pebbles; and every one knew
that Webster was educated only because he was too weak to work. Oratory
was in the air; elocution was rampant; and to declaim in orotund, and
gesticulate in curves, was regarded as the chief end of man. One-tenth of
the time in all public schools was given over to speaking, and on Saturday
evenings the schoolhouse was sacred to the Debating Society.

Then came the Lyceum, and the orators of the land made pilgrimages,
stopping one day in a place, putting themselves on exhibition, and giving
the people a taste of their quality at fifty cents per head. Recently,
there has been a relapse of the oratorical fever. Every city from
Leadville to Boston has its College of Oratory, or School of Expression,
wherein a newly discovered "Natural Method" is divulged for a
consideration. Some of these "Colleges" have done much good; one in
particular I know, that fosters a fine spirit of sympathy, and a trace of
mysticism that is well in these hurrying, scurrying days.

But all combined have never produced an orator; no, dearie, they never
have, and never can. You might as well have a school for poets, or a
college for saints, or give medals for proficiency in the gentle art of
wooing, as to expect to make an orator by telling how.

Once upon a day, Sir Walter Besant was to give a lecture upon "The Art of
the Novelist." He had just adjusted his necktie for the