"The spell was broken, and for all time the sublime apostrophe to sleep unfinished. What he might next have said, whose lips can tell? Words possibly to be spoken by every tongue, to be crystallized into every language. Her ill-fated interruption can never be forgiven. The practical lesson to be drawn, one for all the ages, is the peril involved in a wife's _untimely interruption_ of the wise observations and sage reflections of her husband. "This coming together to-night may justify the remark that satire upon the proverbial caution of candidates in expressing an opinion _upon any subject_ was perhaps never better illustrated than in the incident now to be related. Upon a time many years ago, when approaching the Capitol from Pennsylvania Avenue in company with my friend Proctor Knott, a tall, solemn-appearing individual addressed the latter as follows; 'Mr. Knott, I would like to have your opinion as to which is the best play, "Hamlet" or "Macbeth."' With a characteristic expression of countenance, Knott, with deprecatory gesture, slowly replied: "'My friend, don't ask me that question; I am a politician, a candidate for Congress, and my district is about equally divided; Hamlet has his friends down there, and Macbeth has his, and _I will take no part between them.'_ "This observation recalls an incident of recent occurrence in a neighboring city. A friend of mine, a minister of the Gospel--you will bear in mind that my friends are not _all_ actors--and this recalls the dilemma of a candidate who, upon inquiry as to the comparative merits of heaven and its antipode, cautiously declined to express an opinion, on the ground that _he had friends in both places_--this minister, upon being installed in a new pastorate, was almost immediately requested to preach at the funeral of a prominent member of his congregation. Unacquainted as he was with the life of the deceased, he made inquiry as to his last utterances. "He recalled the last words of Webster, 'I am content'; of John Quincy Adams, 'This is the last of earth'; and even the cheerless exclamation of Mirabeau, 'Let my ears be filled with martial music, crown me with flowers, and thus shall I enter on my eternal sleep.' Charged with these reflections, and hoping to find the nucleus of a funeral sermon, the minister made inquiry of the son of the deceased parishioner, 'What were the last words of your father?' The unexpected reply was 'Pap he didn't have _no last words;_ mother she just stayed by him till he died.' "And now, my friends, as the curtain falls, my last words to you: 'Say not Good-night, But in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning!'" XXIX THE LOST ART OF ORATORY