one ever accuses
them of belonging to the class known as the predatory rich, nor of being
millionaire malefactors. They have to do their work every day at certain
hours and dedicate its results to time.

For many years Thomas Arnold has been known as the father of his son.
Several great men have been thus overshadowed. The father of Disraeli,
for instance, was favored by fame and fortune, until his gifted son
moved into the limelight, and after that Pater shone mostly in a
reflected glory. Jacopo Bellini was the greatest painter in Venice until
his two sons, Gian and Gentile, surpassed him, and history writes him
down as the father of the Bellinis. Lyman Beecher was regarded as
America's greatest preacher until Henry Ward moved the mark up a few
notches. The elder Pitt was looked upon as a genuine statesman until his
son graduated into the Cabinet, and then "the terrible cornet of horse"
became known as the father of Pitt. Now that both are dust, and we are
getting the proper perspective, we see that "the great commoner" was
indeed a great man, and so they move down the corridors of time
together, arm in arm, this father and son. That excellent person who
carried the gripsacks of greatness so long that he thought the luggage
was his own, Major James B. Pond, launched at least one good thing. It
was this: "Matthew Arnold gave fifty lectures in America, and nobody
ever heard one of them; those in his audience who could no longer endure
the silence slipped quietly out."

Matthew Arnold was a critic and writer who, having secured a tuppence
worth of success through being the son of his father, and thus securing
the speaker's eye, finally got an oratorical bee in his bonnet and went
a-barnstorming. He cultivated reserve and indifference, both of which he
was told were necessary factors of success in a public speaker.

And this is true. But they will not make an orator, any more than long
hair, a peculiar necktie, and a queer hat will float a poet on the tide
of time safely into the Hall of Fame.

Matthew Arnold cultivated repose, but instead of convincing the audience
that he had power, he only made them think he was sleepy. Major Pond,
having lived much with orators, and thinking the trick easy, tried
oratory on his own account, and succeeded as well as did Matthew Arnold.
No one ever heard Major Pond: his voice fell over the footlights, dead,
into the orchestra; only those with opera-glasses knew he was talking.

But