“Eighty years, my dear.”
To Richard Mansfield an enthusiastic woman admirer had paid tribute of praise, adding: “I suppose, sir, that when in the spirit of those great rôles you forget your real self for days.”
“Yes, madam, for days, as well as nights. It is then I do those dreadful things—trample on the upturned features of my leading lady and hurl tenderloin steaks at waiters.”
“And you do not know of it at all?”
“Not a solitary thing, until I read the papers the next day,” said Mr. Mansfield solemnly.
When Marquis Ito was in the United States, in 1901, an inexperienced St. Paul reporter sought an interview with him. He met Ito’s secretary, and made known his mission. “Me newspaper man. Me writee news. Me heardee marquis velly ill. He better to-day? You savve?” began the reporter, to the secretary’s amazement. But the latter was equal to the occasion. “Me savve,” he said gravely. “Marquis he no better. Belly blad. Catchee cold. Doctor him no lettee him leave bled to-day. You savve?” The interview proceeded in this way, but at its termination the secretary, with a twinkle in his eye, remarked: “The marquis is greatly fatigued by his arduous journey, but—” But the reporter had fled.
Professor Phelps, who disliked mathematics, was once walking with Professor Newton, who began discussing a problem so deep that his companion could not follow it. He fell into a brown study, from which he was aroused by Newton’s emphatic assertion, “And that, you see, gives us x!” “Does it?” asked Mr. Phelps, politely. “Why, doesn’t it?” exclaimed the professor, excitedly, alarmed at the possibility of a flaw in his calculations. Quickly his mind ran back and detected a mistake. “You are right, Mr. Phelps. You are right!” shouted the professor. “It doesn’t give us x; it gives us y.” And from that time Professor Phelps was looked upon as a mathematical prodigy, the first man who ever tripped Newton.