“Keep down,—don’t rise,” some one said.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“Nothing,—only you were a little faint.”
“Faint? A man who can lift a thousand pounds faint—at the sight of an audience? Absurd! Let me rise.”
And in spite of all opposition I rose, grasped my manuscript, walked to the front of the stage, and resumed my lecture. Alas!
“Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must sink back into our own flesh and blood.”
I had not proceeded far before I felt symptoms of a repetition of the calamity; and lest I should be overtaken before I could retreat, I stammered a few words of apology, and withdrew ingloriously from public view. Fresh air and a draught of water, which some obliging friend had dashed with eau-de-vie, soon restored me. But I took the advice of friends and did not make a third attempt that evening.
The audience, had it been wholly composed of brothers and sisters, could not have been more indulgent and considerate. One skeptical gentleman was heard to say,—
“I don’t believe he can lift nine hundred pounds.”