484 THE KING’S BUSINESS glory was: followed by years of sorrow. Her husband lost the throne of France as the outcome of the war to which she had instigated him, and shortly after died in exile of a broken heart. Her son, the Prince Imperial, for whom she entertained such lofty dreams of power, died a wretched death in Africa and his body was brought back to her, pierced with many wounds from the assegais of the South African natives, received in an inglorious war. She herself became a recluse, For years she has dropped entirely from the public gaze. Probably most people think she is dead, if they think of her at all, but the poor woman is not dead. She was 90 years of age last month. At times she may be seen, a bowed woman in black, leaning upon crutches, talking with men wounded in the present war, which is in no small measure an outcome of her own war of nearly half a century ago. It is reported by an Italian writer who wandered upon the grounds set apart for her by the English at Farnborough, that when he entered into conversation with her she replied: “ I am the past. I am the distant horizon, where exists a mirage, a shadow, a phantom, a living sorrow. Mine wa,s a dream killed by fate. Now I am an old woman, poor in everything that makes a woman rich. I have lived. I have been what I have been. I do not ask more. I ask only not to be remembered.” Pathetic indeed, but only another illustration of the transitory character of earthly glory. Slivers was the greatest clown, “ attaining such eminence that he had all his audiences under his spell before even he began to act. A wave of .the hand, the lifting of one finger, the shuffle of a foot, and the hundreds gaping and grinning about him fell off once more into paroxysms of laughter.” But the other day this mirth-maker ended his own life in a New York boarding house. How hollow is the world’s mirth, and how cruel it is too. This same Slivers has himself pictured the wretchedness of the clown’s heart back of the smiling mask. He once said to a newspaper reporter: , “ I never see the lights go up and hear the band strike up for the grand procession but I think of Dan Luby. He was a great clown, a good friend of mine, my side partner. About ten years ago, in the big tent in some place in Indiana, we marched out together behind the elephants. Dan was feeling kind of low-spirited and had been talking all day about a hunch he had that some thing was going to happen to him. That kind of talk always makes me shaky, but I cheered him up, and we frolicked along behind the big beasts until tbe grand entry was over. Then they brought out the elephants again and Dan and I began to jump over their backs. At least Dan did; he was a good jumper — I was the faker, the fellow who tries to jump and makes all sorts of funny tumbles. O f course, Dan had to ‘horse’ his act, too, but just the same he had to put over his thriller—you know the sort of stuff. Well the time came for him to make his jump from a spring board over four elephants’ backs. He got away in good shape, but in clearing the last back he didn’t right himself as he should. He hit the tan-bark flat on his back. The crowd yelled with laughter— funny stuff-—see ? I knew what had happened; we all knew. But it was the first night of a three-day stay, and we couldn’t do anything to make that bunch Over and over again in the history of comedians and A minstrel men and clowns it has come out how sad were the hearts of the men whose business it was to make other people laugh. It is said that in his day Hollowness of Mirth.
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