Some years ago at a drawing room function, one of
England’s leading actors was asked to recite for the pleasure of his fellow
guests. He consented and asked if there was anything special that his audience
would like to hear.
After a moment’s pause an old clergyman present said, “Could
you, sir, recite to us the Twenty-third Psalm?”
A strange look passed over the actor’s face; he paused
for a moment, and then said, “I can, and I will, upon one condition; after I
have recited it, you, my friend, will do the same.”
“I?” said the clergyman, in surprise. “But I am not an
elocutionist. However, if you wish it, I will do so.”
Impressively, the great actor began the Psalm. His voice and
his intonation were perfect. He held his audience spellbound; and as he
finished, a great burst of applause broke from the guests.
Then, as it died away, the old clergyman arose and began the
Psalm. His voice was not remarkable; his intonation was not faultless. When he
had finished, no sound of applause broke the silence, but there was not a dry
eye in the room, and many heads were bowed.
Then the actor rose to his feet again. His voice shook as
he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the old clergyman and said: “I reached
your eyes and ears, my friends; he reached your hearts. The difference is just
this — I know the Twenty-third Psalm, but he knows the Shepherd.”
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