"Across the Walnuts and the Wine"

Evening Post, Volume LXVIII, Issue 98, 22 October 1904, Page 10

"Across the Walnuts and the Wine"

I have told many stories, I have heard many stories all over the world, and many of them are the favourite afterdinner yarns of famous men. Lord Charles Beresford is one of the most amusing raconteurs of the day. I remember, when staying, with him some years ago, he told me an incident one night which greatly amused me. SBme twelve or fifteen years ago he received 'a letter from a railway porter which ran as follows: — "My Lord,— Last Night my wife had twins, and I write to arsk your Lordship if you will arsk H.R.H. the Princess of Wales if we may call the little girl 'Princess of Wales Brown,' and may we call the little boy, 'Lord Charles, Beresford Brown?' " Lord Charles obtained the 'Princess's permission, and gladly consented himself to the man's request. Three months later came another letter : "My Lord, — I am 'appy to inform your Lordship that Lord Charles Beresford Brown is well and 'earty, and Princess of Wales Brown died at 4 o'clock this morning. ' " Staying once in his lovely Sussex home with Mr. Augustus J. 0. Hare, our conversation fell on spiritualism. "A friend of mine," said he, "once went to a seance, and a spirit appeared." "Is that you William*" said one of those round the table. "Yes, 'Arriet, it's me," ungrammatically replied the departed one. "Are you 'appy, William?" "-Yes, 'Amet, far 'appier." '"Appier than when you was with me, William?" "Yes, 'Arriet. far 'appier."

"Where are you, William?" "In "ell!" I once heard Mr. Robert Yerburgh, M.P., tell this story at a public meeting, during which the question of women's right had been touched upon. An old bachelor became engaged to an elderly spinster, and the two were married. Six months after, the newlywedded couple gave a dinner to aa old bachelor friend of the host. During dinner all went well enough, but when the antique bride had retired to the drawing-room, the two old fellows became merry and confidential over the walnuts and the wine. "How .do you like being married, old chap?" asked the guest. "Oh! I like it well enough," answered the host. "I put my foot down from the first, and in this house my word is law, I can tell you j in this house I am Julius Casar !" Just at this moment the door opened, and a solemn figure, clad in a long dressing-gown and carrying a flat candlestick in its hand, appeared, and an awful voice was heard : "Julius Caesar, go to" bed<!" .... And Julius Caesar went! One of the most marvellous raconteurs of the day is Mr. Robert Ganthony, whose entertainment created so much amusement at the Palace Theatre lately. He once told me a story which, with his permission, I have told in my lectures all over the world. Wishing to make his man-servant a little Christmas present, he gave him one of those travelling caps with the flaps which tie tight down over the ears, and which so effectually keep off the draught in a railway carriage To his astonishment the man refused the present. , "No, tnank you, Mr. Ganthony, sir," said he. "I 'ad one o' them caps once, and one bitter, cold day I put it on and went out into the street. with them flaps tied tight down over my. ears, and i the very fust thing, 6ir, I met, a friend o' mine, and 'c arsted me to 'aye a drink and I never 'card 'im !" The late Dean Vaughan once had a class of young coloured clergymen, to whom he was giving a- course of lectures on theology. At the conclusion of the series he asked the whole class to dine with him on the following Wednesday evening. The night arrived, ;uid the Dean stood on his hearthrug awaiting his dusky guests. Eight o'clock struck, and then the quarter. When the half-hour arrived and «ot a single person had put in an appearance, the Dean rang for his butler. "Serve dinner, Smith," said he, when that functionary appeared, "it is a remarkable thing that none of these gentlemen have come." "Yes, Mr. Dean, sir, and what is still more remarkable is that I have done nothing all the evening but turn away Christy minstrels from the door!" A well-known artist was once engaged upon a sacred picture. A very handsome old model named Smith sat for the head of St. Mark. Artist and model became great friends, but when the picture --was finished they lost sight of one another. One day, however, the artist, wandering about the Zoological Gardens, came upon his old model, with a broom in his hand, looking very disconsolate. "Hullo, Smith," said he; "you don't look very cheery. What are you doing now?" "Well, I ain't idoin' much, sir, and that's a fact. I'm engaged in these 'ere gardens a clearin' hout the helephants' stables ; a nice occypation for one o1o 1 the twelve apostles, ain't it, sir?" Talking of elephants reminds me of a ridiculous incident chat occurred within xny own experience once. It was aboard a crowded P. and 0., J and we were lying in Bombay Harbour ] getting up steam for the voyage to Japan. I waa standing talking to the "chief," and watching the people come aboard. Suddenly we noticed two very tall, thin old ladies, obviously twin-sisters, and equally boviously old maids, mounting the gangway. As soon as they reached the deck, one of them marched up to the chief, and, prodding him with her sunshade, remarked: l "Young man, are there any elephants on board this ship?" Quite unable to reply at the moment, he turned away with shaking shoulders, and walked off. '„... "Can you tell me, 'sir?" mi she, "for that man's r fool !" "I fancy ' ho was rather overcome by the complete unexpectedness of such a superb 'question, madame," I replied ; "but may, l ask why you wish to know?" "Certainly," replied the lady. "It is the first question I put when I go on board a ship. -My sister and I travel every year. Many years ago we made this voyage, and there was an elephant on board, which did nothing but tramp all over our cabin every day." The two old ladies were the daughters of a long deceased general officer. They were the joy of that ship, as I am quite certain they must have been of every ship in which they sailed. The last I saw of them was in a narrow street in Yokohama, when they were on opposite sides of the pavement, throwing beer-bottles at one another. They explained to me that it was their birthday I My friend Forbes Phillips, the Vicar of Gorloston, was at one time assisted by a very young curate. Somehow or other his sermons did not always give satisfaction, and he asked Mr. Phillips's 1 advice as to what he should do. "Well," replied his Vicar, "I think you should try to be very simple. You fly too high, and your wings are not very strong yet, you know. Take a simple incident, and talk about it in a simple manner. " So, on the following Sunday the young man got up and gave out his text ia the orthodox manner: "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? But, my brethren, in another gospel you are told that five sparrows are sold for two farthings. Now, the higher critics pretend to see in this a discrepancy, and, therefore, they would cast doubt upon Holy Writ. But, my friends, there is no discrepancy. It is all perfectly simple. It is but an instance of God's noble and generous way of dealing with His creatures, in painful contrast to the petty and stingy manner in which we deal with one another. You put down a farthing and you receive two sparrows in exchange. You adventure to put down two farthings, and lo! the Almighty throws a sparrow in !" The same distinguished cleric told me that he was once travelling in a railway train, and opposite to him sat a gentleman with a writing-pad upon his knees, scribbling letters for dear life. At last he folded up his epistles, stamped and addressed them, and, handing the bundle to Mr. Phillips, said; "Well, I am going to jump out here" (the train was going at express speed at^ the moment). ''Will you very kindly post these letters for me?" Phillips, who at once saw he was travelling with a raving lunatio, and whose quick eye had caught the names of some of the greatest in the land upon the envelopes, with wonderful presence of mind replied : "Certainly, I will, but, just a moment before you leave, I want to ask you a great favour. I am building a church ; I want help. I see you are acquainted with everybody. May I beg of you to give me a few letters of introduction?" "My dear sir, I Bhall be delighted,"

replied the poor creature. And he sat down and scribbled hard for ten minutes, so hard that he never noticed the train was slowing up, until at last it stopped at a great station. Phillips put out his head and yelled for the guard. He learned that his unfortunate companion, was an inmate of a large private asylum in the South of England, who had managed to elude the vigilance of his keepers. Seated at dinner one evening with a distinguished Army man, I learnt that some years ago he held an important position on the West Coast of Africa. It fell to his lot to capture a certain pirate and to sentence him to death, the warrant being signed by the Governor, who, it was subsequently discovered, afteo many such warranty had been signed, had no right to do 'so'. Consequently the documents wore all hopelessly illegal ; but that is neither here nor there. On the fatal morning my friend, there being no other English official present, went to prepare the man for his death. He found the savage calm and,, cool. "I wish you to understand," aaid the poor fellow, in his , very broken English, "that my sentence is quite fair. If yo u did not shoot me you would never stop the traffic I have been engaged in." My friend, noticing that the man's irons galled his ankles, offered to put % white rag round, the wound. "No," replied the prisoner, "I whh to die quite black." At the last moment the officer began to tie a handkerchief round his eyes. ■ "I am not afraid ; let me face the soldiers," said his captive. It -was explained to him that when white soldiers were shot they were always bandaged. "Then bandage me," was the reply; "I cannot die better than as the white man." He then sat down on the ground, and my friend chalked a circle round his heart, and precipitately retired, for a native shooting squad loses no time in its deadly work. And the man fell fearless to the last. — Raymond Bluthwayt, in "After Dinner Stories" in M.A.P.