Among the Humorists and After Dinner Speakers Part 7

Rossetti's fondness for humorous stories and his interest in a particular soldier of fortune, or rather of misfortune, are shown in Hall Caine's autobiography. Beginning life as the secretary of Ruskin, the man ultimately lived on his cleverness and audacity and made Rossetti in particular his conscious and delighted victim. Feeble as Rossetti was, the visits of this man did him good, and he laughed all the evening and told droll stories himself. One of the latter was of a man near to death to whom the clergyman came and said: "Dear friend, do you know who died to save you?" "Oh, meenister, meenister," said the dying man, "is this a time for conundrums?"

It is interesting to recall, apropos of the recent Milton celebration, an anecdote of Milton that was told in an old family letter written in 1762, recently quoted in the columns of the London "Spectator":

"Possibly you may not have heard this anecdote concerning him. John Vallack--who, I believe, died after you came to Tavistock--told me it, and he lived in London in 1696. Milton, as you know, was blind.

Charles the Second had the curiosity to see him, and said: 'G.o.d hath punished you for your malice, etc., to my father by taking away your eyesight.'

"'Aye,' says Milton, 'but before I lost my eyes he lost his head.'"

In writing a sketch of Was.h.i.+ngton a pupil ended her essay by saying: "Was.h.i.+ngton married a famous belle, Martha Custis, and in due time became the father of his country."

A certain regiment was on the march from Philadelphia to Gettysburg and the companies were ordered to move with a few minutes' interval between them and to keep each other in sight, the band and drums leading.

The band soon got a long way ahead, and on reaching a bend, halted for a few minutes' rest. Presently up galloped a mounted officer in hot haste and shouted for the band sergeant.

"What do you mean," he said, "by getting out of sight of the leading company?"

"We were not out of sight, sir," answered the sergeant.

"What do you mean by telling me that!" exclaimed the officer in a rage. "You were out of sight, I saw you myself."

Several ladies sat after a card party at the University Club a few mornings ago, discussing the virtues of their husbands. "Mr.

Bingleton," said one of them, referring to her life partner, "never drinks and never swears--indeed, he has no bad habits." "Does he ever smoke?" some one asked. "Yes; he likes a cigar just after he has eaten a good meal. But, I suppose, on an average, he doesn't smoke more than once a month."

Ian Maclaren was talking to a group of literary beginners in New York.

"Begin your stories well," he said emphatically. "There's nothing like a good beginning. Indeed, it's half the battle." Then with a smile this excellent beginner of stories added: "Always bear in mind the case of the young man who, desiring to marry, secured a favorable hearing from his sweetheart's irascible father by opening the interview with the words: 'I know a way, sir, whereby you can save money.'"

Benevolent gentleman--"My little boy, have you no better way to spend this beautiful afternoon than by standing in front of the gate, idling away your time?"

Boy--"I ain't idling away my time. There's a chump inside with my sister, who is paying me ten cents an hour to watch for pa."

That famous Scotch physician, Dr. George Fordyce, was unfortunately somewhat given to drink, and though he never was known to be dead drunk, yet he was often in a state which rendered him unfit for professional duties. One night when he was in such a condition, he was suddenly sent for to attend a lady of t.i.tle who was very ill. He went, sat down, listened to her story, and felt her pulse. He found he was not up to his work. He lost his wits and in a moment of forgetfulness exclaimed, "Drunk, by Jove!" Still he managed to write out a mild prescription. Early next morning he received a message from the n.o.ble patient to call on her at once. Dr. Fordyce felt very uncomfortable.

The lady evidently intended to upbraid him either for giving an improper prescription or for his disgraceful condition, but to his surprise and relief she thanked him for his prompt compliance with her pressing summons, and then confessed that he had rightly diagnosed her case. That unfortunately she occasionally indulged too freely in drink, but that she hoped he would preserve inviolable secrecy as to the condition in which he had found her. Fordyce listened to her as grave as a judge, then said:

"Madam, you may depend on me. I shall be as silent as the grave."

A friend of Dean Swift one day sent him a turbot as a present by a servant lad who had frequently been on similar errands but had never received anything from the dean for his trouble. Having gained admission he opened the study door, and putting down the fish on the floor cried out rudely, "Master has sent you a turbot." "Young man,"

said the dean rising from the chair, "is that the way you deliver a message? Let me teach you better manners. Sit down in my chair; we will change places, and I will show you how to behave in future." The boy sat down, and the dean going out came up to the door, and making a low bow said, "Sir, master presents his kind compliments, hopes you are well, and requests your acceptance of a small present." "Does he?"

replied the boy. "Return him my best thanks, and there's half-a-crown for yourself." The dean thus caught in his own trap laughed heartily and gave the boy a crown for his ready wit.

A s.p.u.n.ky little mule was trying to throw his darky rider and in kicking about caught his hoof in a stirrup, upon which the darky cried out in frightened tones, "Say, if you'se gwine to git on, I'se gwine to git off."

"I ought not to be surprised by anything at my time of life," said a well-known minister, "but one of my flock did manage to take my breath away. I was preaching about the Father's tender wisdom in caring for us all," he said. "I ill.u.s.trated by saying that the Father knows which of us grows best in sunlight and which of us must have shade. 'You know you plant roses in the suns.h.i.+ne,' I said, 'and heliotrope and geraniums; but if you want your fuchsias to grow they must be kept in a shady nook.' After the sermon, which I hoped would be a comforting one, a woman came up to me, her face glowing with pleasure that was evidently deep and true. 'O, Dr. ----, I am so grateful for that sermon,' she said, clasping my hand and shaking it warmly. My heart glowed for a moment, while I wondered what tender place in her heart and life I had touched. Only for a moment, though. 'Yes,' she went on, fervently, 'I never knew before what was the matter with my fuchsias.'"

There are some singular discounts allowed in the book trade. They were happily ill.u.s.trated on one occasion by Mark Twain. One day while the humorist was connected with a publis.h.i.+ng house he went into a book store and picking up a volume asked the price. He then suggested that as a publisher he was ent.i.tled to 50 per cent discount. To this the clerk a.s.sented.

"As I am also an author," said Mark, "it would appear that I am again ent.i.tled to 50 per cent discount."

Again the clerk bowed.

"And as a personal friend of the proprietor," he modestly continued, "I presume that you will allow me the usual 25 per cent. discount."

Another bow from the salesman.

"Well," drawled the unblus.h.i.+ng humorist, "under these conditions I think I may as well take the book. What's the tax?"

The clerk took out his pencil and figured industriously. Then he said with the greatest obsequiousness:

"As near as I can calculate we owe you the book and about 37-1/2 cents."

Clyde Fitch tells a new story of Whistler. The artist was in Paris at the time of the coronation of King Edward, and at a reception one evening a d.u.c.h.ess said to him: "I believe you know King Edward, Mr.

Whistler."

"No, madame," replied Whistler.

"Why, that's odd," she murmured; "I met the King at a dinner-party last year, and he said that he knew you."

"Oh," said the painter, "that was just his brag."

A London friend who was a member of the same club as Mr. Whistler writes me this, which I have not seen before in print. It seems that the gentle artist in making enemies had not paid his dues and was dunned for them in vain. He either took no notice of requests for a settlement, or replied to them with his usual airy mockery. Finally the secretary wrote to him:

_"Dear Mr. Whistler_--It is not a Nocturne in Purple, or a Symphony in Blue and Gray, that we are after, but An Arrangement in Gold and Silver."