in the United States. Here
it is:

"You know what Thackeray said when he first saw one of our
oysters,--that he felt in eating it he was swallowing a new-born baby."

[Illustration: REMARKABLE AND MUCH TALKED OF LUNCH TO ME AT WASHINGTON.
THE AUTOGRAPHS ON BACK OF MENU.]

After the green turtle Mr. Willard, the well-known actor, was called
upon, and related a brace of capital theatrical stories.

After Carolina shad and _pommes Parisienne_ I was called to my legs. Now
there is nothing so depressing as telling stories or making speeches at
two o'clock in the afternoon. General Porter remarked that he could
never tell a story till after eleven o'clock at night. He managed,
however, to tell several of his best on this occasion. As the gallant
General will tell them again, and I trust many times, I shall not
publish them here. Mine are not worth repeating. As I said, I felt at
the moment something like a well-known literary celebrity distinguished
for his capital Scotch tales and his conversational brevity. He was
invited to meet the late James Payn, who had expressed such a strong
desire to make his acquaintance that he agreed to dine at the Reform
Club (which he had not done for a considerable time), and this was only
arranged by their giving him the same waiter and allowing him to sit at
the same table he was in the habit of having at lunch every day. The
others were Sir Wemyss Reid and Sir John Robinson, of the _Daily News_.
The four enjoyed a capital dinner. Payn, Sir Wemyss and Sir John were at
their best, but the guest never made a remark. However, towards the end
of the dinner, he put his knife and fork down, looked round, and said,
"This is the very first time in my life I have sat down with three
editors." This was all his conversation.

I was referring to the fact that brevity is the soul of wit, and that
the Scotch author's remark about the three editors expressed my fear in
addressing so many members of the Government as were present.

Then came the pheasant, and before we had quite relished the excellence
of the celery salad that favourite American comedian, W. H. Crane, mixed
a salad of stories which were highly relished. I shall pass over his
theatrical stories and select two which followed, and which are so
typical of American humour, that I give them in full.

A poor man on tramp in the country one fine July day staggered in an
exhausted state into the garden of a rich old lady, and falling on his