musement in country houses was to write
imitations or parodies of some well-known poet, and every one took part
in this. Nowadays no one would have read the originals, much less be
able to imitate them. My mother had a commonplace book into which she
had copied the cleverest of these skits, and Landseer illustrated it
charmingly in pen-and-ink for her.

Any one reading the novels of the commencement of the nineteenth
century must have noticed how wonderfully popular practical jokes,
often of the crudest nature, then were. A brutal practical joke always
seems to me to indicate a very rudimentary and undeveloped sense of
humour in its perpetrator. Some people with paleolithic intellects seem
to think it exquisitely humorous to see a man fall down and hurt
himself. A practical joke which hurts no one is another matter. All
those privileged to enjoy the friendship of the late Admiral Lord
Charles Beresford will always treasure the memory of that genial and
delightful personality. About thirty years ago an elderly gentleman
named Bankes-Stanhope seemed to imagine that he had some proprietary
rights in the Carlton Club. Mr. Bankes-Stanhope had his own chair,
lamp, and table there, and was exceedingly zealous in reminding members
of the various rules of the club. Smoking was strictly forbidden in the
hall of the Carlton at that time. I was standing in the hall one night
when Lord Charles came out of the writing-room, a big bundle of newly
written letters in his hand, and a large cigar in his mouth. He had
just received a shilling's-worth of stamps from the waiter, when old
Mr. Bankes-Stanhope, who habitually puffed and blew like Mr.
Jogglebury-Crowdey of "Sponge's Sporting Tour," noticed the forbidden
cigar through a glass door, and came puffing and blowing into the hall
in hot indignation. He reproved Lord Charles Beresford for his breach
of the club rules in, as I thought, quite unnecessarily severe tones.
The genial Admiral kept his temper, but detached one penny stamp from
his roll, licked it, and placed it on his forefinger. "My dear Mr.
Stanhope," he began, "it was a little oversight of mine. I was writing
in there, do you see?" (a friendly little tap on Mr. Bankes-Stanhope's
shirt-front, and on went a penny stamp), "and I moved in here, you see"
(another friendly tap, and on went a second stamp), "and forgot about
my cigar, you see" (a third tap, and a third stamp left adhering). The
breezy Admiral kept up this conversa