what it was, that one or two of them shrewdly suspected the club had changed cooks. Of course, when I told them they'd been eating my steeple-chaser they weren't overjoyed: one of them, as a matter of fact, wanted to fight. But the following night, when I had some more of the horse served, several of these same fellows, with others, ate it, and relished it immensely,
Hawthorne—It's a mere matter of sentiment that keeps us from eating our disabled carriage-horses.
Page.—I fancy that the tenderest stomach gets bravely over its sentiment when circumstanced as men like Stanley have been.
Ochiltree—Talking of Stanley, I went over with important despatches from President Grant to Geneva in 1872, where the Conference was in session on the Alabama claims. When the President gave me his letters of introduction he told me he would give me the despatches also, as it would help me along in my travels. At Geneva I met John Russell Young. I came on back to London, and he went to Paris. My favorite resort in London was the Savage Club, where all the writers, actors, and bohemians generally congregated. Toole, Irving, Sothern, the Collinses, Wilkie and Mortimer,—indeed, nearly everybody who was anybody, in literature, art, or the drama,— were to be found there in the " wee short hours ayont the twal." Well, just about this time Henry M. Stanley had returned from finding Livingstone. Young was to meet him in Paris and advise us about his arrival in London, so that we could get up a dinner for him on a Sunday at the Savage Club. Stephen Fiske, who went over with James Gordon Bennett on his celebrated yacht-race, was a leading member of the Savage. He was one of the brightest men I ever knew,—then editor of the Hornet, and an associate of Labouchere, Sala, Yates, Lemon, and others of that ilk, most of whom I used to meet at the club. Fiske agreed to get up the dinner. We finally found that there was not room in the club, so we resorted to a place on Leicester Square called "The Globe," kept by a little pudgy Frenchman. About two o'clock in the afternoon of the day set for the dinner we got a telegram from Young, stating that Stanley could not be there in time. It was a subscription-dinner, two pounds apiece, and none of us had any cash to throw away. We didn't know what to do. Fiske, a fellow of infinite resource, said we must give the dinner anyhow: everything was ordered, and we mustn't let it spoil. Suddenly turning to me, he said, " Tom, how are you up on Stanley?" I said, " I have been deeply interested in all his thrilling adventures and know them by heart." "Well," said he, " you must be Stanley for to-night, and we will give the dinner to you." Well, I came, and was received with great honors, and put at the right-hand side of the presiding officer, who was none other than Ed. Sothern, doing the part of Sir Roderick Murchison, President of the Royal Geographical Society. Of course I was called upon to speak, and they say I made the effort of my life: even old stagers who were in the plot wept at my pathetic description of my meeting with Livingstone. When I came out, I assure you that for squares the streets were crowded with people. I bowed to the right and left most profoundly, amid the cheers and huzzas of the vast mul-
