umour only springs in simple, unaffected characters. You find it in the well-bred Scotch. It overflows in the American, who is the prince of good fellows.
The Americans are so good at taking a joke, so good-tempered that, even in public, they enjoy to banter each other and serve as butts for each other's sarcasms: it is on these occasions that American humour is allowed free play. There are even "Gridiron Clubs"—clubs where guests are invited only to be put on the grill.
The most famous of these is the Clover Club at Philadelphia. Outside Paradise, there is no place where men are treated with so little regard to their rank. The members of the Clover Club are no respecters of persons. Nothing is sacred for them; age or position count for naught in their assemblies.
The club is composed of the principal journalists of Philadelphia. Once a year they ask to their table about fifty guests—people talked about; the President of the United States himself has an invitation, if he cares to submit himself to the "grilling" process.[8]
The banquet is princely; the menu most recherché.
But let us take a peep at the proceedings.
The president of the club, Mr. Handy, an American brimming over with wit, takes his place at the head of the table, and the feast begins. Choice dishes follow one another, and are washed down with choice wines. Conversation flows, and faces light up. An orchestra, placed in a neighbouring room, makes pleasant subdued music. The guests begin to think over the speeches they will soon be called upon to deliver—you recognise them by their white faces; the Cloverites quietly sharpen their weapons for the fray. Presently comes the dessert. The President strikes two or three little blows upon the table, and rises. Now for it! Now for the quart d'heure de Rabelais!
"Gentlemen," says the President, "I have the honour to propose the first toast of the evening. Let us fill our glasses, and drink to the honourable member of Congress on my right. I doubt not you will push your amiability and patience so far as to listen to his speech in respectful silence. He will be all the more proud to have an audience to-night, because, as we all know, when the honourable member gets up to make a speech at Washington, the benches begin to empty by magic. Gentlemen, give him a chance."
The Congressman takes the joke merrily, and thus commences his speech:
"Gentlemen—I mean Members—of the Clover Club."