am not watching. And my dues go on. I am going to
Hartford this afternoon for a day or two, but as soon as I get back I
will go to John Elderkin very privately and say: 'Remember the veteran
and confer distinction upon him, for the sake of old times. Make me an
honorary member and abolish the tax. If you haven't any such thing as
honorary membership, all the better--create it for my honor and glory.'
That would be a great thing; I will go to John Elderkin as soon as I get
back from Hartford."

I took the last express that afternoon, first telegraphing Mr. F. G.
Whitmore to come and see me next day. When he came he asked: "Did you
get a letter from Mr. John Elderkin, secretary of the Lotos Club, before
you left New York?"

"Then it just missed you. If I had known you were coming I would
have kept it. It is beautiful, and will make you proud. The Board of
Directors, by unanimous vote, have made you a life member, and squelched
those dues; and, you are to be on hand and receive your distinction
on the night of the 30th, which is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the
founding of the club, and it will not surprise me if they have some
great times there."

What put the honorary membership in my head that day in the Century
Club? for I had never thought of it before. I don't know what brought
the thought to me at that particular time instead of earlier, but I am
well satisfied that it originated with the Board of Directors, and had
been on its way to my brain through the air ever since the moment that
saw their vote recorded.

Another incident. I was in Hartford two or three days as a guest of the
Rev. Joseph H. Twichell. I have held the rank of Honorary Uncle to his
children for a quarter of a century, and I went out with him in the
trolley-car to visit one of my nieces, who is at Miss Porter's famous
school in Farmington. The distance is eight or nine miles. On the way,
talking, I illustrated something with an anecdote. This is the anecdote:

Two years and a half ago I and the family arrived at Milan on our way to
Rome, and stopped at the Continental. After dinner I went below and took
a seat in the stone-paved court, where the customary lemon-trees stand
in the customary tubs, and said to myself, "Now this is comfort, comfort
and repose, and nobody to disturb it; I do not know anybody in Milan."

Then a young gentleman stepped up and shook hands, which damaged my
theory. He said, in substance:

"You won't remember me