“The English still claim that you were a pirate,” I observed. “I feel quite honored at so illustrious an accession to our ranks,” said Captain Kidd. The admiral smiled. “Stop your Kidding,” he said to the pirate. “I believe my conduct was unsatisfactory to them on several occasions when I bearded the lion in his channel. The English are queer. They made Captain Pierson a baronet for getting defeated.” “If we had had Paul Jones,” said Lord Nelson, “we would have made him prime minister and buried him in Westminster Abbey. England is the most grateful of all nations.” “You need not remind me of the ungratefulness of republics,” rejoined Jones. “I have experienced it, though I am not a living example. But, my lord, I wish I had had you pitted against me in the days of ’77; I would dearly have loved to have exchanged shots with you.” “You are too kind,” drawled Nelson, lifting his monocle to his blind eye. “I really can’t see you in that light.” “You have an eye single to your own interest,” I said to Nelson; then turning to Jones: “We have swung around the circle and you haven’t yet told me—” “We will leave it to Roosevelt,” replied the admiral. “Whether it is John Brown, John Jones or Johnny Craupaud, he will see that the body gets a square deal—box!” “How about your epitaph? I would suggest: First in war, last in peace, and at present in the hearts of his countrymen, to mark the tomb of the father of the American navy. That epitomizes your whole career.” “I do not want to usurp Washington’s paternal honors. Of course all epitaphs are written by Mephisto, ‘the father of liars,’ as you know, but if mine were to be truthful, my tomb would bear the simple inscription: “Pause, stranger, yet weep not, For here lies the body of John Paul Jones—perhaps!” HENRY VIII. AND HIS HAREM IN HADES. CHAPTER IV. Henry VIII. and His Harem in Hades. “Quaker worship may be as appropriate as any other kind on Sunday,” observed William Penn, “but this silence is getting on my nerves. Why don’t you say something funny, you humorists? What’s the use of having famous funny men in this society if they cannot enliven Hades on a dull Sabbath?” “I’m not in the humor to be humorous to-night,” said Bret Harte, who was busily engaged in making “Condensed Novels” by tearing to shreds without reading, their contents from the title page to the finis; book reviewing they designate it up on earth. “Do you call that wit?” sneered Eugene Field. “If you can define the difference between wit and humor, I’ll promise to laugh the next time you see things at night,” retorted Harte. “Eternity is too short for definitions, except to a philologist,” evaded Field. “Ask Dick Whately; the archbishop of Dublin is the only man who discriminates English synonyms.” “I know when you don’t ask me,” replied the doctor. “Consult Webster.”