Some years ago I attended a banquet where a great company of lions appeared to have gathered to feed and to listen to a few roars after the meal. The man next to me would have made a splendid “announcer” for a circus. Here, he told me, was a famous statesman; that man over there might have been President; this man had enough money to buy a European state; the man helping himself to a double portion of terrapin was a poet; the big man nibbling his bit of cheese was a well-known historian. He was a man of great ability, though unfortunately somewhat deaf, which fact naturally interested me so much that I kept an eye on the historian.
When the toastmaster began his “We have with us tonight,” it seemed as though every speaker felt that he carried a ticket to a front seat in the Hall of Fame, and in an evil hour I decided to attempt a little “bluff.” I rose for a few remarks on agriculture. Pedigree or good stock is essential to good farming, so it was easy to refer to “my ancestor, Lord Collingwood.” I had read somewhere that Lord Collingwood was present at the Battle of Bunker Hill as a petty officer on one of the English warships. It was quite easy to refer to the fact that I had one ancestor in that battle wearing a red coat and another behind the American breastworks wearing overalls! What would have happened to me if both had been killed? It was what we call very cheap stuff—too cheap for a deaf man to handle. It was a very silly thing to do, but for the moment it seemed to impress the audience. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the historian with his hand at his ear whisper to his companion and then make notes on a sheet of paper.
“Ah,” I thought with gratification, “I have impressed the great historian!” And I sat down thinking very well of myself. But the eminent historian folded his paper and sent it to me by a waiter. This is what I read:
“_Are you sure of your pedigree? The facts seem to be that Lord Collingwood had only two children, both daughters. I think neither of them ever married._”
Then and there I lost interest in my ancestors. I have no further desire to trace back my pedigree, especially in the presence of well-read historians. And I am cured of “bluffing.”