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Our souls were warmed by 1815 port, only brought out for these royal banquets, and we sat in the midst of the illustrious and in the presence of princes, with a conviction that in no other city on earth could there be such a good setting for a good meal. There I have feasted with the ex-Kaiser, the Kings of Portugal, Italy, and Spain, several Presidents of the French Republic, and the King and Queen of England. I remember the 1815 port more than the speeches of the kings.

I also remember on one occasion at the Guildhall that it was a brother journalist who seemed to be the most popular person at the party. Admirals of the Fleet clapped him on the back and said “Hullo, Charlie!” Generals and officers beamed upon the little man and uttered the same words of surprise and affection. Diplomats and foreign correspondents who had met “dear old Charlie” in South Africa, Japan, Egypt, and the Balkans, and drunk wine with him in all the capitals of Europe, greeted him when they passed as though they remembered rich jests in his company. It was Charles Hands of The Daily Mail, war correspondent, knight-errant of the pen, ironical commentator on life’s puppet show, and good companion on any adventure.