University of Virginia Library

1. PART I.
ARTEMUS WARD IN LONDON.

1. I.
ARRIVAL IN LONDON.

Mr. Punch, My dear Sir,—You prob'ly
didn't meet my uncle Wilyim when he was
on these shores. I jedge so from the fack
that his pursoots wasn't litrary. Commerce,
which it has been trooly observed
by a statesman, or somebody, is the foundation
stone onto which a nation's greatness
rests, glorious Commerce was Uncle
Wilyim's fort. He sold soap. It smelt
pretty, and redily commanded two pents a
cake. I'm the only litrary man in our fam'ly.
It is troo, I once had a dear cuzzun
who wrote 22 versis onto “A Child who
nearly Died of the Measles, O!” but as he
injoodiciously introjuced a chorious at the

end of each stanzy, the parrents didn't like
it at all. The father in particler wept afresh,
assaulted my cuzzun, and said he never felt
so ridicklus in his intire life. The onhappy
result was that my cuzzun abandind poetry
forever, and went back to shoemakin, a
shattered man.

My Uncle Wilyim disposed of his soap,
and returned to his nativ land with a very
exolted opinyin of the British public. “It
is a edycated community,” said he; “they're
a intellectooal peple. In one small village
alone I sold 50 cakes of soap, incloodin
barronial halls, where they offered me a
ducal coronet, but I said no—give it to the
poor.” This was the way Uncle Wilyim
went on. He told us, however, some stories
that was rather too much to be easily swallerd.
In fack, my Uncle Wilyim was not
a emblem of trooth. He retired some years
ago on a hansum comptency derived from
the insurance-money he received on a rather
shaky skooner he owned, and which turned
up while lyin at a wharf one night, the cargo
havin fortnitly been remooved the day afore
the disastriss calamty occurd. Uncle Wilyim

said it was one of the most sing'ler
things he ever heard of; and, after collectin
the insurance-money, he bust into a flood
of tears, and retired to his farm in Pennsylvany.
He was my uncle by marriage only.
I do not say that he wasn't a honest man.
I simply say that if you have a uncle, and
bitter experunce tells you it is more profitable
in a pecoonery pint of view to put
pewter spoons instid of silver ones onto
the table when that uncle dines with you
in a frenly way—I simply say, there is sumthun
wrong in our social sistim, which calls
loudly for reform.

I 'rived on these shores at Liverpool, and
proceeded at once to London. I stopt at
the Washington Hotel in Liverpool, because
it was named after a countryman of
mine who didn't get his living by makin'
mistakes, and whose mem'ry is dear to civilised
peple all over the world, because he
was gentle and good as well as trooly great.
We read in Histry of any number of great
individooals, but how few of 'em, alars!
should we want to take home to supper
with us! Among others, I would call

your attention to Alexander the Great,
who conkerd the world, and wept because
he couldn't do it sum more, and then took
to gin-and-seltzer, gettin' tight every day
afore dinner with the most disgustin' reg'larity,
causin' his parunts to regret they
hadn't 'prenticed him in his early youth to
a biskit-baker, or some other occupation of
a peaceful and quiet character. I say,
therefore, to the great men now livin' (you
could put 'em all into Hyde Park, by the
way, and still leave room for a large and
respectable concourse of rioters)—be good.
I say to that gifted but bald-heded Prooshun,
Bismarck, be good and gentle in your
hour of triump. I always am. I admit
that our lines is different, Bismarck's and
mine; but the same glo'rus principle is involved.
I am a exhibiter of startlin' curiositys,
wax works, snaix, etsetry, (“either of
whom,” as a American statesman whose
name I ain't at liberty to mention for perlitical
resins, as he expecks to be a candidate
for a prom'nent offiss, and hence doesn't
wish to excite the rage and jelisy of other
showmen—“either of whom is wuth dubble
the price of admission”); I say I am a
exhibiter of startlin curiositys, and I also
have my hours of triump, but I try to be
good in 'em. If you say, “Ah, yes, but
also your hours of grief and misfortin;” I
answer, it is troo, and you prob'ly refer to
the circumstans of my hirin' a young man
of dissypated habits to fix hisself up as a A
real Cannibal from New Zeelan, and when
I was simply tellin the audience that he
was the most feroshus Cannibal of his tribe,
and that, alone and unassisted, he had et
sev'ril of our fellow-countrymen, and that
he had at one time even contemplated eatin
his Uncle Thomas on his mother's side, as
well as other near and dear relatives,—when
I was makin' these simple statements, the
mis'ble young man said I was a lyer, and
knockt me off the platform. Not quite
satisfied with this, he cum and trod hevily
on me, and as he was a very musculer person
and wore remarkable thick boots, I
knew at once that a canary bird wasn't
walkin' over me.

I admit that my ambition ovelept herself
in this instuns, and I've been very careful

ever since to deal square with the public.
If I was the public I should insist on
squareness, tho' I shouldn't do as a portion
of my audience did on the occasion jest
mentioned, which they was emplyed in
sum naberin' coal mines. “As you hain't
got no more Cannybals to show us, old
man,” said one of 'em, who seemed to be a
kind of leader among 'em—a tall dis'greeble
skoundril—“as you seem to be out of
Cannybals, we'll sorter look round here and
fix things. Them wax figgers of yours
want washin.' There's Napoleon Bonyparte
and Julius Cæsar—they must have a
bath,” with which coarse and brutal remark
he imitated the shrill war-hoop of the western
savige, and, assisted by his infamus
coal-heavin companyins, he threw all my
wax-work into the river, and let my wild
bears loose to pray on a peaceful and inoffensive
agricultooral community.

Leavin Liverpool (I'm goin' back there,
tho—I want to see the Docks, which I
heard spoken of at least once while I was
there) I cum to London in a 1st class car,
passin' the time very agreeable in discussin,

with a countryman of mine, the celebrated
Schleswig-Holstein question. We took
that int'resting question up and carefully
traced it from the time it commenced being
so, down to the present day, when my
countryman, at the close of a four hours' annymated
debate, said he didn't know anything
about it himself, and he wanted to
know if I did. I told him that I did not.
He's at Ramsgate now, and I am to write
him when I feel like givin him two days in
which to discuss the question of negro
slavery in America. But now I do not feel
like it.

London at last, and I'm stoppin at the
Greenlion tavern. I like the lan'lord very
much indeed. He had fallen into a few
triflin errers in regard to America—he was
under the impression, for instance, that we
et hay over there, and had horns growin
out of the back part of our heads—but his
chops and beer is ekal to any I ever pertook.
You must cum and see me, and
bring the boys. I'm told that Garrick
used to cum here, but I'm growin skeptycal
about Garrick's favorit taverns. I've had

over 500 public-houses pinted out to me
where Garrick went. I was indooced one
night, by a seleck comp'ny of Britons, to
visit sum 25 public-houses, and they confidentially
told me that Garrick used to go
to each one of 'em. Also, Dr. Johnson.
This won't do, you know.

May be I've rambled a bit in this communycation.
I'll try and be more collected
in my next, and meanwhile, b'lieve me
Trooly Yours,

2. II.
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS.

You'll be glad to learn that I've made
a good impression onto the mind of the
lan'lord of the Greenlion tavern. He made
a speech about me last night. Risin' in
the bar he spoke as follers, there bein over
20 individooals present: “This North
American has been a inmate of my 'ouse
over two weeks, yit he hasn't made no attempt
to scalp any member of my fam'ly.
He hasn't broke no cups or sassers, or furnitur
of any kind. (Hear, hear.) I find I can
trust him with lited candles. He eats his
wittles with a knive and a fork. Peple of
this kind should be encurridged. I purpose
'is 'elth!” (Loud'plaws.)

What could I do but modestly get up
and express a fervint hope that the Atlantic

Cable would bind the two countries still
more clostly together? The lan'lord said my
speech was full of orig'nality, but his idee
was the old stage coach was more safer,
and he tho't peple would indors that opinyin
in doo time.

I'm gettin' on exceedin' well in London.
I see now, however, that I made a mistake
in orderin' my close afore I left home.
The trooth is the taler in our little villige
owed me for a pig and I didn't see any
other way of gettin' my pay. Ten years ago
these close would no doubt have been fash'n'ble,
and perhaps they would be ekally
sim'lar ten years hens. But now they're
diff'rently. The taler said he know'd they
was all right, because he had a brother in
Wales who kept him informed about London
fashins reg'lar. This was a infamus
falshood. But as the ballud says (which I
heard a gen'l'man in a new soot of black
close and white kid gloves sing t'other
night), Never don't let us Despise a Man
because he wears a Raggid Coat! I don't
know as we do, by the way, tho' we gen'relly
get out of his way pretty rapid;

prob'ly on account of the pity which tears
our boosums for his onhappy condition.

This last remark is a sirkastic and witherin'
thrust at them blotid peple who live
in gilded saloons. I tho't I'd explain my
meanin' to you. I frekently have to explain
the meanin' of my remarks. I know
one man—and he's a man of varid 'complishments—who
often reads my articles
over 20 times afore he can make anything
of 'em at all. Our skoolmaster to home
says this is a pecoolerarity of geneyus. My
wife says it is a pecoolerarity of infernal
nonsens. She's a exceedin practycal
woman. I luv her muchly, however, and
humer her little ways. It's a recklis falshood
that she hepecks me, and the young
man in our neighborhood who said to me
one evenin', as I was mistenin' my diafram
with a gentle cocktail at the villige tavun
—who said to me in these very langwidge.
“Go home, old man, onless you desires to
have another teapot throwd at you by
B. J.,” probly regrets havin said so. I said,
“Betsy Jane is my wife's front name, gentle
yooth, and I permits no person to alood

to her as B. J. outside of the family circle,
of which I am it principally myself. Your
other observations I scorn and disgust, and
I must pollish you off.” He was a able-bodied
young man, and, remoovin his coat,
he inquired if I wanted to be ground to
powder? I said, Yes: if there was a Powder-grindist
handy, nothin would 'ford me
greater pleasure, when he struck me a
painful blow into my right eye, causin' me
to make a rapid retreat into the fire-place.
I hadn't no idee that the enemy was so
well organised. But I rallied and went for
him, in a rayther vigris style for my time
of life. His parunts lived near by, and I
will simply state 15 minits had only elapst
after the first act, when he was carried
home on a shutter. His mama met the
sollum procession at the door, and after
keerfully looking her orfspring over, she
said, “My son, I see how it is distinctually.
You've been foolin' round a Trashin Masheen.
You went in at the place where
they put the grain in, cum out with the
straw, and you got up into the thingamyjig,
and let the horses tred on you, didn't you,
my son?” The pen of no livin Orthur
could describe that disfortnit young man's
sittywation more clearer. But I was sorry
for him, and I went and nussed him till he
got well. His reg'lar original father being
absent to the war, I told him I'd be a father
to him myself. He smilt a sickly smile,
and said I'd already been wuss than two
fathers to him.

I will here obsarve that fitin orter be
allus avided, excep in extreem cases. My
principle is, if a man smites me on the right
check I'll turn my left to him, prob'ly; but
if he insinooates that my gran'mother wasn't
all right, I'll punch his hed. But fitin is
mis'ble bisniss, gen'rally speakin, and whenever
any enterprisin countryman of mine
cums over here to scoop up a Briton in the
prize ring I'm allus excessively tickled when
he gets scooped hisself, which it is a sad
fack has thus far been the case—my only
sorrer bein' that t'other feller wasn't scooped
likewise. It's diff'rently with scullin boats,
which is a manly sport, and I can only explain
Mr. Hamil's resunt defeat in this
country on the grounds that he wasn't used

to British water. I hope this explanation
will be entirely satisfact'ry to all.

As I remarked afore, I'm gettin' on well.
I'm aware that I'm in the great metrop'lis
of the world, and it doesn't make me onhappy
to admit the fack. A man is a ass
who dispoots it. That's all that ails him.
I know there is sum peple who cum
over here and snap and snarl 'bout this and
that: I know one man who says it is a shame
and a disgraice that St. Paul's Church isn't a
older edifiss; he says it should be years and
even ages older than it is; but I decline to
hold myself responsible for the conduck of
this idyit simply because he's my countryman.
I spose every civ'lised land is endowed
with its full share of gibberin' idyits, and it
can't be helpt—leastways I can't think of
any effectooal plan of helpin' it.

I'm a little sorry you've got politics over
here, but I shall not diskuss 'em with nobody.
Tear me to peaces with wild omnibus
hosses, and I won't diskuss 'em. I've had
quite enuff of 'em at home, thank you. I
was at Birmingham t'other night, and went
to the great meetin' for a few minits. I

[ILLUSTRATION]

"Has my clothin' a Welchy appearance?"—See page 25.

[Description: 484EAF. Image of Ward discussing his clothing with another gentleman as shadowy figures watch from the background. The gentleman is wearing a white suit and rimmed hat and has a large bushy beard.]

had'nt been in the hall long when a stern
lookin' artisan said to me,

“You ar from Wales?”

No, I told him I didn't think I was. A
hidgyis tho't flasht over me. It was of
that onprincipled taler, and I said, “Has
my clothin' a Welchy appearance?”

“Not by no means,” he answered, and
then he said, “And what is your opinyin of
the present crisis?”

I said, “I don't zackly know. Have you
got it very bad?”

He replied, “Sir, it is sweepin' over England
like the Cymoon of the Desert!”

“Wall,” I said, “let it sweep!”

He ceased me by the arm and said, “Let
us glance at hist'ry. It is now some two
thousand years —”

“Is it, indeed?” I replied.

“Listin!” he fiercely cried; “it is only a
little over two thousand years since—”

“Oh, bother!” I remarkt, “let us go out
and git some beer.”

“No, Sir. I want no gross and sensual
beer. I'll not move from this spot till I can
vote. Who ar you?”

I handed him my card, which, in addition

to my name, contains a elabrit description
of my show. “Now, Sir,” I proudly said
“you know me?”

“I sollumly swear,” he sternly replied,
“that I never heard of you, or your show, in
my life!”

“And this man,” I cried bitterly, “calls hisself
a intelligent man, and thinks he orter be
allowed to vote! What a holler mockery!”

I've no objection to ev'ry intelligent man
votin' if he wants to. It's a pleasant amoosement,
no doubt; but there is those whose
igrance is so dense and loathsum that they
shouldn't be trustid with a ballit any more'n
one of my trained serpunts should be trusted
with a child to play with.

I went to the station with a view of returnin'
to town on the cars. “This way,
Sir,” said the guard; “here you ar,” and he
pinted to a first-class carrige, the sole ockepant
of which was a rayther prepossessin'
female of about 30 summers.

“No, I thank you,” I ernestly replied,
“I prefer to walk.”

3. III.
THE GREENLION AND OLIVER CROMWELL.

Mr. Punch, My dear Sir,—It is now
two weeks since a rayther strange lookin
man engaged 'partments at the Greenlion.
He stated he was from the celebrated
United States, but beyond this he said
nothin. He seem'd to prefer sollytood.
He remained mostly in his room, and whenever
he did show hisself he walkt in a
moody and morose manner in the garding,
with his hed bowed down and his arms
foldid across his brest. He reminded me
sumwhat of the celebrated but onhappy
Mr. Haller, in the cheerful play of The
Stranger. This man puzzled me. I'd
been puzzled afore several times, but never
so severally as now. Mine Ost of the
Greenlion said I must interrigate this

strange bein, who claimed to be my coun
tryman. “He hasn't called for a drop of
beer since he's been in this ere Ouse,” said
the landlord. “I look to you,” he added,
“to clear up this dark, this orful mistry!”

I wringed the lan'lord's honest hand, and
told him to consider the mistry cleared up.

I gained axes to the misterus bein's room,
and by talkin sweet to him for a few
minits, I found out who he was. Then
returnin to the lan'lord, wo was nervisly
pacin up and down the bar, I said,

“Sweet Rolando, don't tremble no more!
I've torn the marsk from the hawty stranger's
face, and dived into the recesses of his
inmost sole! He's a Trans-Mejim!”

I'd been to the Beefanham theatre the
previs evenin, and probly the drammer I
saw affected me, because I'm not in the
habit of goin on as per above. I like the
Beefanham theatre very much indeed, because
there a enthoosiastic lover of the
theatre like myself can unite the legitermit
drammer with fish. Thus, while your enrapterd
soul drinks in the lorfty and noble
sentences of the gifted artists, you can eat

a biled mack'ril jest as comfor'bly as in your
own house. I felt constrained, however,
to tell a fond mother who sot immegitly
behind me, and who was accompanied by
a gin bottle and a young infant—I felt constraned
to tell that mother, when her infant
playfully mingled a rayther oily mack'ril
with the little hair which is left on my
vener'ble hed, that I had a bottle of scented
hair oil at home, which on the whole I tho't
I preferred to that which her orfspring was
greasin me with. This riled the excellent
female, and she said, “Git out! You never
was a infank yourself, I spose! Oh no!
You was too good to be a infank you was!
You slid into the world all ready grow'd,
didn't you? Git out!” “No, Madam,” I
replied, “I too was once a infant! I was a
luvly child. Peple used to come in large
and enthoosiastic crowds from all parts of
the country to see me, I was such a sweet
and intel'gent infant. The excitement was
so intens, in fack, that a extra hotel was
startid in the town to accomodate the peple
who thronged to my cradle.” Havin finished
these troothful statemints, I smilt
sweetly on the worthy female. She said,
“Drat you, what do you come a-chaffin me
for?” and the estymible woman was really
gettin furis, when I mollyfied her by praisin
her child, and by axin pardin for all I'd
said, “This little gal,” I observed, “this
surprisingly luvly gal—” when the mother
said, It's t'other sect is he, Sir: it's a boy.”
“Wall,” I said, “then this little boy, whose
eye is like a eagle a-soaring proudly in the
azure sky, will some day be a man, if he
don't choke hisself to death in childhood's
sunny hours with a smelt or a bloater, or
some other drefful calamity. How surblime
the tho't, my dear Madam, that this
infant as you fondle on your knee on this
night, may grow up into a free and independent
citizen, whose vote will be worth
from ten to fifteen pounds, accordin as
suffrages may range at that joyus perid!”

Let us now return, jentle reader, to the
lan'lord of the Greenlion, who we left in
the bar in a state of anxiety and perspire.
Rubbin his hot face with a red hankercher,
he said, “Is the strange bein a American?”

“He is.”

“A Gen'ral?”

“No.”

“A Colonial?”

“No.”

“A Majer?”

“Not a Majer.”

“A Capting?”

“He is not.”

“A leftenant?”

“Not even that.”

“Then,” said the lan'lord of the Greenlion,
“you ar deceeved! He is no countryman
of yours.”

“Why not?” I said.

“I will tell you, Sir,” said the lan'lord.
“My son-in-law is employed in a bankin
house where ev'ry American as comes to
these shores goes to git his drafts casht,
and he says that not one has arrived on
these shores durin the last 18 months as
wasn't a Gen'ral, a Colonial, a Majer, a
Capting, or a leftenant! This man, as I said
afore, has deceeved you! He's a impostuer!”

I reeled into a chair. For a minit I was
speechlis. At length I murmerd, “Alars!
I fear it is too troo! Even I was a Capting
of the Home Gards.”

“To be sure,” said the lan'lord; “you all
do it, over there.”

“Wall,” I said, “whatever nation this
person belongs to, “we may as well go and
hear him lectur this evenin. He is one of
these spirit fellers—he is a Trans-Mejim,
and when he slings himself into a trans-state,
he says the sperrits of departed great
men talk through him. He says that to-night
sev'ril em'nent persons will speak
through him—among others, Cromwell.”

“And this Mr. Cromwell—is he dead?”
said the lan'lord.

I told him that Oliver was no more.

“It's a umbug,” said the lan'lord; to which
I replied that we'd best go and see, and we
went. We was late, on account of the
lan'lord's extensiv acquaintans with the public
house keepers along the road, and the
hall was some two miles distant, but we
got there at last. The hall was about half
full, and the Mejim was just then assumin'
to be Benjamin Franklin, who was speakin
about the Atlantic Cable.

He said the Cable was really a merrytorious
affair, and that messiges could be
sent to America, and there was no doubt

about their gettin there in the course of a
week or two, which he said was a beautiful
idear, and much quicker than by steamer
or canal-boat. It struck me that if this was
Franklin a spiritooal life hadn't improved
the old gentleman's intellecks particly.

The audiens was mostly composed of
rayther pale peple, whose eyes I tho't rolled
round in a somewhat wild manner. But
they was well-behaved, and the females
kept saying, “How beautiful! What a
surblime thing it is,” et cetry, et cetry.
Among the females was one who was a
fair and rosy young woman. She sot on
the same seat we did, and the lan'lord of
the Greenlion, whose frekent intervoos with
other lan'lords that evenin had been too
much for him, fastened his left eye on the
fair and rosy young person, and smilin lovinly
upon her, said, “You may give me,
my dear, four-penny-worth of gin—cold
gin. I take it cold, because—”

There was cries of “Silence! Shame!
Put him out! the Skoffer!”

“Ain't we at the Spotted Boar?” the
lan'lord hoarsely whispered.

“No,” I answered, “It's another kind
of bore. Lis'en. Cromwell is goin' to
speak through our inspired fren', now.”

“Is he?” said the lan'lord—“is he?
Wall, I've suthin to say, also. Was this
Cromwell a licensed vittler?”

“Not that I ever heard,” I anserd.

“I'm sorry for that,” said the lan'lord
with a sigh; “but you think he was a man
who would wish to see licensed vittlers respected
in their rights?”

“No doubt.”

“Wall,” said the lan'lord, “jest you keep
a eye on me.” Then risin to his feet he
said, in a somewhat husky yet tol'bly distink
voice, “Mr. Crumbwell!”

“Cromwell!” I cried.

“Yes, Mr. Cromwell: that's the man I
mean, Mr. Cromble! won't you please advise
that gen'l'man who you're talkin
through; won't you advise 'im during your
elekant speech to settle his bill at my 'ouse
to-night, Mr. Crumbles,” said the lan'lord,
glarin' savigely round on the peple, “because
if he don't, there'll be a punched 'ed
to be seen at the Greenlion, where I don't

want no more of this everlastin nonsens.
I'll talk through 'im! Here's a sperrit,”
said the lan'lord, a smile once more beamin
on his face, “which will talk through him
like a Dutch father! I'm the sperrit for
you, young feller!” “You're a helthy old
sperret,” I remarkt; and then I saw the
necessity of gettin him out of the hall.
The wimin was yellin and screamin, and
the men was hollerin' perlice. A perliceman
really came and collerd my fat fren.
“It's only a fit, Sir Richard,” I said. I always
call the perlice Rir Richard. It pleases
them to think I'm the victim of a deloosion;
and they always treat me perlitely.
This one did, certainly, for he let us go.
We saw no more of the Trans-Mejim.

It's diffikilt, of course, to say how long
these noosances will be allowed to prowl
round. I should say, however, if pressed
for a answer, that they will prob'ly continner
on jest about as long as they can find peple
to lis'en to 'em. Am I right?

4. IV.
AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE.

Mr. Punch, My dear Sir,—I've been
lingerin by the Tomb of the lamentid
Shakspeare.

It is a success.

I do not hes'tate to pronounce it as such.

You may make any use of this opinion
that you see fit. If you think its publication
will subswerve the cause of litteratoor, you
may publicate it.

I told my wife Betsy when I left home
that I should go to the birthplace of the
orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She
said that as long as I kept out of Newgate
she didn't care where I went. “But,” I said,
“don't you know he was the greatest Poit
that ever lived? Not one of these common
poits, like that young idyit who writes verses

to our daughter, about the Roses as growses,
and the Breezes as blowses—but a
Boss Poit—also a philosopher, also a man
who knew a great deal about everything.”

She was packing my things at the time,
and the only answer she made was to ask
me if I was goin to carry both of my red
flannel night caps.

Yes. I've been to Stratford onto the
Avon, the Birthplace of Shakspeare. Mr.
S. is now no more. He's been dead over
three hundred (300) years. The peple of
his native town are justly proud of him.
They cherish his mem'ry, and them as sell
picturs of his birthplace, &c., make it prof'tible
cherisin it. Almost everybody buys
a pictur to put into their Albiom.

As I stood gazing on the spot where
Shakspeare is s'posed to have fell down
on the ice and hurt hisself when a boy,
(this spot cannot be bought—the town
authorities say it shall never be taken from
Stratford) I wondered if three hundred
years hence picturs of my birthplace will
be in demand? Will the peple of my native
town be proud of me in three hundred

years? I guess they won't short of that time
because they say the fat man weighing
1000 pounds which I exhibited there was
stuffed out with pillers and cushions, which
he said one very hot day in July, “Oh
bother, I can't stand this,” and commenced
pullin the pillers out from under his weskit,
and heavin 'em at the audience. I never
saw a man lose flesh so fast in my life. The
audience said I was a pretty man to come
chiselin my own townsmen in that way.
I said, “Do not be angry, feller-citizens.
I exhibited him simply as a work of art. I
simply wished to show you that a man
could grow fat without the aid of cod-liver
oil.” But they wouldn't listen to me.
They are a low and grovelin set of peple,
who excite a feelin of loathin in every brest
where lorfty emotions and original idees
have a bidin place.

I stopped at Leamington a few minits on
my way to Stratford onto the Avon, and a
very beautiful town it is. I went into a
shoe shop to make a purchis, and as I entered
I saw over the door those dear familiar
words, “By Appintment: H. R. H.;” and

I said to the man, “Squire, excuse me, but
this is too much. I have seen in London
four hundred boot and shoe shops by Appintment:
H. R. H.; and now you're at it.
It is simply onpossible that the Prince can
wear 400 pairs of boots. Don't tell me,”
I said, in a voice choked with emotion—
“Oh, do not tell me that you also make
boots for him. Say slippers—say that you
mend a boot now and then for him; but
do not tell me that you make 'em reg'lar
for him.”

The man smilt, and said I didn't understand
these things. He said I perhaps
had not noticed in London that dealers in
all sorts of articles was By Appintment.
I said, “Oh, hadn't I? Then a sudden
thought flasht over me. “I have it!” I said.
“When the Prince walks through a street,
he no doubt looks at the shop windows.”

The man said, “No doubt.”

“And the enterprisin tradesman,” I continnerd,
“the moment the Prince gets out
of sight, rushes frantically and has a tin
sign painted, By Appintment, H. R. H.!
It is a beautiful, a great idee!”

I then bought a pair of shoe strings, and
wringin the shopman's honest hand, I
started for the Tomb of Shakspeare in a
hired fly. It look't however more like a
spider.

“And this,” I said, as I stood in the old
church-yard at Stratford, beside a Tombstone,
“this marks the spot where lies
William W. Shakspeare. Alars! and this
is the spot where—”

“You've got the wrong grave,” said a
man—a worthy villager: Shakspeare is
buried inside the church.”

“Oh,” I said, “a boy told me this was
it.” The boy larfed and put the shillin
I'd given him into his left eye in a inglorious
manner, and commenced moving backwards
towards the street.

I pursood and captered him, and after
talking to him a spell in a skarcastic stile,
I let him went.

The old church was damp and chill. It
was rainin. The only persons there when
I entered was a fine bluff old gentleman who
was talking in a excited manner to a fashnibly
dressed young man. “No, Ernest

Montresser,” the old gentleman said, “it is
idle to pursoo this subjeck no further. You
can never marry my daughter. You were
seen last Monday in Piccadilly without a
umbreller! I said then, as I say now, any
young man as venturs out in a uncertain
climit like this without a umbreller, lacks
foresight, caution, strength of mind and
stability; and he is not a proper person to
intrust a daughter's happiness to.”

I slapt the old gentleman on the shoulder,
and I said, “You're right! You're
one of those kind of men, you are—”

He wheeled suddenly round, and in a
indignant voice, said, “Go way—go way!
This is a privit intervoo.”

I didn't stop to enrich the old gentleman's
mind with my conversation. I sort
of inferred that he wasn't inclined to listen
to me, and so I went on. But he was right
about the umbreller. I'm really delighted
with this grand old country, Mr. Punch,
but you must admit that it does rain rayther
numerously here. Whether this is owing to
a monerkal form of gov'ment or not, I leave
all candid and onprejudiced persons to say.

William Shakspeare was born in Stratford
in 1564. All the commentaters, Shaksperian
scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this,
which is about the only thing they are
agreed on in regard to him, except that his
mantle hasn't fallen onto any poet or dramatist
hard enough to hurt said poet or
dramatist much. And there is no doubt if
these commentaters and persons continner
investigatin Shakspeare's career, we shall
not, in doo time, know anything about it at
all. When a mere lad little William attended
the Grammer School, because, as he
said, the Grammer School wouldn't attend
him. This remarkable remark, comin from
one so young and inexperunced, set peple
to thinkin there might be somethin in this
lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet and
George Barnwell. When his kind teacher
went to London to accept a position in the
offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little
William was chosen by his fellow pupils to
deliver a farewell address. “Go on, Sir,”
he said, “in a glorus career. Be like a
eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the
more we shall all be gratified! That's so.”

My young readers, who wish to know
about Shakspeare, better get these vallyable
remarks framed.

I returned to the hotel. Meetin a young
married couple, they asked me if I could
direct them to the hotel which Washington
Irving used to keep?

“I've understood that he was onsuccessful
as a lan'lord,” said the lady.

“We've understood,” said the young
man, “that he busted up.”

I told'em I was a stranger, and hurried
away. They were from my country, and
ondoubtedly represented a thrifty Ile well
somewhere in Pennsylvany. It's a common
thing, by the way, for a old farmer in
Pennsylvany to wake up some mornin and
find ile squirtin all around his back yard.
He sells out for `normous price, and his
children put on gorgeous harness and start
on a tower to astonish peple. They succeed
in doin it. Meantime the Ile itsquirts
and squirts, and Time rolls on. Let it
roll.

A very nice old town is Stratford, and a
capital inn is the Red Horse. Every admirer

of the great S. must go there once
certinly; and to say one isn't a admirer of
him, is equv'lent to sayin one has jest about
brains enough to become a efficient tinker.

Some kind person has sent me Chawcer's
poems. Mr. C. had talent, but he
couldn't spel. No man has a right to be a
lit'rary man onless he knows how to spel.
It is a pity that Chawcer, who had geneyus,
was so unedicated. He's the wuss speller
I know of.

I guess I'm through, and so I lay down
the pen, which is more mightier than the
sword, but which I'm fraid would stand a
rayther slim chance beside the needle gun.

5. V.
IS INTRODUCED AT THE CLUB.

Mr. Punch, My dear Sir,—It is seldim
that the Commercial relations between
Great Britain and the United States is
mar'd by Games.

It is Commerce, after all, which will keep
the two countries friendly to'ards each other
rather than statesmen.

I look at your last Parliament, and I can't
see that a single speech was encored during
the entire session.

Look at Congress—but no, I'd rather
not look at Congress.

Entertainin this great regard for Commerce
“whose sales whiten every sea,” as
everybody happily observes every chance
he gets, I learn with disgust and surprise
that a British subjeck bo't a Barril of Apply

Sass in America recently, and when he arrove
home he found under a few deloosiv
layers of sass nothin but saw-dust. I should
have instantly gone into the City and called
a meetin of the leadin commercial men to
condem and repudiate, as a American, this
gross frawd, if I hadn't learned at the same
time that the draft given by the British subjeck
in payment for this frawdylent sass
was drawd onto a Bankin House in London
which doesn't have a existence, but far
otherwise, and never did.

There is those who larf at these things,
but to me they merit rebooks and frowns.

With the exception of my Uncle Wilyim
—who, as I've before stated, is a uncle by
marrige only, who is a low cuss and filled
his coat pockets with pies and biled eggs
at his weddin breakfast, given to him by
my father, and made the clergyman as
united him a present of my father's new
overcoat, and when my father on discoverin
it got in a rage and denounced him, Uncle
Wilyim said the old man (meanin my parent)
hadn't any idee of first-class Humer!
—with the exception of this wretched

Uncle, the escutchin of my fam'ly has
never been stained by Games. The little
harmless deceptions I resort to in my perfeshion
I do not call Games. They are
sacrifisses to Art.

I come of a very clever fam'ly.

The Wards is a very clever fam'ly, indeed.

I believe we are descendid from the Puritins,
who nobly fled from a land of despitism
to a land of freedim, where they could
not only enjoy their own religion, but prevent
everybody else from enjoyin his.

As I said before, we are a very clever
fam'ly.

I was strollin up Regent Street the other
day, thinkin what a clever fam'ly I come
of, and looking at the gay shop-winders.
I've got some new close since you last saw
me. I saw them others wouldn't do. They
carrid the observer too far back into the
dim vister of the past, and I gave 'em to
a Orfun Asylum. The close I wear now
I bo't of Mr. Moses, in the Commercial
Road. They was expressly made, Mr. Moses
informed me, for a nobleman, but as
they fitted him too muchly, partic'ly the

trows'rs (which is blue, with large red
and white checks) he had said, “My dear
feller, make me some more, only mind—
be sure you sell these to some genteel old feller.”

I like to saunter thro' Regent Street.
The shops are pretty, and it does the old
man's heart good to see the troops of fine
healthy girls which one may always see
there at certain hours in the afternoon, who
don't spile their beauty by devourin cakes
and sugar things, as too many of the American
and French lasses do. It's a mistake
about everybody being out of town, I guess.
Regent Street is full. I'm here; and, as I
said before, I come of a very clever fam'ly.

As I was walkin along, amoosin myself
by stickin my penkife into the calves of the
footmen who stood waitin by the swell-coaches
(not one of whom howled with angwish),
I was accosted by a man of about
thirty-five summers, who said, “I have seen
that face somewheres afore!”

He was a little shabby in his wearin apparil.
His coat was one of those black,
shiny garments, which you can always tell

[ILLUSTRATION]

Artemus Ward as Capting of the Home Guards—See page 31.

[Description: 484EAF. Image of Artemus Ward, dressed in full soldier regalia, standing in front of the headquarters of the home guard. He is wearing a triangular cap with a giant feather and his sword is limply hanging by his side.]

have been burnished by adversity; but he
was very gentlemanly.

“Was it in the Crimea, comrade? Yes,
it was. It was at the stormin of Sebastopol,
where I had a narrow escape from
death, that we met!”

I said, “No, I wasn't at Sebastopol, I
escaped a fatal wound by not bein there.
It was a healthy old fortress,” I added.

“It was. But it fell. It came down with
a crash.”

“And plucky boys they was who brought
her down,” I added; “and hurrah for 'em!”

The man graspt me warmly by the hand,
and said he had been in America, Upper
Canada, Africa, Asia Minor, and other
towns, and he'd never met a man he liked
as much as he did me. “Let us,” he added,
“let us to the shrine of Bachus!”
And he dragged me into a public house.
I was determined to pay, so I said, “Mr.
Bachus, giv this gen'l'man what he calls
for.”

We conversed there in a very pleasant
manner till my dinner-time arrove, when
the agree'ble gentleman insisted that I

should dine with him. “We'll have a banquet,
Sir, fit for the gods!”

I told him good plain vittles would soot
me. If the gods wanted to have the dispepsy,
they was welcome to it.

We had soop and fish, and a hot jint, and
growsis, and wines of rare and costly vintige.
We had ices, and we had froots from Greenland's
icy mountins and Injy's coral strands;
and when the sumptoous reparst was over,
the agree'ble man said he'd unfortnitly left
his pocket-book at home on the marble
center-table. “But, by Jove!” he said, “it
was a feast fit for the gods!”

I said, “Oh, never mind,” and drew out
my puss; tho' I in'ardly wished the gods,
as the dinner was fit for 'em, was there to
pay for it.

I come of a very clever fam'ly.

The agree'ble gentleman then said,
“Now, I will show you our Club. It dates
back to the time of William the Conqueror.”

“Did Bill belong to it?” I inquired.

“He did.”

“Wall,” I said, “if Billy was one of 'em,

I need no other endorsement as to its respectfulness,
and I'll go with you, my gay
trooper boy!” And we went off arm-in-arm.

On the way the agree'ble man told me
that the Club was called the Sloshers. He
said I would notice that none of 'em appeared
in evenin dress. He said it was
agin the rools of the club. In fack, if
any member appeared there in evenin dress
he'd be instantly expeld. “And yit,” he
added, “there's geneyus there, and lorfty
emotions, and intelleck. You'll be surprised
at the quantities of intelleck you'll
see there.”

We reached the Sloshers in due time,
and I must say they was a shaky-looking
lot, and the public house where they convened
was certingly none of the best.

The Sloshers crowded round me, and said
I was welcome. “What a beautiful brestpin
you've got,” said one of 'em. “Permit
me,” and he took it out of my neckercher.
“Isn't it luvly,” he said, parsin it to another,
who passed it to another. It was given
me by my Aunt, on my promisin her I'd

never swear profanely; and I never have,
except on very special occasions. I see
that beautiful boosum pin a parsin from
one Slosher to another, and I'm reminded
of them sad words of the poit, “parsin
away! parsin away!” I never saw it no
more. Then in comes a athletic female,
who no sooner sees me than she utters a
wild yell, and cries:

“At larst! at larst! My Wilyim, from the
seas!”

I said, “Not at all, Marm. Not on no
account. I have heard the boatswain pipe
to quarters—but a voice in my heart didn't
whisper Seu-zan! I've belayed the marlin-spikes
on the upper jibpoop, but Seu-zan's
eye wasn't on me, much. Young woman, I
am not you're Saler boy. Far different.”

“Oh yes, you are!” she howled, seizin
me round the neck. “Oh, how I've lookt
forwards to this meetin!”

“And you'll presently,” I said, “have
a opportunity of lookin backwards to it,
because I'm on the point of leavin this
institution.”

I will here observe that I come of a very

clever fam'ly. A very clever fam'ly, indeed.

“Where,” I cried, as I struggled in vain
to release myself from the eccentric female's
claws, “where is the Capting—the man
who was into the Crimea, amidst the cannon's
thunder? I want him.”

He came forward, and cried, “What do
I see? Me Sister! me sweet Adulaide!
and in teers! Willin!” he screamed, “and
you're the serpent I took to my boosum,
and borrowed money of, and went round
with, and was cheerful with, are you?—
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Somehow my coat was jerked off, the
brest-pocket of which contained my pocket-book,
and it parsed away like the brestpin.
Then they sorter quietly hustled me into
the street.

It was about 12 at night when I reached
the Greenlion.

“Ha! ha! you sly old rascal, you've
been up to larks!” said the lan'lord, larfin
loudly, and digging his fist into my ribs.

I said, “Bigsby, if you do that agin, I
shall hit you! Much as I respect you and

your excellent fam'ly, I shall disfigger your
beneverlent countenance for life!”

“What has ruffled your spirits, friend?”
said the lan'lord.

“My spirits has been ruffled,” I ansered
in a bittur voice, “by a viper who was into
the Crimea. What good was it,” I cried, “for
Sebastopol to fall down without enwelopin
in its ruins that viper?”

I then went to bed. I come of a very
clever fam'ly.

6. VI.
THE TOWER OF LONDON.

Mr. Punch, my dear Sir,—I skurcely
need inform you that your excellent Tower
is very pop'lar with peple from the agricultooral
districks, and it was chiefly them
class which I found waitin at the gates the
other mornin.

I saw at once that the Tower was established
on a firm basis. In the entire history
of firm basisis I don't find a basis more
firmer than this one.

“You have no Tower in America?” said
a man in the crowd, who had somehow detected
my denomination.

“Alars! no,” I anserd; “we boste of our
enterprise and improovments, and yit we
are devoid of a Tower. America, oh my
onhappy country! thou hast not got no
Tower! It's a sweet Boon.”

The gates was opened after awhile, and
we all purchist tickets, and went into a
waitin-room.

“My frens,” said a pale-faced little man,
in black close, “this is a sad day.”

“Inasmuch as to how?” I said.

“I mean it is sad to think that so many
peple have been killed within these gloomy
walls. My frens, let us drop a tear!”

“No,” I said, “you must excuse me.
Others may drop one if they feel like it;
but as for me, I decline. The early managers
of this institootion were a bad lot, and
their crimes were trooly orful; but I can't
sob for those who died four or five hundred
years ago. If they was my own relations
I couldn't. It's absurd to shed sobs over
things which, occurd durin the rain of
Henry the Three. Let us be cheerful,” I
continnerd. “Look at the festiv Warders,
in their red flannil jackets. They are
cheerful, and why should it not be thusly
with us?”

A Warder now took us in charge, and
showed us the Trater's Gate, the armers,
and things. The Trater's Gate is wide

enuff to admit about twenty traters abrest,
I should jedge; but beyond this, I couldn't
see that it was superior to gates in gen'ral.

Traters, I will here remark, are a onfortnit
class of peple. If they wasn't, they
wouldn't be traters. They conspire to bust
up a country—they fail, and they're traters.
They bust her, and they become statesmen
and heroes.

Take the case of Gloster, afterwards Old
Dick the Three, who may be seen at the
Tower, on horseback, in a heavy tin overcoat—take
Mr. Gloster's case. Mr. G. was
a conspirater of the basist dye, and if he'd
failed, he would have been hung on a sour
apple tree. But Mr. G. succeeded, and became
great. He was slewd by Col. Richmond,
but he lives in histry, and his equestrian
figger may be seen daily for a sixpence,
in conjunction with other em'nent
persons, and no extra charge for the Warder's
able and bootiful lectur.

There's one king in this room who is
mounted onto a foamin steed, his right
hand graspin a barber's pole. I didn't learn
his name.

The room where the daggers and pistils
and other weppins is kept is interestin.
Among this collection of choice cuttlery I
notist the bow and arrer which those hotheded
old chaps used to conduct battles
with. It is quite like the bow and arrer
used at this day by certin tribes of American
Injuns, and they shoot'em off with such
a excellent precision that I almost sigh'd to
be a Injun, when I was in the Rocky Mountin
regin. They are a pleasant lot them
Injuns. Mr. Cooper and Dr. Catlin have
told us of the red man's wonerful eloquence,
and I found it so. Our party was stopt on
the plains of Utah by a band of Shoshones,
whose chief said, “Brothers! the pale-face
is welcome. Brothers! the sun is sinkin
in the West, and Wa-na-bucky-she will soon
cease speakin. Brothers! the poor red
man belongs to a race which is fast becomin
extink.” He then whooped in a
shrill manner, stole all our blankets and
whiskey, and fled to the primeval forest to
conceal his emotions.

I will remark here, while on the subjeck
of Injuns, that they are in the main a very

shaky set, with even less sense than the
Fenians, and when I hear philanthropists
bewailin the fack that every year “carries
the noble red man nearer the settin sun,” I
simply have to say I'm glad of it, tho' it is
rough on the settin sun. They call you
by the sweet name of Brother one minit,
and the next they scalp you with their
Thomashawks. But I wander. Let us return
to the Tower.

At one end of the room where the weppins
is kept, is a wax figger of Queen
Elizabeth, mounted on a fiery stuffed hoss,
whose glass eye flashes with pride, and
whose red morocker nostril dilates hawtily,
as if conscious of the royal burden he
bears. I have associated Elizabeth with
the Spanish Armady. She's mixed up
with it at the Surry Theatre, where Troo to
the Core is bein acted, and in which a full
bally core is introjooced on board the Spanish
Admiral's ship, givin the audiens the
idee that he intends openin a moosic-hall
in Plymouth the moment he conkers that
town. But a very interesting drammer is
Troo to the Core, notwitstandin the eccentric

conduck of the Spanish Admiral; and
very nice it is in Queen Elizabeth to make
Martin Truegold a baronet.

The Warder shows us some instrooments
of tortur, such as thumbscrews, throat-collars,
etc., statin that these was conkerd from
the Spanish Armady, and addin what a
crooil peple the Spaniards was in them
days—which elissited from a bright-eyed
little girl of about twelve summers the remark
that she tho't it was rich to talk about
the crooilty of the Spaniards usin thumbscrews,
when we was in a Tower where so
many poor peple's heads had been cut off.
This made the Warder stammer and turn
red.

I was so pleased with the little girl's
brightness that I could have kissed the
dear child, and I would if she'd been six
years older.

I think my companions intended makin
a day of it, for they all had sandwiches,
sassiges, etc. The sad-lookin man, who
had wanted us to drop a tear afore we
started to go round, fling'd such quantities
of sassige into his mouth, that I expected

to see him choke hisself to death, he said
to me, in the Beauchamp Tower, where the
poor prisoners writ their onhappy names
on the cold walls “This is a sad sight.”

“It is, indeed,” I anserd. “You're
black in the face. You shouldn't eat sassige
in public without some rehearsals beforehand.
You manage it orkwardly.”

“No,” he said, “I mean this sad room.”

Indeed, he was quite right. Tho'so long
ago all these drefful things happened, I was
very glad to git away from this gloomy
room, and go where the rich and sparklin
Crown Jewils is kept. I was so pleased
with the Queen's Crown, that it occurd to
me what a agree'ble surprise it would be to
send a sim'lar one home to my wife; and I
asked the Warder what was the vally of a
good, well-constructed Crown like that.
He told me, but on cypherin up with a
pencil the amount of funs I have in the
Jint Stock Bank, I conclooded I'd send
her a genteel silver watch instid.

And so I left the Tower. It is a solid
and commandin edifis, but I deny that it is
cheerful. I bid it adoo without a pang.

I was droven to my hotel by the most
melancholly driver of a four-wheeler that I
ever saw. He heaved a deep sigh as I
gave him two shillings. “I'll give you six
d.'s more,” I said, “if it hurts you so.”

“It isn't that,” he said, with a hart-rendin
groan, “it's only a way I have. My mind's
upset to-day. I at one time tho't I'd drive
you into the Thames. I've been readin all
the daily papers to try and understand
about Governor Ayre, and my mind is totterin.
It's really wonderful I didn't drive
you into the Thames.”

I asked the onhappy man what his
number was, so I could redily find him
in case I should want him agin, and bad
him good-bye. And then I tho't what a
frollicksome day I'd made of it.

7. VII.
SCIENCE AND NATURAL HISTORY.

Mr. Punch, My dear Sir,—I was a little
disapinted in not receivin a invitation to
jine in the meetins of the Social Science
Congress.

I don't exackly see how they go on without
me.

I hope it wasn't the intentions of the
Sciencers to exclood me from their delibrations.

Let it pars. I do not repine. Let us
remember Homer. Twenty cites claim Homer
dead, thro' which the livin Mr. Homer
coldn't have got trusted for a sandwich
and a glass of bitter beer, or words to that
effeck.

But perhaps it was a oversight. Certinly
I have been hosspitably rec'd in this country.

Hospitality has been pored all over me.
At Liverpool I was asked to walk all over
the docks, which are nine miles long; and
I don't remember a instance since my 'rival
in London of my gettin into a cab without
a Briton comin and perlitely shuttin the
door for me, and then extendin his open
hand to'ards me, in the most frenly manner
possible. Does he not, by this simple yit
tuchin gesture, welcum me to England?
Doesn't he? Oh yes—I guess he doesn't
he. And it's quite right among two great
countries which speak the same langwidge,
except as regards H's. And I've been
allowed to walk round all the streets. Even
at Buckinham Pallis, I told a guard I wanted
to walk round there, and he said I could
walk round there. I ascertained subsequent
that he referd to the side-walk instid
of the Pallis—but I couldn't doubt his hosspital
feelins.

I prepared a Essy on Animals to read
before the Social Science meetins. It is a
subjeck I may troothfully say I have successfully
wrastled with. I tackled it when
only nineteen years old. At that tender

age I writ a Essy for a lit'ry Institoot entitled,
“Is Cats to be Trusted?” Of the
merits of that Essy it doesn't becum me to
speak, but I may be excoos'd for mentionin
that the Institoot parsed a resolution that
“whether we look upon the length of
this Essy, or the manner in which it is
written, we feel that we will not express
any opinion of it, and we hope it will be
read in other towns.”

Of course the Essy I writ for the Social
Science Society is a more finisheder production
than the one on Cats, which was
wroten when my mind was crood, and
afore I had masterd a graceful and ellygant
stile of composition. I could not even
punctooate my sentences proper at that
time, and I observe with pane, on lookin
over this effort of my yooth, that its beauty
is in one or two instances mar'd by ingrammaticisms.
This was unexcusable, and
I'm surprised I did it. A writer who can't
write in a grammerly manner better shut
up shop.

You shall hear this Essy on Animals.
Some day when you have four hours to

spare, I'll read it to you. I think you'll
enjoy it. Or, what will be much better, if
I may suggest—omit all picturs in next
week's Punch, and do not let your contributors
write enything whatever (let them have
a holiday; they can go to the British Mooseum;)
and publish my Essy intire. It
will fill all your collumes full, and create
comment. Does this proposition strike
you? Is it a go?

In case I had read the Essy to the Social
Sciencers, I had intended it should
be the closin attraction. I had intended
it should finish the proceedins. I think it
would have finished them. I understand
animals better than any other class of human
creatures. I have a very animal mind,
and I've been identified with 'em doorin
my entire perfessional career as a showman,
more especial bears, wolves, leopards
and serpunts.

The leopard is as lively a animal as I
ever came into contack with. It is troo he
cannot change his spots, but you can
change 'em for him with a paint-brush, as
I once did in the case of a leopard who

wasn't nat'rally spotted in a attractive
manner. In exhibitin him I used to stir
him up in his cage with a protracted pole,
and for the purpuss of makin him yell and
kick up in a leopardy manner, I used
to casionally whack him over the head.
This would make the children inside the
booth scream with fright, which would
make fathers of families outside the booth
very anxious to come in—because there is
a large class of parents who have a uncontrollable
passion for takin their children to
places were they will stand a chance of being
frightened to death.

One day I whacked this leopard more
than ushil, which elissited a remonstrance
from a tall gentleman in spectacles, who
said, “My good man, do not beat the poor
caged animal. Rather fondle him.”

“I'll fondle him with a club,” I anserd,
hitting him another whack.

“I prithy desist,” said the gentleman;
“stand aside, and see the effeck of kindness.
I understand the idiosyncracies of
these creeturs better than you do.” With
that he went up to the cage, and thrustin

his face in between the iron bars, he said,
soothinly, “Come hither, pretty creetur.”
The pretty creetur come-hithered rayther
speedy, and seized the gentleman by the
whiskers, which he tore off about enuff to
stuff a small cushion with.

He said, “You vagabone, I'll have you
indicted for exhibitin dangerous and immoral
animals.”

I replied, “Gentle Sir, there isn't a animal
here that hasn't a beautiful moral, but
you mustn't fondle 'em. You mustn't
meddle with their idiotsyncracies.”

The gentleman was a dramatic cricket,
and he wrote a article for a paper, in which
he said my entertainment was a decided
failure.

As regards Bears, you can teach 'em to
do interestin things, but they're onreliable.
I had a very large grizzly bear once, who
would dance, and larf, and lay down, and
bow his head in grief, and give a mournful
wale, etsetry. But he often annoyed me.
It will be remembered that on the occasion
of the first battle of Bull Run, it suddenly
occurd to the Fed'ral soldiers that they had

business in Washington which ought not
to be neglected, and they all started for
that beautiful and romantic city, maintainin
a rate of speed durin the entire distance
that would have done credit to the celebrated
French steed Gladiateur. Very
nat'rally our Gov'ment was deeply grieved
at this defeat; and I said to my Bear,
shortly after, as I was givin a exhibition in
Ohio—I said, “Brewin, are you not sorry
the National arms has sustained a defeat?”
His business was to wale dismal, and bow
his head down, the band (a barrel orgin and
a wiolin) playing slow and melancholly
moosic. What did the grizzly old cuss do,
however, but commence darncin and larfin
in the most joyous manner. I had a narner
escape from being imprisoned for disloyalty.
I will relate another incident in
the career of this retchid Bear. I used to
present what I called in the bills a Beautiful
living Pictur—showing the Bear's fondness
for his Master: in which I'd lay down
on a piece of carpeting, and the Bear would
come and lay down beside me, restin his
right paw on my breast, the Band playing
“Home, Sweet Home,” very soft and slow.
Altho' I say it, it was a tuchin thing to see.
I've seen Tax-Collectors weep over that
performance.

Well, one day I said, “Ladies and Gentlemen,
we will now show you the Bear's
fondness for his master,” and I went and
laid down. I tho't I observed a pecooliar
expression into his eyes, as he rolled clumsily
to'ards me, but I didn't dream of the
scene which follerd. He laid down, and
put his paw on my breast. “Affection of
the bear for his Master,” I repeated. “You
see the Monarch of the Western Wilds in
a subjugated state. Fierce as these animals
natrally are, we now see that they
have hearts, and can love. This Bear, the
largest in the world, and measurin seventeen
feet round the body, loves me as a
mer-ther loves her che-ild!” But what
was my horror when the grizzly and infamus
Bear threw his other paw under me,
and riz with me to his feet. Then claspin
me in a close embrace he waltzed up and
down the platform in a frightful manner,
I yellin with fear and anguish. To make

matters wuss, a low scurrilus young man in
the audiens hollered out, “Playfulness of
the Bear! Quick moosic!” I jest `scaped
with my life. The Bear met with a wiolent
death the next day, by bein in the way
when a hevily loaded gun was fired off by
one of my men.

But you should hear my Essy which I
wrote for the Social Science Meetins. It
would have had a movin effeck on them.

I feel that I must now conclood.

I have read Earl Bright's speech at
Leeds, and I hope we shall now hear from
John Derby. I trust that not only they,
but Wm. E. Stanley and Lord Gladstone
will cling inflexibly to those great fundamental
principles, which they understand
far better than I do, and I will add that I
do not understand anything about any of
them whatever in the least—and let us all
be happy, and live within our means, even
if we have to borrer money to do it with.

8. VIII.
A VISIT TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

Mr. Punch, My dear Sir,—You didn't
get a instructiv article from my pen last
week on account of my nervus sistim havin
underwent a dreffle shock. I got caught
in a brief shine of sun, and it utterly upsot
me. I was walkin in Regent Street one
day last week, enjoyin your rich black fog
and bracing rains, when all at once the
Sun bust out and actooally shone for nearly
half an hour steady. I acted promptly.
I called a cab and told the driver to run his
hoss at a friteful rate of speed to my lodgins,
but it wasn't of no avale. I had orful
cramps, my appytite left me, and my pults
went down to 10 degrees below zero. But
by careful nussin I shall no doubt recover
speedy, if the present sparklin and exileratin
weather continners.

[All of the foregoin is sarcasum.]

It's a sing'lar fack, but I never sot eyes
on your excellent British Mooseum till the
other day. I've sent a great many peple
there, as also to your genial Tower of London,
however. It happened thusly: When
one of my excellent countrymen jest arrived
in London would come and see me
and display a inclination to cling to me too
lengthy, thus showin a respect for me
which I feel I do not deserve, I would sugjest
a visit to the Mooseum and Tower.
The Mooseum would ockepy him a day at
leest, and the Tower another. Thus I've
derived considerable peace and comfort
from them noble edifisses, and I hope they
will long continner to grace your metroplis.
There's my fren Col. Larkins, from Wisconsin,
who I regret to say understands
the Jamaica question, and wants to talk
with me about it; I sent him to the Tower
four days ago, and he hasn't got throogh
with it yit. He likes it very much, and he
writes me that he can't never thank me
sufficient for directin him to so interestin a
bildin. I writ him not to mention it. The

Col. says it is fortnit we live in a intellectooal
age which wouldn't countenance such
infamus things as occurd in this Tower.
I'm aware that it is fashin'ble to compliment
this age, but I ain't so clear that the
Col. is altogether right. This is a very
respectable age, but it's pretty easily riled;
and considerin upon how slight a provycation
we who live in it go to cuttin each
other's throats, it may perhaps be doubted
whether our intellecks is so much massiver
than our ancestors' intellecks was, after all.

I allus ride outside with the cabman. I
am of humble parentage, but I have (if you
will permit me to say so) the spirit of the
eagle, which chafes when shut up in a four-wheeler,
and I feel much eagler when I'm
in the open air. So on the mornin on
which I went to the Mooseum I lit a pipe,
and callin a cab, I told the driver to take me
there as quick as his Arabian charger could
go. The driver was under the inflooence
of beer, and narrerly escaped runnin over
a aged female in the match trade, whereupon
I remonstratid with him. I said,
“That poor old woman may be the only

mother of a young man like you.” Then
throwing considerable pathos into my
voice, I said, “You have a mother?”

He said, “You lie!” I got down and
called another cab, but said nothin to this
driver about his parents.

The British Mooseum is a magnif'cent
free show for the people. It is kept open
for the benefit of all.

The humble costymonger, who traverses
the busy streets with a cart containin all
kinds of vegetables, such as carrots, turnips,
etc., and drawn by a spirited jackass—
he can go to the Mooseum and reap benefits
therefrom as well as the lord of high
degree.

“And this,” I said, “is the British Mooseum!”
These noble walls, “I continnerd,
punching them with my umbreller to see
if the masonry was all right—but I wasn't
allowd to finish my enthoosiastic remarks,
for a man with a gold band on his hat said,
in a hash voice, that I must stop pokin the
walls. I told him I would do so by all
means. “You see,” I said, taking hold of
the tassel which waved from the man's belt,

and drawin him close to me in a confidential
way, “You see, I'm lookin round this
Mooseum, and if I like it I shall buy it.”

Instid of larfin hartily at these remarks,
which was made in a goakin spirit, the man
frowned darkly and walked away.

I first visited the stuffed animals, of
which the gorillers interested me most.
These simple-minded monsters live in
Afriky, and are believed to be human beins
to a slight extent, altho' they are not
allowed to vote. In this deparment is one
or two superior giraffes. I never woulded
I were a bird, but I've sometimes wished I
was a giraffe, on account of the long distance
from his mouth to his stummuck.
Hence, if he loved beer, one mugful would
give him as much enjoyment while goin
down as forty mugfuls would ordinary persons.
And he wouldn't get intoxicated,
which is a beastly way of amusin oneself, I
must say. I like a little beer now and then,
and when the teetotallers inform us, as
they frekently do, that it is vile stuff, and
that even the swine shrink from it, I say it
only shows that the swine is a ass who

don't know what's good; but to pour gin
and brandy down one's throat as freely as
though it were fresh milk, is the most idiotic
way of goin' to the devil that I know of.

“I enjoyed myself very much lookin at
the Egyptian mummys, the Greek vasis,
etc., but it occurd to me there was rayther
too many “Roman antiquitys of a uncertin
date.” Now, I like the British Mooseum, as
I said afore, but when I see a lot of erthen
jugs and pots stuck up on shelves, and all
“of a uncertin date,” I'm at a loss to
'zackly determin whether they are a thousand
years old or was bought recent. I
can cry like a child over a jug one thousand
years of age, especially if it is a Roman
jug; but a jug of a uncertin date
doesn't overwhelm me with emotions.
Jugs and pots of a uncertin age is doubtless
vallyable property, but, like the debentures
of the London, Chatham and Dover
Railway, a man doesn't want too many of
them.

I was debarred out of the great readinroom.
A man told me I must apply by
letter for admission, and that I must get

somebody to testify that I was respectable.
I'm a little 'fraid I shan't get in there. Seein
a elderly gentleman, with a beneverlent-lookin
face near by, I venturd to ask him if
he would certify that I was respectable.
He said he certainly would not, but he
would put me in charge of a policeman, if
that would do me any good. A thought
struck me. “I refer you to Mr. Punch,”
I said.

“Well,” said a man, who had listened to
my application, “you have done it now!
You stood some chance before.” I will get
this infamus wretch's name before you go
to press, so you can denounce him in the
present number of your excellent journal.

The statute of Apollo is a pretty slick
statute. A young yeoman seemed deeply
imprest with it. He viewd it with silent
admiration. At home, in the beautiful
rural districks where the daisy sweetly
blooms, he would be swearin in a horrible
manner at his bullocks, and whacking 'em
over the head with a hayfork; but here, in
the presence of Art, he is a changed bein.

I told the attendant that if the British

nation would stand the expens of a marble
bust of myself, I would willingly sit to some
talented sculpist. “I feel,” I said, “that
this is a dooty I owe to posterity.” He
said it was hily prob'l, but he was inclined
to think that the British nation wouldn't
care to enrich the Mooseum with a bust of
me, altho' he venturd to think that if I
paid for one myself it would be accepted
cheerfully by Madam Tussaud, who would
give it a prom'nent position in her Chamber
of Horrers. The young man was very
polite, and I thankt him kindly.

After visitin the Refreshment room and
partakin of half a chicken “of a uncertin
age,” like the Roman antiquitys I have
previsly spoken of, I prepared to leave.
As I passed through the animal room I
observed with pane that a benevolint person
was urgin the stufft elephant to accept
a cold muffin, but I did not feel called on
to remonstrate with him, any more than I
did with two young persons of diff'rent
sexes who had retired behind the Rynosserhoss
to squeeze each other's hands. In
fack, I rayther approved of the latter proceedin,

for it carrid me back to the sunny
spring-time of my life. I'm in the shear
and yeller leaf now, but I don't forgit the
time when to squeeze my Betsy's hand
sent a thrill through me like follin off
the roof of a two-story house; and I never
squozed that gentle hand without wantin
to do so some more, and feelin that it did
me good.

9. IX.
PYROTECHNY.

I.—THE PEACEFUL HAMLET.

Nestling among the grandhills of New
Hampshire, in the United States of America,
is a village called Waterbury.

Perhaps you were never there.

I do not censure you if you never were.

One can get on very well without going
to Waterbury.

Indeed, there are millions of meritorious
persons who were never there, and yet
they are happy.

In this peaceful hamlet lived a young
man named Pettingill.

Reuben Pettingill.

He was an agriculturist.

A broad-shouldered, deep-chested agriculturist.

He was contented to live in this peaceful
hamlet.

He said it was better than a noisy
Othello.

Thus do these simple children of nature
joke in a first class manner.

II.—MYSELF.

I write this romance in the French style.

Yes: something that way.

The French style consists of making just
as many paragraphs as possible.

Thus one may fill up a collumn in a
very short time.

I am paid by the collumn, and the quicker
I can fill up a collumn—but this is a matter
to which we will not refer.

We will let this matter pass.

III.—PETTINGILL.

Reuben Pettingill was extremely industrious.

He worked hard all the year round on
his father's little farm.

Right he was!

Industry is a very fine thing.

It is one of the finest things of which we
have any knowledge.

Yet no not frown, “do not weep for me,”
when I state that I don't like it.

It doesn't agree with me.

I prefer indolence.

I am happiest when I am idle.

I could live for months without performing
any kind of labour, and at the expiration
of that time I should feel fresh and
vigorous enough to go right on in the same
way for numerous more months.

This should not surprise you.

Nothing that a modern novellist does
should excite astonishment in any wellregulated
mind.

IV.—INDEPENDENCE DAY.

The 4th of July is always celebrated in
America with guns, and processions, and
banners, and all those things.

You know why we celebrate this day.

The American Revolution, in 1775, was
perhaps one of the finest revolutions that
was ever seen. But I have not time to

give you a full history of the American
Revolution. It would consume years to do
it, and I might weary you.

One 4th of July, Reuben Pettingil went
to Boston.

He saw great sights.

He saw the dense throng of people, the
gay volunteers, the banners, and, above all,
he saw the fireworks.

I despise myself for using so low a word,
but the fireworks “licked” him.

A new world was opened to this young
man.

He returned to his parents and the little
farm among the hills, with his heart full of
fireworks.

He said, “I will make some myself.”

He said this while eating a lobster on
top of the coach.

He was an extraordinarily skilful young
man in the use of a common clasp-knife.

With that simple weapon he could make,
from soft wood, horses, dogs, cats, &c. He
carved excellent soldiers also.

I remember his masterpiece.

It was “Napoleon crossing the Alps.”

Looking at it critically, I should say it
was rather short of Alps.

An Alp or two more would have improved
it: but, as a whole, it was a wonderful
piece of work; and what a wonderful
piece of work is a wooden man, when his
legs and arms are all right.

V.—WHAT THIS YOUNG MAN SAID.

He said, “I can make just as good fireworks
as them in Boston.”

“Them” was not grammatical, but why
care for grammar as long as we are good?

VI.—THE FATHER'S TEARS.

Pettingill neglected the farm.

He said that it might till itself—he should
manufacture some gorgeous fireworks, and
exhibit them on the village green on the
next 4th of July.

He said the Eagle of Fame would flap
his wings over their humble roof ere many
months should pass away.

“If he does,” said old Mr. Pettingill, “we

must shoot him, and bile him, and eat him,
because we shall be rather short of meat,
my son, if you go on in this lazy way.”

And the old man wept.

He shed over 120 gallons of tears.

That is to say, a puncheon. But by all
means let us avoid turning this romance
into a farce.

VII.—PYROTECHNY.

But the headstrong young man went to
work, making fireworks.

He bought and carefully studied a work
on pyrotechny.

The villagers knew that he was a remarkably
skilful young man, and they all
said, “We shall have a great treat next 4th
of July.”

Meanwhile Pettingill worked away.

VIII.—THE DAY.

The great day came at last.

Thousands poured into the little village
from far and near.

There was an oration, of course.

IX.—ORATORY IN AMERICA.

Yes; there was an oration.

We have a passion for oratory in America—political
oratory chiefly.

Our political orators never lose a chance
to “express their views.”

They will do it. You cannot stop them.

There was an execution in Ohio one
day, and the Sheriff, before placing the
rope round the murderer's neck, asked him
if he had any remarks to make?

“If he hasn't,” said a well-known local
orator, pushing his way rapidly through
the dense crowd to the gallows—“if our
ill-starred feller-citizen don't feel inclined
to make a speech, and is in no hurry, I
should like to avail myself of the present
occasion to make some remarks on the
necessity of a new protective tariff!”

X.—PETTINGILL'S FIREWORKS.

As I said in Chapter VIII., there was an
oration. There were also processions, and
guns, and banners.

“This evening,” said the chairman of
the committee of arrangements, “this evening,
fellow-citizens, there will be a grand
display of fireworks on the village green,
superintended by the inventor and manufacturer,
our public-spirited townsman, Mr.
Reuben Pettingill.”

Night closed in, and an immense concourse
of people gathered on the village
green.

On a raised platform, amidst his fireworks,
stood Pettingill.

He felt that the great hour of his life
was come, and, in a firm, clear voice, he
said:

“The fust fireworks, feller-citizens, will
be a rocket, which will go up in the air,
bust, and assume the shape of a serpint.”

He applied a match to the rocket, but
instead of going up in the air, it flew wildly
down into the grass, running some distance
with a hissing kind of sound, and causing
the masses to jump round in a very insane
manner.

Pettingill was disappointed, but not disheartened.
He tried again.

“The next fireworks,” he said, “will go
up in the air, bust, and become a beautiful
revolvin' wheel.”

But, alas! it didn't. It only ploughed a
little furrow in the green grass, like its unhappy
predecessor.

The masses laughed at this, and one
man—a white-haired old villager—said,
kindly but firmly, “Reuben, I'm 'fraid you
don't understand pyrotechny.”

Reuben was amazed. Why did his
rockets go down instead of up? But, perhaps,
the others would be more successful;
and, with a flushed face, and in a voice
scarcely as firm as before, he said:

“The next specimen of pyrotechny will
go up in the air, bust, and become a eagle.
Said eagle will soar away into the western
skies, leavin' a red trail behind him as he
so soars.”

But, alas! again. No eagle soared, but,
on the contrary, that ordinarily proud bird
buried its head in the grass.

The people were dissatisfied. They
made sarcastic remarks. Some of them
howled angrily. The aged man, who had

before spoken, said, “No, Reuben, you evidently
don't understand pyrotechny.”

Pettingill boiled with rage and disappointment.

“You don't understand pyrotechny!”
the masses shouted.

Then they laughed in a disagreeable
manner, and some unfeeling lads threw dirt
at our hero.

“You don't understand pyrotechny!”
the masses yelled again.

“Don't I?” screamed Pettingill, wild with
rage; “don't you think I do?”

Then seizing several gigantic rockets he
placed them over a box of powder, and
touched the whole off.

This rocket went up. It did, indeed.

There was a terrific explosion.

No one was killed, fortunately; though
many were injured.

The platform was almost torn to pieces.

But proudly erect among the falling timbers
stood Pettingill, his face flashing with
wild triumph; and he shouted: “If I'm
any judge of pyrotechny, that rocket has
went off.”

Then seeing that all the fingers on his
right hand had been taken close off in the
explosion, he added: “And I ain't so dreadful
certain but four of my fingers has went
off with it, because I don't see 'em here
now!”

10. X.
THE NEGRO QUESTION.

I was sitting in the bar, quietly smokin
a frugal pipe, when two middle-aged and
stern-lookin females and a young and pretty
female suddenly entered the room. They
were accompanied by two umbrellers and a
negro gentleman. “Do you feel for the
down-trodden?” said one of the females, a
thin-faced and sharp-voiced person in green
spectacles. “Do I feel for it?” ansered
the lan'lord, in a puzzled voice—“Do I feel
for it?” “Yes; for the oppressed, the benited?”
“Inasmuch as to which?” said the
lan'lord. “You see this man?” said the female,
pintin her umbreller at the negro gentleman.
“Yes, marm, I see him.” “Yes!”
said the female, raisin her voice to a exceedin
high pitch, “you see him, and he's
your brother!” “No, I'm darned if he is!”

said the lan'lord, hastily retreatin to his
beer-casks. “And yours!” shouted the excited
female, addressin me. “He is also
your brother!” “No, I think not, marm,”
I pleasantly replied. “The nearest we
come to that color in our family was the
case of my brother John. He had the janders
for sev'ral years, but they finally left
him. I am happy to state that, at the
present time, he hasn't a solitary jander.”
“Look at this man!” screamed the female.
I looked at him. He was an able-bodied,
well-dressed, comfortable-looking negro.
He looked as though he might heave three
or four good meals a day into him without
a murmer. “Look at that down-trodden
man!” cried the female. “Who trod on
him?” I inquired. “Villains! despots!”
“Well,” said the lan'lord, “why don't you
go to the willins about it? Why do you
come here tellin us niggers is our brothers,
and brandishin your umbrellers round like
a lot of lunytics? You'r wuss than the
sperrit-rappers?” “Have you,” said middle-aged
female No. 2, who was a quieter
sort of person, “have you no sentiment—
no poetry in your soul—no love for the
beautiful? Dost never go into the green
fields to cull the beautiful flowers?” “I
not only never dost,” said the landlord in
an angry voice, “but I'll bet you five pound
you can't bring a man as dares say I durst.”
“The little birds,” continued the female,
“dost not love to gaze onto them?” “I
would I were a bird, that I might fly to
thou?” I humorously sung, casting a sweet
glance at the pretty young woman. “Don't
you look in that way at my dawter!” said
female No. 1, in a violent voice; “you're
old enough to be her father.” “ 'T was an
innocent look, dear madam,” I softly said.
“You behold in me an emblem of innocence
and purity. In fact, I start for Rome
by the first train to-morrow to sit as a model
to a celebrated artist who is about to sculp
a statue to be called Sweet Innocence.
Do you s'pose a sculper would send for me
for that purpose onless he knowd I was
overflowing with innocency? Don't make
a error about me.” “It is my opinyn,” said
the leading female, “that you're a scoffer
and a wretch? Your mind is in a wusser
beclouded state than the poor negroes we
are seeking to aid. You are a groper in
the dark cellar of sin. O sinful man!
No: you will not come and drink.” “Yes,
he will,” said the landlord, “if you'll treat.
Jest try him.” “As for you,” said the enraged
female to the landlord, “you're a degraded
bein, to low and wulgar to talk to.”
“This is the sparklin fount for me, dear
sister!” cried the lan'lord, drawin and
drinkin a mug of beer. Having uttered
which goak, he gave a low rumblin larf,
and relapst into silence. “My colored
fren',” I said to the negro, kindly, “what is
it all about?” He said they was trying to
raise money to send missionaries to the
Southern States in America to preach to
the vast numbers of negroes recently made
free there. He said they were without the
gospel. They were without tracts. I said,
“My fren', this is a seris matter. I admire
you for trying to help the race to which
you belong, and far be it from me to say
anything again carrying the gospel among
the blacks of the South. Let them go
to them by all means. But I happen to
individually know that there are some
thousands of liberated blacks in the South
who are starvin. I don't blame anybody
for this, but it is a very sad fact. Some are
really too ill to work, some can't get work
to do, and others are too foolish to see any
necessity for workin. I was down there
last winter, and I observed that this class
had plenty of preachin for their souls, but
skurce any vittles for their stummux. Now,
if it is proposed to send flour and bacon
along with the gospel, the idea is really a
excellent one. If, on the t'other hand, it is
proposed to send preachin alone, all I can
say is that its a hard case for the niggers.
If you expect a colored person to get deeply
interested in a tract when his stummuck
is empty, you expect too much.” I gave
negro as much as I could afford, and the
kind-hearted lan'lord did the same. I said,
“Farewell, my colored fren', I wish you
well, certainly. You are now as free as the
eagle. Be like him and soar. But don't

[ILLUSTRATION]

"Young woman, I'm not your Saler boy. Far different."—See page 52.

[Description: 484EAF. Image of Ward being clasped around the neck by a woman in an ankle-length evening gown. Ward is holding his top hat and umbrella in his hands, with his hair tied in a knot on top of his head.]

attempt to convert a Ethiopian person
while his stummuck yearns for vittles.
And you, ladies—I hope you are ready to
help the poor and unfortunate at home, as
you seem to help the poor and unfortunate
abroad.” When they had gone, the lan'lord
said, “Come into the garden, Ward.”
And we went and culled some carrots for
dinner.