"What sort of a man is Albert Smith? Do you think the Mormons would be as good a subject to the Londoners as Mont Blanc was?"Then he said: "I should like to go to London and give my lecture in the same place.Can't it be done?"Mr.Browne sailed for England soon after, taking with him his Panorama.The success that awaited him could scarcely have been anticipated by his most intimate friends.Scholars, wits, poets, and novelists came to him with extended hands, and his stay in London was one ovation to the genius of American wit.Charles Reade, the novelist, was his warm friend and enthusiastic admirer; and Mr.Andrew Haliday introduced him to the "Literary Club," where he became a great favorite.Mark Lemon came to him and asked him to become a contributor to "Punch," which he did.
His "Punch" letters were more remarked in literary circles than any other current matter.There was hardly a club-meeting or a dinner at which they were not discussed."There was something so grotesque in the idea," said a correspondent, "of this ruthless Yankee poking among the revered antiquities of Britain, that the beef-eating British themselves could not restrain their laughter."The story of his Uncle William who "followed commercial pursuits, glorious commerce--and sold soap," and his letters on the Tower and "Chowser," were palpable hits, and it was admitted that "Punch" had contained nothing better since the days of "Yellowplush." This opinion was shared by the "Times," the literary reviews, and the gayest leaders of society.The publishers of "Punch" posted up his name in large letters over their shop in Fleet Street, and Artemus delighted to point it out to his friends.About this time Mr.Browne wrote to his friend Jack Rider, of Cleveland:
"This is the proudest moment of my life.To have been as well appreciated here as at home; to have written for the oldest comic Journal in the English language, received mention with Hood, with Jerrold and Hook, and to have my picture and my pseudonym as common in London as in New York, is enough for "Yours truly, "A.Ward."England was thoroughly aroused to the merits of Artemus Ward, before he commenced his lectures at Egyptian Hall, and when, in November, he finally appeared, immense crowds were compelled to turn away.At every lecture his fame increased, and when sickness brought his brilliant success to an end, a nation mourned his retirement.
On the evening of Friday, the seventh week of his engagement at Egyptian Hall, Artemus became seriously ill, an apology was made to a disappointed audience, and from that time the light of one of the greatest wits of the centuries commenced fading into darkness.The Press mourned his retirement, and a funeral pall fell over London.The laughing, applauding crowds were soon to see his consumptive form moving towards its narrow resting-place in the cemetery at Kensal Green.
By medical advice Charles Browne went for a short time to the Island of Jersey--but the breezes of Jersey were powerless.He wrote to London to his nearest and dearest friends--the members of a literary club of which he was a member--to complain that his "loneliness weighed on him." He was brought back, but could not sustain the journey farther than Southampton.There the members of the club traveled from London to see him--two at a time--that he might be less lonely.
His remains were followed to the grave from the rooms of his friend Arthur Sketchley, by a large number of friends and admirers, the literati and press of London paying the last tribute of respect to their dead brother.The funeral services were conducted by the Rev.M.D.Conway, formerly of Cincinnati, and the coffin was temporarily placed in a vault, from which it was removed by his American friends, and his body now sleeps by the side of his father, Levi Browne, in the quiet cemetery at Waterford, Maine.Upon the coffin is the simple inscription:--"CHARLES F.BROWNE, AGED 32 YEARS, Better Known to the World as 'Artemus Ward.'"His English executors were T.W.Robertson, the playwright, and his friend and companion, E.P.Hingston.His literary executors were Horace Greeley and Richard H.Stoddard.In his will, he bequeathed among other things a large sum of money to his little valet, a bright little fellow; though subsequent denouments revealed the fact that he left only a six-thousand-dollar house in Yonkers.There is still some mystery about his finances, which may one day be revealed.It is known that he withdrew 10,000 dollars from the Pacific Bank to deposit it with a friend before going to England; besides this, his London "Punch" letters paid a handsome profit.Among his personal friends were George Hoyt, the late Daniel Setchell, Charles W.Coe, and Mr.Mullen, the artist, all of whom he used to style "my friends all the year round."Personally Charles Farrar Browne was one of the kindest and most affectionate of men, and history does not name a man who was so universally beloved by all who knew him.It was remarked, and truly, that the death of no literary character since Washington Irving caused such general and widespread regret.
In stature he was tall and slender.His nose was prominent,--outlined like that of Sir Charles Napier, or Mr.Seward; his eyes brilliant, small, and close together; his mouth large, teeth white and pearly; fingers long and slender; hair soft, straight, and blonde; complexion florid; mustache large, and his voice soft and clear.In bearing, he moved like a natural-born gentleman.
In his lectures he never smiled--not even while he was giving utterance to the most delicious absurdities; but all the while the jokes fell from his lips as if he was unconscious of their meaning.While writing his lectures, he would laugh and chuckle to himself continually.
