The Complete Works of Artemus Ward, part 5 | Page 9

their rights?"
"No doubt."
"Wall," said the lan'lord, "jest you keep a eye on me." Then risin to his feet he said, in 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 tonight, 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 Green Lion, 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 screaming, 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 Sir 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?
Yours, faithfull, Artemus Ward.
5.4. 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 litteraoor, 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 pictures of his birthplace, &c., make it prof'tible cherishin 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