The Sun.
London, England, 1867-03-28 00:00:00

CHAP 111.

She wrote me that I might come and see her at her own
house. Oh, joy, joy unutterably, to see her at her own
ho,use !

I went to see her at nightfall, in the soft moonlight.
She came down the gravelled walk to meet me, on this
beautiful midsmnmer night—came to me in pure white, her
golden hair iu splendid disorder—strangely beautiful, yet
in tears !

She told me her first grievances.
The marquis, always a despot, had misused her most
vilely.

That very morning, at breakfast, he had cursed the fish-
balls and sneered at the pickled onions.
She is a good cook. The neighbours will tell you so.
And to be told by the base marquis—a man who, previous
to his marriage, had lived at the cheap eating-houses—to
be told by him that her manner of frying fishballs was a
failure—it was too much.

Her tears fell fast. I, too, wept. I mixed my sobs with
her'n. " Fly with me !" I cried.
Her lips met mine. I held her in my arms. I felt her
breath upon my cheek ! It was heavenly.

" Fly with me. To Now York ! I will write romances
for the Sunday papers—real French romances, with morals
to them. My style will be appreciated. Shop-girls and
young mercantile persons will adore it, and I will amass
wealth with my ready pen."
Ere she could reply—ere she could articulate her ecstasy,
her husband, the marquis, crept snake-like upon me.
Shall I write it ? He kicked me out of the garden—he
kicked me into the street.

I did not return. How could I ? I, so ethereal, so full
of soul, of sentiment, of sparkling originality! Ile, so gross,
so practical, so lop-eared !
Had I returned, the creature would have kicked me
again.

So I left Paris for this place—this place, so lonely, so
dismal.
Ah me T.
Oh dear

THE END.

The great mission Artemus Ward believed he bad
in this world of pain and trouble was to niake men
happier by provoking their mirth. And what
nobler ambition is there ? To turn tears into
laughter—the painful serious into the ridiculous—
grief into joy—what more blessed talent, if pro-
perly used, as his was? lie knew well the very
small difference between a tickle and a scratch,
and he never wantonly wounded the most fastidious
taste. There is a charming delicacy and diffidence
to the opinions of others in all his writings. Lewis,
in " King John," had he by him one of Artemus
Ward's books would never have, sighing, said—
There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man,

And bitter shame bath spoiled the sweet world's taste,

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
No, it was a labour of love for poor Artemus to
drive " shame and bitterness " from men's hearts,
and let the sweet sunshine in. There was never
anything desponding or vexatious that fell from
his pen, but his writings were like himself, all
happiness and hopeful joy. His wit was like the
lightning that burns up the poisonous vapours in
its flash : it flashed to destroy the poisons of melan-
choly and unaccountable sadness that so often dwell
in monotonous life.

Of his writings in Punch, and great success as a
lecturer in England, they are too fresh in the minds
of the public to need any comment from me. John
Bull melted in almost inextinguishable laughter
when Artemus told him that his main object in lec-
turing here was to try and raise enough money to
get him some clothes and hire his passage to New
Zealand. He should then feel he had not lived in
vain. " And now," said he, " let us all be happy
and live within our means, even if we have to
borrow money to do it with."

He made thousands of friends public and per-
sonal in England, just as he always has wherever
he went. He was almost the only man I ever
knew who had no enemies. lie was such a perfect
gentleman—so generous, so true, so honest, and so
thoroughly good-hearted, none could know him but
to love him. "Be a good man, Lockhart, be a
good man," said Walter Scott on his dying bed ;
" it is all that can comfort you when you come to lie
here." When Charles Brown lay down to die, that
sweetest consolation must surely have been his, for
he had, indeed, been a " good man." Scores of his
poor or unfortunate countrymen sought him out in
London, and to my personal knowledge they never
sought in vain. "As long as he had a loaf his
friends should share it with him " was his motto ;
and with a most liberal hand he aided the poor, re-
lieved the suffering, and gave away goodly portions
of his earnings for sweet charity's sake. The
widow and the fatherless wherever he has lectured
have had substantial reasons for their gratitude
towards him. The entertainments he has given in
nearly every large town or city in America for the
benefit of asylums and the " poor we have with us
always " are simply innumerable. Though entirely
Northern in his sentiments, he showed what a noble
soul he had by giving lectures in Louisiana for the
benefit of the suffering poor of that State, rebels
though they had been—Mrs. Jefferson Davis being
among the participants of the proceeds of his lec-
tures. He playfully alludes to the benefits he gave
for the women of the South when he says in his
book, " Ther's considerable human nater in a man,
and I'me afraid I shall allers giv aid and comfort
to the enemy if he comes to me in the shape of a
nice young gal."
Artemus Ward, contrary to a popular belief de-
duced from his writings, which is quite natural, was
one of the most accomplished men of his time. For
thirteen years be had been in the public eyes He
knew personally about every man of prominence
in America, having lived much in Washington and
in all the large cities. Mr. Lincoln was particu-
larly fond of him, and greatly enjoyed his com-
pany. One day Mr. Lincoln sent to Ohio for him,
asking Artemus to come down and change places
with him. He would write jokes, and Artemus
should be President for awhile. The showman of
wax figures (as Artemus called himself) replied,
"No. The moral wax figger perfeshen musn't be
permitted to go down while there's a drop of blood
in these vains. A Linken, I wish you well! Ef
Powers or Wolcut was to pick out a model for a
beautiful man, I scarcely think they would sculp
you ; but of you do the fair thing by your country
you'll make as pretty an angel as any of us ! A
Linken, adoo."

Though not a politician, his convictions and opi-
nions were strong and decided. Being from his
very nature an intense hater of intolerance, bigotry,

and persecutions of every kind, it is quite unneces-
sary to state to which of the two great Northern
parties he belonged.
But it was in the social circle, amid congenial
spirits, that he shone the most. The happy hours
I have spent in his delightful company will be to
me " a joy forever." There was not a subject on
which he could not talk fluently. He had read
everything, and, what is more, remembered every-
thing he had ever read. In the arts, the drama,
among books and men, he was perfectly at home,
and his happy powers of conversation, united to
an inexhaustible fund of wit, made him of all
companions the most enjoyable. His heart was
mercy's own—so full of kindness and tender feeling.
I know one day I was reading to him an article
from the Pall Mall Gazette, in which the writer
described his visit to a reunion meeting of poor
girls who had been taken from the streets, and
had found respectable homes. Saved, as they had
been, by one of the noblest institutions in London,
they met once a year to celebrate their altered con-
dition in life. " Sitting round the tables," said the
writer, " were sixty as bright-eyed and rosy-
cheeked girls as I ever saw—girls that one or two
years ago were leading a life of sin and shame,
their eyes blood-shot and a deathly expression in
their faces. As I thought of them then, and as I
saw them now, I never before so fully appreciated
those Divine words, ' Though our sins be as scarlet,
they can be made white as snow.' I looked up from
the paper as I read this sentence, and saw a great
round tear roll down the manly cheek of my
lamented friend. His heart was touched; and he
earnestly inquired where he could send his contri-
bution for the assistance of the poor and sorely
tempted girls of this great city."
Those of us whose happiness it was to know him
intimately know how bravely he fought disease and
death till his entire strength was gone. How
rigorously he kept his appointments at the Egyptian
Hall, though a great deal of the time he was so ill
he could scarcely stand up at all. And as I think
of his last illness, and the friends around him—how
gentle he was, and what a daily beauty there was
in his life, some lines of Byron's seem as appro-
priate as if they had been written on himself :

He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless yet so tender. Kind
And grieved for those lie left behind,
With all the while a cheek whese bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb ;
Whose tints as gently sunk away
As a departing rainbow's ray—
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the sick-room bright ;
And then the sighs he would suppress
Of fainting Nature's feebleness.
And not a word of murmur ; not
A groan o'er his untimely lot ;
A little talk of better days,
A little hope, our own to raise,
For we were sunk in silence—lost
In this last loss—of all the most.

I saw him not long before he died. As I entered
the room he was gently reclining on a sofa. How
beautiful he looked. Though disease was fast
gnawing out his very life there was an uncommon
brilliancy in his eye, a mellow flush upon his cheek,
and such a calm and sweet expression in his face.
I saw but too plainly that the angel of death had
touched him with his wing. He was very weak,
and I only remained in his presence but a few
minutes. Informing him of some little business
matters I had arranged for him, which was
equally my pleasure and duty to do. He turned
toward me as I was leaving and said, " You are
very, very kind. You have been a brother to me—
a dear, good brother. God bless you, good-bye."
I could not speak. I felt it was to me his good-bye
forever, and I also felt how little I had done to
merit his generous words. But it's all over
now. Death loves a shining mark, and Charles
Farrar Brown has fallen. Cut down at the early
age of 33, in the very budding of his manhood, his
work was not half done. Were it not for the
Divine assurance that " He doeth all things well,"
it would be impossible for his friends to reconcile
themselves to his untimely death. Though reason
had left its throne, his last words " showed his
thoughts were dwelling upon his native land."
Dwelling on his native land, from the heart the
mouth speaketh ; though his intellect had fled, his
heart still remained, and—pure patriot as he was—
it was " dwelling on his native land "—that great
country he loved so well " over the sea." As we lifted
his dead body up into the little chapel in Kensal
Green, and I saw the distinguished men and ladies
there present, and as I remembered how kindly he
had been received in this country, and how univer-
sally popular he had become, I could not help ap-
plying the same words to him that were spoken
over poor Prince Arthur as his lifeless form was
lifted from its stony bed. " All England takes thee
up." Dr. Spencer Hall, in his beautiful and touch-
ing remarks over the grave, said, "In my cottage
home down by the lake, surrounded by my little
family, many, many times Artemus Ward has
made me laugh ; to-day is the first time he ever
made me cry."
By his will he leaves one hundred pounds each
for the education of two little English girls he
never saw but once. He provides amply for his
faithful page, George Stephens, whom he always
had by him. His splendid library is to be given to
the cleverest scholar in his native town, and the
remainder of his property, amounting to about
30,000 dols., goes to his aged mother, and on her
death it is to be appropriated for establishing au
asylum for decayed printers, he having started life
himself as a printer's boy. Every dollar of his
property was the fruit of his own unaided brain
and hand. He was never married. His " Betsy
Jane " was one of those children of his fancy—
children that shall still walk the earth, along with
those of Swift, and Hood, and Thackeray, though
the minds that fashioned them all are now cold in
death.

To the members of the Savage Club in London
we Americans feel we owe a debt of gratitude we
can never repay for their great kindness to our
much-loved friend and countryman. May the
choicest of Heaven's blessings ever be theirs. May
He who tempereth the winds to the shorn lamb
comfort his aged mother in her great affliction.
And may an abiding faith in that Saviour in whom
her son believed, and in whose everlasting arms
he died, be balsam to her bleeding heart.
Langham Hotel, March 9.