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 Iwent.
"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 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 onto 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, Earnest 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! Isaid 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.
