There was one peculiarity about Charles Browne--HE NEVER MADE ANENEMY.Other wits in other times have been famous, but a satirical thrust now and then has killed a friend.Diogenes was the wit of Greece, but when, after holding up an old dried fish to draw away the eyes of Anaximenes' audience, he exclaimed "See how an old fish is more interesting than Anaximenes," he said a funny thing, but he stabbed a friend.When Charles Lamb, in answer to the doting mother's question as to how he liked babies, replied, "b-b-boiled, madam, BOILED!" that mother loved him no more: and when John Randolph said "THANK YOU!" to his constituent who kindly remarked that he had the pleasure of PASSING his house, it was wit at the expense of friendship.The whole English school of wits--with Douglas Jerrold, Hood, Sheridan, and Sidney Smith, indulged in repartee.They were PARASITIC wits.And so with the Irish, except that an Irishman is generally so ridiculously absurd in his replies as to only excite ridicule."Artemus Ward" made you laugh and love him too.
The wit of "Artemus Ward" and "Josh Billings" is distinctively American.Lord Kames, in his "Elements of Criticism," makes no mention of this species of wit, a lack which the future rhetorician should look to.We look in vain for it in the English language of past ages, and in other languages of modern time.It is the genus American.When Artemus says in that serious manner, looking admiringly at his atrocious pictures,--"Ilove pictures--and I have many of them--beautiful photographs--of myself;" you smile; and when he continues, "These pictures were painted by the Old Masters; they painted these pictures and then they--they expired;" you hardly know what it is that makes you laugh outright; and when Josh Billings says in his Proverbs, wiser than Solomon's "You'd better not know so much, than know so many things that ain't so;"--the same vein is struck, but the text-books fail to explain scientifically the cause of our mirth.
The wit of Charles Browne is of the most exalted kind.It is only scholars and those thoroughly acquainted with the SUBTILTYof our language who fully appreciate it.His wit is generally about historical personages like Cromwell, Garrick, or Shakspeare, or a burlesque on different styles of writing, like his French novel, when hifalutin phrases of tragedy come from the clodhopper who--"sells soap and thrice--refuses a ducal coronet."Mr.Browne mingled the eccentric even in his business letters.
Once he wrote to his Publisher, Mr.G.W.Carleton, who had made some alterations in his MSS.: "The next book I write I'm going to get YOU to write." Again he wrote in 1863:
"Dear Carl:--You and I will get out a book next spring, which will knock spots out of all comic books in ancient or modern history.And the fact that you are going to take hold of it convinces me that you have one of the most MASSIVE intellects of this or any other epoch.
"Yours, my pretty gazelle, "A.Ward."
When Charles F.Browne died, he did not belong to America, for, as with Irving and Dickens, the English language claimed him.
Greece alone did not suffer when the current of Diogenes' wit flowed on to death.Spain alone did not mourn when Cervantes, dying, left Don Quixote, the "knight of la Mancha." When Charles Lamb ceased to tune the great heart of humanity to joy and gladness, his funeral was in every English and American household;and when Charles Browne took up his silent resting-place in the sombre shades of Kensal Green, JESTING CEASED, and one great Anglo-American heart, Like a muffled drum went beating Funeral marches to his grave.
MELVILLE D.LANDON.
INTRODUCTION BY T.W.ROBERTSON.
Few tasks are more difficult or delicate than to write on the subject of the works or character of a departed friend.The pen falters as the familiar face looks out of the paper.The mind is diverted from the thought of death as the memory recalls some happy epigram.It seems so strange that the hand that traced the jokes should be cold, that the tongue that trolled out the good things should be silent--that the jokes and the good things should remain, and the man who made them should be gone for ever.
The works of Charles Farrar Browne--who was known to the world as "Artemus Ward"--have run through so many editions, have met with such universal popularity, and have been so widely criticised, that it is needless to mention them here.So many biographies have been written of the gentleman who wrote in the character of the 'cute Yankee Showman, that it is unnecessary that I should touch upon his life, belongings, or adventures.Of "Artemus Ward" I know just as much as the rest of the world.I prefer, therefore, to speak of Charles Farrar Browne, as I knew him, and, in doing so, I can promise those friends who also knew him and esteemed him, that as Iconsider no "public" man so public, that some portion of his work, pleasures, occupations, and habits may not be considered private, Ishall only mention how kind and noble-minded was the man of whom Iwrite, without dragging forward special and particular acts in proof of my words, as if the goodness of his mind and character needed the certificate of facts.
I first saw Charles Browne at a literary club; he had only been a few hours in London, and he seemed highly pleased and excited at finding himself in the old city to which his thoughts had so often wandered.Browne was an intensely sympathetic man.His brain and feelings were as a "lens," and he received impressions immediately.
