The Complete Works of Artemus Ward Part 45

REFATORY NOTE BY MELVILLE D. LANDON.

The fame of Artemus Ward culminated in his last lectures at Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, the final one breaking off abruptly on the evening of the 23d of January, 1867. That night the great humorist bade farewell to the public, and retired from the stage to die! His Mormon lectures were immensely successful in England. His fame became the talk of journalists, savants, and statesmen. Every one seemed to be affected differently, but every one felt and acknowledged his power. "The Honorable Robert Lowe," says Mr. E.P. HINGSTON, Artemus Ward's bosom friend, "attended the Mormon lecture one evening, and laughed as hilariously as any one in the room. The next evening Mr. John Bright happened to be present. With the exception of one or two occasional smiles, he listened with grave attention."

The "London Standard," in describing his first lecture in London, aptly said, "Artemus dropped his jokes faster than the meteors of last night succeeded each other in the sky. And there was this resemblance between the flashes of his humor and the flights of the meteors, that in each case one looked for jokes or meteors, but they always came just in the place that one least expected to find them. Half the enjoyment of the evening lay, to some of those present, in listening to the hearty cachinnation of the people, who only found out the jokes some two or three minutes after they were made, and who laughed apparently at some grave statements of fact. Reduced to paper, the showman's jokes are certainly not brilliant; almost their whole effect lies in their seeming impromptu character. They are carefully led up to, of course; but they are uttered as if they are mere afterthoughts of which the speaker is hardly sure."

His humor was so entirely fresh and unconventional, that it took his hearers by surprise, and charmed them. His failing health compelled him to abandon the lecture after about eight or ten weeks. Indeed, during that brief period he was once or twice compelled to dismiss his audience. Frequently he sank into a chair and nearly fainted from the exertion of dressing. He exhibited the greatest anxiety to be at his post at the appointed time, and scrupulously exerted himself to the utmost to entertain his auditors. It was not because he was sick that the public was to be disappointed, or that their enjoyment was to be diminished. During the last few weeks of his lecture-giving, he steadily abstained from accepting any of the numerous invitations he received. Had he lived through the following London fashionable season, there is little doubt that the room at the Egyptian Hall would have been thronged nightly. The English aristocracy have a fine, delicate sense of humor, and the success, artistic and pecuniary, of "Artemus Ward"

would have rivalled that of the famous "Lord Dundreary." There were many stupid people who did not understand the "fun" of Artemus Ward's books. There were many stupid people who did not understand the fun of Artemus Ward's lecture on the Mormons. Highly respectable people--the pride of their parish--when they heard of a lecture "upon the Mormons,"

expected to see a solemn person, full of old saws and new statistics, who would denounce the sin of polygamy,--and rave without limit against Mormons. These uncomfortable Christians do not like humor. They dread it as a certain personage is said to dread holy water, and for the same reason that thieves fear policemen--it finds them out. When these good idiots heard Artemus offer if they did not like the lecture in Piccadilly, to give them free tickets for the same lecture in California, when he next visited that country, they turned to each other indignantly, and said, "What use are tickets for California to us? WE are not going to California. No! we are too good, too respectable to go so far from home. The man is a fool!" One of these vestrymen complained to the doorkeeper, and denounced the lecturer as an impostor--"and," said the wealthy parishioner, "as for the panorama, it is the worst painted thing I ever saw."

During the lecture Artemus was always as solemn as the grave. Sometimes he would seem to forget his audience, and stand for several seconds gazing intently at his panorama. Then he would start up and remark apologetically, "I am very fond of looking at my pictures." His dress was always the same--evening toilet. His manners were polished, and his voice gentle and hesitating. Many who had read of the man who spelled joke with a "g," looked for a smart old man with a shrewd c.o.c.k eye, dressed in vulgar velvet and gold, and they were hardly prepared to see the accomplished gentleman with slim physique and delicate white hands.

The letters of Artemus Ward in "Punch" from the tomb of Shakspeare and the London Tower, had made him famous in England, and in his audience were the n.o.bility of the realm. His first lecture in London was delivered at Egyptian Hall, on Tuesday, November 13th, 1866. The room used was that which had been occupied by Mr. Arthur Sketchley, adjoining the one in which Mr. Arthur Smith formerly made his appearances. The stage, with the curtain down, had this appearance while Artemus was delivering his prologue:

Punctually at eight o'clock he would step hesitatingly before the audience, and rubbing his hands bashfully, commence the lecture.

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THE EGYPTIAN HALL LECTURE.

You are entirely welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to my little picture-shop.

I couldn't give you a very clear idea of the Mormons--and Utah--and the Plains--and the Rocky Mountains--without opening a picture-shop--and therefore I open one.

I don't expect to do great things here--but I have thought that if I could make money enough to by me a pa.s.sage to New Zealand I should feel that I had not lived in vain.

I don't want to live in vain.--I'd rather live in Margate-- or here.

But I wish when the Egyptians built this hall they had given it a little more ventilation.

If you should be dissatisfied with anything here to-night--I will admit you all free in New Zealand--if you will come to me there for the orders. Any respectable cannibal will tell you where I live. This shows that I have a forgiving spirit.

I really don't care for money. I only travel round to see the world and to exhibit my clothes. These clothes I have on were a great success in America.

How often do large fortunes ruin young men! I should like to be ruined, but I can get on very well as I am.

I am not an Artist. I don't paint myself--though perhaps if I were a middle-aged single lady I should--yet I have a pa.s.sion for pictures--I have had a great many pictures--photographs taken of myself. Some of them are very pretty--rather sweet to look at for a short time--and as I said before, I like them. I've always loved pictures.

I could draw on wood at a very tender age. When a mere child I once drew a small cart-load of raw turnips over a wooden bridge.--The people of the village noticed me. I drew their attention. They said I had a future before me. Up to that time I had an idea it was behind me.

Time pa.s.sed on. It always does, by the way. You may possibly have noticed that Time pa.s.ses on.--It is a kind of way Time has.

I became a man. I haven't distinguished myself at all as an artist--but I have always been more or less mixed up with Art. I have an uncle who takes photographs--and I have a servant who--takes anything he can get his hands on.

When I was in Rome--Rome in New York State I mean--a distinguished sculpist wanted to sculp me. But I said "No." I saw through the designing man. My model once in his hands--he would have flooded the market with my busts--and I couldn't stand it to see everybody going round with a bust of me. Everybody would want one of course--and wherever I should go I should meet the educated cla.s.ses with my bust, taking it home to their families. This would be more than my modesty could stand--and I should have to return to America--where my creditors are.

I like Art. I admire dramatic Art--although I failed as an actor.

It was in my schoolboy days that I failed as an actor.--The play was "the Ruins of Pompeii."--I played the Ruins. It was not a very successful performance--but it was better than the "Burning Mountain."

He was not good. He was a bad Vesuvius.

The remembrance often makes me ask--"Where are the boys of my youth?"--I a.s.sure you this is not a conundrum.--Some are amongst you here--some in America--some are in gaol.--

Hence arises a most touching question--"Where are the girls of my youth?" Some are married--some would like to be.

Oh my Maria! Alas! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she is happy--because I am.*--some people are not happy. I have noticed that.

*(Spoken with a sigh. It was a joke which always told. Artemus never failed to use it in his "Babes in the Wood" lecture, and the "Sixty Minutes in Africa," as well as in the Mormon story.)

A gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes.

I said, "Why these weeps?" He said he had a mortgage on his farm--and wanted to borrow 200 pounds. I lent him the money--and he went away.

Some time after he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me for ever. I ventured to remind him of the 200 pounds he borrowed. He was much cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him--so I told him I would throw off one hundred pounds. He brightened--shook my hand--and said--"Old friend--I won't allow you to outdo me in liberality--I'll throw off the other hundred."

As a manager I was always rather more successful than as an actor.

Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living American Skeleton for a tour through Australia. He was the thinnest man I ever saw. He was a splendid skeleton. He didn't weigh anything scarcely--and I said to myself--the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous curiosity. It is a long voyage--as you know--from New York to Melbourne--and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. He had never been on the ocean before--and he said it agreed with him.--I thought so!--I never saw a man eat so much in my life.

Beef--mutton--pork--he swallowed them all like a shark--and between meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs.

The result was that when we reached Melbourne this infamous skeleton weighed 64 pounds more than I did!

I thought I was ruined--but I wasn't. I took him on to California--another very long sea voyage--and when I got him to San Francisco I exhibited him as a Fat Man.

This story hasn't anything to do with my Entertainment, I know--but one of the princ.i.p.al features of my Entertainment is that it contains so many things that don't have anything to do with it.

My Orchestra is small--but I am sure it is very good--so far as it goes. I give my pianist ten pounds a night--and his washing. I like Music.--I can't sing. As a singist I am not a success. I am saddest when I sing. So are those who hear me. They are sadder even than I am.

The other night some silver-voiced young men came under my window and sang--"Come where my love lies dreaming."--I didn't go. I didn't think it would be correct.

I found music very soothing when I lay ill with fever in Utah--and I was very ill--I was fearfully wasted.--My face was hewn down to nothing--and my nose was so sharp I didn't dare to stick it into other people's business--for fear it would stay there--and I should never get it again. And on those dismal days a Mormon lady--she was married--tho'

not so much so as her husband--he had fifteen other wives--she used to sing a ballad commencing "Sweet bird--do not fly away!"--and I told her I wouldn't.--She played the accordion divinely--accordionly I praised her.

I met a man in Oregon who hadn't any teeth--not a tooth in his head--yet that man could play on the ba.s.s drum better than any man I ever met.--He kept a hotel. They have queer hotels in Oregon. I remember one where they gave me a bag of oats for a pillow--I had nightmares of course. In the morning the landlord said--How do you feel--old hoss--hay?--I told him I felt my oats.

Permit me now to quietly state that altho' I am here with my cap and bells I am also here with some serious descriptions of the Mormons--their manners--their customs--and while the pictures I shall present to your notice are by no means works of art--they are painted from photographs actually taken on the spot--and I am sure I need not inform any person present who was ever in the territory of Utah that they are as faithful as they could possibly be. I went to California on the steamer "Ariel."

This is the steamer "Ariel."

Oblige me by calmly gazing on the steamer "Ariel"--and when you go to California be sure and go on some other steamer--because the Ariel isn't a very good one.

When I reached the "Ariel"--at pier No. 4--New York--I found the pa.s.sengers in a state of great confusion about their things--which were being thrown around by the ship's porters in a manner at once damaging and idiotic.--So great was the excitement--my fragile form was smashed this way--and jammed that way--till finally I was shoved into a stateroom which was occupied by two middle-aged females--who said, "Base man--leave us--O leave us!"--I left them--Oh--I left them!

We reach Acapulco on the coast of Mexico in due time. Nothing of special interest occurred at Acapulco--only some of the Mexican ladies are very beautiful. They all have brilliant black hair--hair "black as starless night"--if I may quote from the "Family Herald". It don't curl.--A Mexican lady's hair never curls--it is straight as an Indian's. Some people's hair won't curl under any circ.u.mstances.--My hair won't curl under two shillings.*

*(under two shillings)" Artemus always wore his hair straight until his severe illness in Salt Lake City. So much of it dropped off during his recovery that he became dissatisfied with the long meagre appearance his countenance presented when he surveyed it in the looking-gla.s.s. After his lecture at the Salt Lake City Theatre he did not lecture again until we had crossed the Rocky Mountains and arrived at Denver City, the capital of Colorado. On the afternoon he was to lecture there I met him coming out of an ironmonger's store with a small parcel in his hand.

"I want you, old fellow," he said; "I have been all around the city for them, and I've got them at last." "Got what?" I asked. "A pair of curling-tongs. I am going to have my hair curled to lecture in to-night. I mean to cross the plains in curls. Come home with me and try to curl it for me. I don't want to go to any idiot of a barber to be laughed at." I played the part of friseur. Subsequently he became his own "curlist," as he phrased it. From that day forth Artemus was a curly-haired man.

The Chinese form a large element in the population of San Francisco--and I went to the Chinese Theatre.