Furthermore, to Phoenix's devices he added cacography, the device of deliberate misspelling so much used by later humorists. He seems to have adopted it spontaneously as a matter of course. He was to take the character of an ignorant showman and naturally he must write as such a man would write. The misspelling of "Artemus Ward" has character in it. In his hands it becomes an art, and an art that helps make vivid the personality of the old showman. "Artemus Ward" is not a mere Dickens gargoyle: he is alive. Witness this: If you say anything about my show say my snaiks is as harmliss as the new born Babe. In the Brite Lexington of yooth, thar aint no sich word as fale. "Too troo, too troo!" I answered; "it's a scanderlis fact." He is not at all consistent in his spelling; he is as prodigal as nature and as careless. The mere uninspired cacographist misspells every word that it is possible to misspell, but Browne picks only key words. His art is displayed as much in the words he does not change as in those with which he makes free. He coins new words with telling effect. Of his wife he observes: "As a flap-jackist she has no equal. She wears the belt." And he makes free with older words in a way that is peculiarly his own: "Why this thusness." The third element he added to the humor of Phoenix was a naïve drollery, a whimsical incongruity, that was peculiar to himself. He caught it from no one, and he imparted it to no one. It can be described only as "Artemus Ward." It lives even apart from his presence in much of the writing that he has left behind him. It is as useless to try to analyze it as it were to describe the odor of apples. One can only quote examples, as for instance this from his adventure "Among the Free Lovers": The exsentric female then clutched me frantically by the arm and hollered: "You air mine, O you air mine!" "Scacely," I sed, endeverin to git loose from her. But she clung to me and sed: "You air my Affinerty!" "What upon arth is that?" I shouted. "Dost thou not know?" "No, I dostent!" "Listin man & I'll tell ye!" sed the strange female; "for years I hav yearned for thee. I knowd thou wast in the world sumwhares, tho I didn't know whare. My hart sed he would cum and I took courage. He _has_ cum--he's here--you air him--you air my Affinerty! O 'tis too mutch! too mutch!" and she sobbed agin. "Yes," I anserd, "I think it is a darn sight too mutch!" "Hast thou not yearned for me?" she yelled, ringin her hands like a female play acter. "Not a yearn!" I bellerd at the top of my voice, throwin her away from me.