Invitations pursued him and he was even elected to two or three fashionable clubs. But he had a preference for those which were less conventional. His admission to the Garrick, which had been at first “laid over,” affords an example of London club fastidiousness. The gentleman who proposed him used his pseudonym, Artemus Ward, instead of his own name, Charles F. Browne. I had the pleasure of introducing him to Mr. Alexander Macmillan, the famous book publisher of Oxford and Cambridge, a leading member of the Garrick. We dined together at the Garrick clubhouse, when the matter was brought up and explained. The result was that Charles F. Browne was elected at the next meeting, where Artemus Ward, had been made to stand aside. Before Christmas, Artemus received invitations from distinguished people, nobility and gentry as well as men of letters, to spend the week-end with them. But he declined them all. He needed his vacation, he said, for rest. He had neither the strength nor the spirit for the season. Yet was he delighted with the English people and with English life. His was one of those receptive natures which enjoy whatever is wholesome and sunny. In spite of his bodily pain, he entertained a lively hope of coming out of it in the spring, and did not realize his true condition. He merely said, “I have overworked myself, and must lay by or I shall break down altogether.” He meant to remain in London as long as his welcome lasted, and when he perceived a falling off in his audience, would close his season and go to the continent. His receipts averaged about three hundred dollars a night, whilst his expenses were not fifty dollars. “This, mind you,” he used to say, “is in very hard cash, an article altogether superior to that of my friend Charles Reade.” [Illustration: Artemus Ward] His idea was to set aside out of his earnings enough to make him independent, and then to give up “this mountebank business,” as he called it. He had a great respect for scholarly culture and personal respectability, and thought that if he could get time and health he might do something “in the genteel comedy line.” He had a humorous novel in view, and a series of more aspiring comic essays than any he had attempted. Often he alluded to the opening for an American magazine, “not quite so highfalutin as the Atlantic nor so popular as Harper’s.” His mind was beginning to soar above the showman and merrymaker. His manners had always been captivating. Except for the nervous worry of ill-health, he was the kind-hearted, unaffected Artemus of old, loving as a girl and liberal as a prince. He once showed me his daybook in which were noted down over five hundred dollars lent out in small sums to indigent Americans. “Why,” said I, “you will never get half of it back.” “Of course not,” he said, “but do you think I can afford to have a lot of loose fellows black-guarding me at home because I wouldn’t let them have a sovereign or so over here?”