"I'm sorry for that," said the lan'lord with a sigh, "but you think he was a man who would wish to see licensed vittlers respected in their rights?" "No doubt." "Wall," said the lan'lord, "jest you keep a eye on me."  Then risin to his feet he said, in somewhat husky yet tol'bly distink voice, "Mr. Crumbwell!" "Cromwell!" I cried. "Yes, Mr. Cromwell:  that's the man I mean, Mr. Cromble! won't you please advise that gen'l'man who you're talkin through; won't you advise'im during your elekant speech to settle his bill at my 'ouse tonight, Mr. Crumbles," said the lan'lord, glarin' savigely round on the peple, "because if he don't there'll be a punched 'ed to be seen at the Green Lion, where I don't want no more of this everlastin nonsens.  I'LL talk through 'im! Here's a sperrit," said the lan'lord, a smile once more beamin on his face, "which will talk through him like a Dutch father!  I'm the sperrit for you, young feller!" "You're a helthy old sperret," I remarkt; and then I saw the necessity of gettin him out of the hall.  The wimin was yellin and screaming, and the men was hollerin' perlice.  A perliceman really came and collerd my fat fren. "It's only a fit, Sir Richard," I said.  I always call the perlice Sir Richard.  It pleases them to think I'm the victim of a deloosion; and they always treat me perlitely.  This one did, certainly, for he let us go.  We saw no more of the Trans-Mejim. 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 _______________ IV. 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 I went.  "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.