Mr. Browne sailed for England soon after, taking with him his Panorama.  The success that awaited him could scarcely have been anticipated by his most intimate friends.  Scholars, wits, poets, and novelists came to him with extended hands, and his stay in London was one ovation to the genius of American wit.  Charles Reade, the novelist, was his warm friend and enthusiastic admirer; and Mr. Andrew Haliday introduced him to the "Literary Club," where he became a great favorite.  Mark Lemon came to him and asked him to become a contributor to "Punch," which he did.  His "Punch" letters were more remarked in literary circles than any other current matter.  There was hardly a club-meeting or a dinner at which they were not discussed.  "There was something so grotesque in the idea," said a correspondent, "of this ruthless Yankee poking among the revered antiquities of Britain, that the beef-eating British themselves could not restrain their laughter."  The story of his Uncle William who "followed commercial pursuits, glorious commerce--and sold soap," and his letters on the Tower and "Chowser," were palpable hits, and it was admitted that "Punch" had contained nothing better since the days of "Yellowplush."  This opinion was shared by the "Times," the literary reviews, and the gayest leaders of society.  The publishers of "Punch" posted up his name in large letters over their shop in Fleet Street, and Artemus delighted to point it out to his friends.  About this time Mr. Browne wrote to his friend Jack Rider, of Cleveland: "This is the proudest moment of my life.  To have been as well appreciated here as at home; to have written for the oldest comic Journal in the English language, received mention with Hood, with Jerrold and Hook, and to have my picture and my pseudonym as common in London as in New York, is enough for "Yours truly,     "A. Ward." England was thoroughly aroused to the merits of Artemus Ward, before he commenced his lectures at Egyptian Hall, and when, in November, he finally appeared, immense crowds were compelled to turn away.  At every lecture his fame increased, and when sickness brought his brilliant success to an end, a nation mourned his retirement. On the evening of Friday, the seventh week of his engagement at Egyptian Hall, Artemus became seriously ill, an apology was made to a disappointed audience, and from that time the light of one of the greatest wits of the centuries commenced fading into darkness.  The Press mourned his retirement, and a funeral pall fell over London.  The laughing, applauding crowds were soon to see his consumptive form moving towards its narrow resting-place in the cemetery at Kensal Green.