The Complete Works of Artemus Ward — Part 5: The London Punch LettersWard, Artemus
General
The Complete Works of Artemus Ward — Part 5: The London Punch Letters
Ward, Artemus
American wit and humor
London at last, and I'm stoppin at the Greenlion tavern. I like
the lan'lord very much indeed. He had fallen into a few triflin
errers in regard to America--he was under the impression, for
instance, that we et hay over there, and had horns growin out of
the back part of our heads--but his chops and beer is ekal to any
I ever pertook. You must cum and see me and bring the boys. I'm
told that Garrick used to cum here, but I'm growin skeptycal
about Garrick's favorit taverns. I've had over 500 public-houses
pinted out to me where Garrick went. I was indooced one night,
by a seleck comp'ny of Britons, to visit sum 25 public-houses,
and they confidentially told me that Garrick used to go to each
one of 'em. Also, Dr. Johnson. This won't do, you know.
May be I've rambled a bit in this communycation. I'll try and be
more collected in my next, and meanwhile, b'lieve me,
Trooly Yours,
Artemus Ward.
5.2. PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS.
You'll be glad to learn that I've made a good impression onto the
mind of the lan'lord of the Green Lion tavern. He made a speech
about me last night. Risin' in the bar he spoke as follers,
there bein over 20 individooals present:
"This North American has been a inmate of my 'ouse over two
weeks, yit he hasn't made no attempt to scalp any member of my
fam'ly. He hasn't broke no cups or sassers, or furnitur of any
kind. ("Hear, hear.") I find I can trust him with lited
candles. He eats his wittles with a knife and a fork. People of
this kind should be encurridged. I purpose 'is 'elth!" ("Loud
'plaws.")
What could I do but modestly get up and express a fervint hope
that the Atlantic Cable would bind the two countries still more
closely together? The lan'lord said my speech was full of
orig'nality, but his idee was the old stage coach was more safer,
and he tho't peple would indors that opinyin in doo time.
I'm gettin' on exceedin' well in London. I see now, however,
that I made a mistake in orderin' my close afore I left home.
The trooth is the taler in our little villige owed me for a pig
and I didn't see any other way of gettin' my pay. Ten years ago
these close would no doubt have been fash'n'ble, and perhaps they
would be ekally sim'lar ten years hens. But now they're
diff'rently. The taler said he know'd they was all right,
because he had a brother in Wales who kept him informed about
London fashins reg'lar. This was a infamus falsehood. But as
the ballud says (which I heard a gen'l'man in a new soot of black
close and white kid gloves sing t'other night), Never don't let
us Despise a Man because he wears a Raggid Coat! I don't know as
we do, by the way, tho' we gen'rally get out of his way pretty
rapid; prob'ly on account of the pity which tears our boosums for
his onhappy condition.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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