The Complete Works of Artemus Ward — Part 5: The London Punch LettersWard, Artemus
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The Complete Works of Artemus Ward — Part 5: The London Punch Letters
Ward, Artemus
American wit and humor
I'd been to the Beefanham theatre the previs evenin, and probly
the drammer I saw affected me, because I'm not in the habit of
goin on as per above. I like the Beefanham theatre very much
indeed, because there a enthoosiastic lover of the theatre like
myself can unite the legitermit drammer with fish. Thus, while
your enrapterd soul drinks in the lorfty and noble sentences of
the gifted artists, you can eat a biled mack'ril jest as
comfor'bly as in your own house. I felt constrained, however, to
tell a fond mother who sot immegitly behind me, and who was
accompanied by a gin bottle, and a young infant--I felt
constrained to tell that mother, when her infant playfully
mingled a rayther oily mack'ril with the little hair which is
left on my vener'ble hed, that I had a bottle of scented hair oil
at home, which on the whole I tho't I preferred to that which her
orfspring was greasin me with. This riled the excellent feamale,
and she said:
"Git out! You never was a infank yourself, I spose! Oh no! You
was too good to be a infank, you was! You slid into the world
all ready grow'd, didn't you? Git out!"
"No, Madam," I replied, "I too was once a infant! I was a luvly
child. People used to come in large and enthoosiastic crowds
from all parts of the country to see me, I was such a sweet and
intel'gent infant. The excitement was so intens, in fack, that a
extra hotel was startid in the town to accomodate the peple who
thronged to my cradle." Havin finished these troothful
statemints, I smilt sweetly on the worthy female. She said:
"Drat you, what do you come a-chaffin me for?" and the estymible
woman was really gettin furis, when I mollyfied her by praisin
her child, and by axin pardin for all I'd said.
"This little gal," I observed, "this surprisingly lively gal
when--" the mother said,
"It's t'other sect is he, Sir: it's a boy."
"Wall," I said, "then this little boy, whose eye is like a eagle
a-soaring proudly in the azure sky, will some day be a man, if he
don't choke hisself to death in childhood's sunny hours with a
smelt or a bloater, or some other drefful calamity. How surblime
the tho't, my dear Madam, that this infant as you fondle on your
knee on this night, may grow up into a free and independent
citizen, whose vote will be worth from ten to fifteen pounds,
accordin as suffrage may range at that joyous perid!"
Let us now return, jentle reader, to the lan'lord of the Green
Lion, who we left in the bar in a state of anxiety and perspire.
Rubbin his hot face with a red handkercher, he said, "Is the
strange bein a American?"
"He is."
"A Gen'ral?"
"No."
"A Colonial?"
"No."
"A Majer?"
"Not a Majer."
"A Capting?"
"He is not."
"A leftenant?"
"Not even that."
"Then," said the lan'lord of the Green Lion, "you ar deceeved!
He is no countryman of yours."
"Why not?" I said.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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