unescapably full, of
fun....

When Artemus arrived here in 1866 he was a dying man.

I can see him now, as he came on the narrow platform in front of his
inferior panorama, and stole a glance at the densely packed room and
then at his panorama.

His tall, gaunt, though slender figure, his curly light hair and large
aquiline nose, which always reminded me of a macaw; his thin face
flushed with consumption, his little cough, which seemed to shake him
to pieces, and which he said "was wearing him out," at which we all
laughed irresistibly, and then felt ashamed of ourselves, as well we
might; but he himself seemed to enjoy his cough. It was all part of
that odd, topsy-turvy mind in which everything appeared most natural
upside down!

On first entering he would seem profoundly unconscious that anything
was expected of him, but after looking at the audience, then at his
own clothes, and then apologetically at his panorama, he began to
explain its merits.

The fact is Artemus intended having the finest scenes that could be
painted, but he gave that up on account of the expense, and then
determined to get the worst as the next best thing for his purpose.

When anything very bad came up he would pause and gaze admiringly at
the canvas, and then look round a little reproachfully at the company.

"This picture," he would say, "is a great work of art; it is an oil
painting done in petroleum. It is by the Old Masters. It was the last
thing they did before dying. They did this, and then they expired. I
wish you were nearer to it so you could see it better. I wish I could
take it to your residences and let you see it by daylight. Some of the
greatest artists in London come here every morning before daylight
with lanterns to look at it. They say they never saw anything like it
before, and they hope they never shall again!"

Certain curious brown splotches appearing in the foreground, Artemus
pointed gravely to them, and said:

"These are intended for horses; I know they are, because the artist
told me so. After two years, he came to me one morning and said, 'Mr.
Ward, I cannot conceal it from you any longer; they are horses.'"

Apropos of nothing he observed:

"I really don't care for money; I only travel around to show my
clothes."

This was a favorite joke of his. He would look with a piteous
expression of discomfort and almost misery at his black trousers and
swallowtail coat, a costume in which he said he was alwa