Shakspeare, or a burlesque on different styles of writing, like
his French novel, when hifalutin phrases of tragedy come from the
clodhopper who--"sells soap and thrice--refuses a ducal coronet."

Mr. Browne mingled the eccentric even in his business letters.
Once he wrote to his Publisher, Mr. G.W. Carleton, who had made
some alterations in his MSS.: "The next book I write I'm going
to get YOU to write." Again he wrote in 1863:

"Dear Carl:--You and I will get out a book next spring, which
will knock spots out of all comic books in ancient or modern
history. And the fact that you are going to take hold of it
convinces me that you have one of the most MASSIVE intellects of
this or any other epoch.

"Yours, my pretty gazelle,

"A. Ward."

When Charles F. Browne died, he did not belong to America, for,
as with Irving and Dickens, the English language claimed him.
Greece alone did not suffer when the current of Diogenes' wit
flowed on to death. Spain alone did not mourn when Cervantes,
dying, left Don Quixote, the "knight of la Mancha." When Charles
Lamb ceased to tune the great heart of humanity to joy and
gladness, his funeral was in every English and American household;
and when Charles Browne took up his silent resting-place in the
sombre shades of Kensal Green, JESTING CEASED, and one great
Anglo-American heart,