time to Jersey--but the breezes of Jersey were powerless. He wrote
to London to his nearest and dearest friends--the members of a
literary club of which he was a member--to complain that his
"loneliness weighed on him." He was brought back, but could not
sustain the journey farther than Southampton. There the members of
the beforementioned club travelled from London to see him--two at a
time--that he might be less lonely--and for the unwearying
solicitude of his friend and agent, Mr. Hingston, and to the kindly
sympathy of the United States Consul at Southampton, Charles
Browne's best and dearest friends had cause to be grateful. I
cannot close these lines without mention of "Artemus Ward's" last
joke. He had read in the newspapers that a wealthy American had
offered to present the Prince of Wales with a splendid yacht,
American built.

"It seems," said the invalid, "a fashion now-a-days for everybody to
present the Prince of Wales with something. I think I shall leave
him--my panorama!"

Charles Browne died beloved and regretted by all who knew him, and
by many who had known him but a few weeks; and when he drew his last
breath, there passed away the Spirit of a true gentleman.

T.W. ROBERTSON
London, August 11, 1868.

PREFATORY NOTE

BY EDWARD P. HINGSTON.