It was done. Not in the same room, but under the same roof and on
the same floor; in that gloomy-looking Hall in Piccadilly, which was
destined to be the ante-chamber to the tomb of both lecturers.

Throughout this brief sketch I have written familiarly of the late
Mr. Charles F. Browne as "Artemus Ward," or simply as "Artemus." I
have done so advisedly, mainly because, during the whole course of
our acquaintance, I do not remember addressing him as "Mr. Browne,"
or by his real Christian name. To me he was always "Artemus"--
Artemus the kind, the gentle, the suave, the generous. One who was
ever a friend in the fullest meaning of the word, and the best of
companions in the amplest acceptance of the phrase. His merry laugh
and pleasant conversation are as audible to me as if they were heard
but yesterday; his words of kindness linger on the ear of memory,
and his tones of genial mirth live in echoes which I shall listen to
for evermore. Two years will soon have passed away since last he
spoke, and

"Silence now, enamour'd of his voice
Looks its mute music in her rugged cell."

E.P. HINGSTON.
LONDON, October 1868.

* * *


ARTEMUS WARD.