“My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections have you? to a innersent kiss at partin’?”
“Yay,” they said, and I—yayed.
ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE.
’VE been lingerin’ by the tomb of the lamented Shakespeare.
It is a success.
I do not hes’tate to pronounce it as such.
You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit. If you think its publication will subswerve the cause of literatoor, you may publicate.
I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go to the birthplace of the orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She said that as long as I kept out of Newgate she didn’t care where I went. “But,” I said, “don’t you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived? Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses to our daughter, about the roses as groses, and the breezes as blowses—but a Boss poit—also a philosopher, also a man who knew a great deal about everything.”