The Complete Works of Artemus Ward — Part 4: To California and Return — Reading Companion

The Comic Persona on the Move

Ward's narrator is a perpetual outsider, buffeted by events he cannot control. On the steamer, he is 'rushing around with a glaring eye' and later 'roll[s] round the deck in the most cheerful sea-dog manner'—a pose that is clearly ironic given his earlier panic. This self-deprecating stance allows him to comment on the absurdities around him without seeming superior. When he describes the Ariel as 'a miserable tub' that 'hasn't much more right to be afloat than a second-hand coffin has,' the hyperbole is so extreme it becomes affectionate. The humor lies not in the observation itself but in the contrast between the narrator's professed calm and his escalating complaints.

Mormon Audiences and Unusual Currency

Ward's lecture in Salt Lake City yields a remarkable inventory of box-office receipts: '20 bushels of wheat. 5 bushels of corn. 4 bushels of potatoes. 2 bushels of oats. 4 bushels of salt. 2 hams. 1 live pig… 1 wolf-skin. 5 pounds of honey in the comb. 16 strings of sausages… 1 cat-skin. 1 churn… 1 set of children's under-garments, embroidered. 1 firkin of butter. 1 keg of apple-sauce.' The list is a comic catalogue that reveals the barter economy of the frontier. Ward's manager repulses a man trying to pass 'a dog (a cross between a Scotch terrier and a Welsh rabbit)' and another offering 'a German-silver coffin-plate,' underscoring the boundary between acceptable and unacceptable trade goods.

Dancing with the Saints

At the Social Hall ball, Ward observes that 'quadrilles only are danced. The mazourka is considered sinful. Even the old-time round waltz is tabooed.' This detail of Mormon dance etiquette is delivered without editorializing, letting the restriction speak for itself. Ward himself dances, and reports being called 'Brother Ward,' which 'pleases me, and I dance with renewed vigor.' The humor is gentle: he is flattered by inclusion in a community whose beliefs he does not share. His description of Brigham Young at the theatre—'in a rocking-chair, and with his hat on,' wearing 'a green wrapper'—is similarly matter-of-fact, leaving the reader to gauge the oddity of the scene.

Theatrical Preferences in Deseret

Ward notes that Mormon audiences 'prefer comedy to tragedy' and that 'sentimental plays, for obvious reasons, are unpopular with them.' He recounts how an 'aged Mormon' walked out of The Lady of Lyons because he 'wouldn't sit and see a play where a man made such a CUSSED FUSS OVER ONE WOMAN.' The anecdote is a perfect illustration of cultural collision: a dramatic convention taken for granted in the East becomes absurd in a polygamous society. Ward does not explain the joke; he simply reports the reaction, trusting the reader to see the incongruity. This restraint is characteristic of his method throughout the book.

The Prophet's Presence

Brigham Young appears several times in the narrative, always observed with a reporter's detachment. At the theatre, he 'usually sits in the middle of the parquette, in a rocking-chair, and with his hat on. He does not escort his wives to the theatre. They go alone. When the play drags he either falls into a tranquil sleep or walks out.' Ward's description is precise and unadorned, avoiding both condemnation and praise. The effect is to present Young as a figure of mundane authority, neither demonized nor lionized. This evenhandedness gives the account a documentary quality rare in nineteenth-century travel writing about Mormon country.

Ward's journey is less a travelogue than a series of comic set-pieces held together by his consistent persona. Readers will find the humor in the details: the precise list of barter goods, the offhand remark about the Ariel's capacity, the deadpan report of a man walking out on a play. The book rewards attention to what is not said as much as what is. Ward never breaks character, and that unwavering mask is the source of his comedy.

Reading about Artemus Ward’s dry, poker-faced wit in that Salt Lake City lecture hall—how he simply let the absurdity sit there, unbothered—makes me think of another old voice that lingers quietly. Something in those Jiglets: A series of sidesplitting gyrations reeled off— — Inside the Classic hums the same gentle, offbeat tune. It stayed with me, like a warm shrug I didn’t want to let go of.