xt7qjq0stw34_1908 https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7qjq0stw34/data/mets.xml https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7qjq0stw34/data/1997ms474.dao.xml unknown archival material 1997ms474 English University of Kentucky The physical rights to the materials in this collection are held by the University of Kentucky Special Collections Research Center.  Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. W. Hugh Peal manuscript collection Douglas William Jerrold clippings text 43.94 Cubic Feet 86 boxes, 4 oversize boxes, 22 items Poor-Good Peal accession no. 11453. Douglas William Jerrold clippings 2017 https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7qjq0stw34/data/1997ms474/Box_86/Folder_10/Multipage6496.pdf 1857, undated 1857 1857, undated 
  Scope and Contents

Peal accession no. 8223.

section false xt7qjq0stw34_1908 xt7qjq0stw34 _ JERROLD(D1)ugl21s). 1803—57. " Punch ”(‘11)11t1'il1utor. Authorot“ \lrs (‘audlo‘s (,‘1urt21in illeotures.“ etc. A (folloetion of 2“) A.l1s.S. (1)111: signed with initials). &1 Holograph M21111useript Fragment Signed. (3} pp., Svo & folio, 18:31). 185] 2(2- n..1].. to various correspondents including Cunningham, Berwiek &1" Dear George." regarding his work. invitations, etc. The MS. which is Closely written &1 eorreoted is l p.. l'olio, (la/ml 11111)] 11, 1850, begins " The veteran Bloodhuhhle ” The (3 items 2‘\'1 portrait £2 2s JONES (Henry Arthur). lSST-ISJBSL Il)1'amatist. I; pp., 8vo, Baa/cs” Nov. 3. 188."), to Dr. lfi‘uruivall, regarding 21 performance, an Essay 011 ‘ H21111let,” etc. 10s 611 JOURNAL, Bilanusoript of the l8th & early 19th century, 80 pp., 4‘00, “ A Register of; the \Veather & Met tcomlogioal History of the Air begun in the year 1764.1)V l.l’11i2111noi \\ ooton, 80111121 'set (a relative of Admiral llood). This most intelesting 11121nuse1ipt is lar 111010 than its title implies 85 is in fact also 211 journal of national 1\',1 loo 2111 e\ ents as the tollouing quotations will demonstrate. “ 176-1. All Europe had storms at sea . . . small earth- quake in Norfolk . . . flood in undations of the Sea did vast damage all along the East Coast of England” " 177'). Floods. The ("ivil \Var com- me need this Spr 111g in Amer 10a with two small actions 110211 Boston”; ‘ 7(1 0111' (xene1 211s Hone & (linton took Lona Island & New \111 L in Autrust & 111 J ‘73} “OLD (Douglas) Autograph MS. 1511/1111], at (/10 7111til.40‘ lines, 1 page, 25w (wr idea for tuc P7112661) 21lin1> 0\ ample of his line and closely \\1'.itten Compositions, 11 oodcut pm trait and printed notices 5s 6d N° 1546, JUNE 13, ’57 income, and what sacrifice of comfort to earn it! Rehnquish your labours : you must be weary, and let me have the happiness of giving you rest.’ I am not sure whether Frances had accorded due attention to my harangue ; instead of answering me with her usual respectful promptitude, she only smiled and said—‘How rich you are, mons1eur I’ and then she stirred uneasy in my arms. ‘Three thousand francs !’ she murmured, ‘ while I get only twelve hundred!’ She went on faster. ‘ How- ever it must be so for the present ; and, 1nons1eur, were you not saying something about my givmg up my place? Oh no! I shall hold it fast ;’ and her little fingers emphatically tightened on mine.— ‘Think of my marrying you to be kept by you, monsiem‘! I could not do it; and how dull my days would be! You would be away teaching in close, noisy school-rooms, from morning till even- ing, and I should be lingering at home, unem- ployed and solitary; I should get depressed and sullen, and you would soon tire of me.’——‘ Frances, you could read and study—two things you like so well.’—‘1\Ionsieur, I could not; I like a contempla- tive life, but I like an active life better; I must act in some way, and act with you. notice, monsieur, that people who are only in each other’s company for amusement, never really like each other so well, or esteem each other so highly, as those who work together, and perhaps suffer to- gether.’——‘ You speak God’s truth,’ said I at last, ‘and you shall have your own way, for it is the best way. Now, as a reward for such ready consent, give me a voluntary kiss.’ ” The pair open a school in Brussels, where Mr. Hunsden sends them pupils “to be polished off.” In ten years they make a fortune, secure a pretty English home that lies among the moors thirty miles from X “ The smoke of mills has not yet sullied the verdure, the waters still run pure.” There is a long, green, shady lane starred with daisies, which gives a title to the house. mastiff ; There is a fine boy and a favourite and the story ends. Miss Bronte does not exhibit her characters in critical action, or under strong temptation. Low chicane, astuteness, sensuality, and tyranny, are keenly and observantly drawn ; but throughout the novel the quietness is unnatural, the level of fact too uniform, the restraint and the theory of life too plain. The principles and the art of the writer, though true, excite no corresponding sympathy 011 the part of the reader,———few demands being made on his softer 0r gentler nature. There is no Helen Burns that we can watch or weep over,—no sprightly little Adele that we can sport with. Frances may possibly be the mother of Lucy Snow, and Mdlle. Renter and M. Pelet the co-eflieients of Madame Modeste and Paul Emmanuel. Simi— larities of opinion respecting marriage may be traced, not as a crime, but an imbe- cility. Now and then there is a touch of grandiloqucncc that astonishes us. lVords and events are utilized in a way that now, knowing the author’s opportunities, appear to us remarkable. On the whole, this tale bears to Currer Bell’s later works the relation which a pre-Shakspearian story does to the drama,—it is curious to an artist or psychologist. On closing this posthumous chapter, and ending Charlotte Brontc’s strange literary history, we are reminded of a saying of Jean Paul’s—“ God deals with poets as we do with nightingales, hanging a dark cloth round the cage until they sing the right tune.” OUR LIBRARY TABLE. A Complete ilfmzsual of Short Conreg/mzeing; a‘ilh. Explanatory Notes and a Copious Index. By Her- man L. Prior, Ban‘ister-at-Law. (VVildy 4&2 Son.) -—One of the happiest of H.B.’s early sketches represents the horror of Lord Eldon on viewing the small wig in which Lord Brougham ventured to occupy the woolsack. “ \Ve live in awful times,” groans that very learned obstruction. What would I have taken i a {e in a ree 1n 1e1r orms. ' or our own par , we think that the storm will blow over, and that our present cumbrous forms will remain in use until our very absurd system of legal remuneration is changed. Others may expect to find counsel and solicitors exercising their talents in conveyancing by way of charity, and accepting a good conscience by way of fee,—we do not. The present book contains a collection of forms, which are very concise indeed, and, therefore, for the reason we have referred to, not likely to be adopted at present. As to the character of these forms, we can only speak in general terms, as we apprehend that a criticism on a “power of sale” or “covenant to produce documents” would be about as interesting as an extract in the Romany tongue. Speaking generally, then, the execution of the work shows considerable ingenuity in compression. To say that the author occasionally oversteps the proper line, and in the attempt to be brief becomes in- accurate, is saying little more than that he is thoroughly in earnest in his work. The author is fond of new phrases, some of which do not conduce to conciseness. “Sale money” is pre- ferred to “purchase money,” and a “trustee” gene- . rally appears as a “fiduciary owner.” Upon the ‘ whole, when brevity becomes the soul of convey- ancing, this book may be useful, but, we fear, “not till then.” (her the See; or, Letters from an Officer in India. to his Children at Home. (Hatcliards.)——Tliis is a contribution to the shelves of a young people’s library. It has the merit of not being didactic and offensively instructive, a fault which young people of intelligence very naturally resent. There are amusing sketches of character, and good de- scriptions of scenery, the truth and fidelity of which are vouched for by the _Rev. 311'. Pears, the editor, whose power of judging is not of the most satisfactory, as he assiu‘es us, “I know nothing of India myself.” He relies on his “knowledge of the writer’s character,”———but the most upright of men may be perfectly incapable of judging of character or describing even a single object before his own eyes. We do not say the author is in this predicament. At all events, his book is gossipping, pleasant, and instructive. The Unprotected ; or, Fae/s in Dressmahting Life. By a Dressmakcr. (Low 8: Co.)——This dressmaker’s book is evidently written by one of the class which it represents. The pictures of the interior of the work-room, and the sketches of the young mantua- makers, have a look of life and reality, which gives a strong interest to the book, quite independent of literary ability, of which there is not much. The whole burden of the sin of oppression is laid upon the shoulders of the thoughtless beauties, who insist upon “ not being disappointcc ,” and who will only give a few hours’ notice for their elaborate costumes. This, of course, entails over—hours———sitting up all night—over-work—-ending in a terrible per-centage of early deaths, blindness, madness, or in a mode of life to which the others are blessings. Of course, DOUGLAS JERROLD. DEATH has taken from among us a man of vast and peculiar force. _ their valets: distance lends cnchantincnt to the view; but Douglas Jerrold was the greatest marvel to those who knew him best. His reading was wide, and his memory for what he read prodigious. He knew the whole of Shakspcare by heart, and every noble line or beautiful image in Faust and the Inferno slept within his lips like the charge in a gun. He delighted in Eddas and Zendavestas, in the lore of the llabbis, in science and in the mysteries of the sehoolmen. Lightlbot was familiar to him as Habelais and h'lontaigne, Vlacon as Fuller and Donne. Yet the powers which made his fame were native. He was most widely known perhaps by his wit ; for wit catches the sense like atorch in ‘ a ravme, even though the gold mines may lie un— noticed elose by. Prophets who bear torches through the streets will draw a crowd sooner than those who teach the wisdom of Solomon. wit was very nimble, crackling, and original. man could resist its spontaneity and sparkle, and it wrote its daily story in London life as a thing apart and institutional. But his wit, however brilliant, was not his finest gift. Indeed, in his serious moments, he would laugh at his mvn repartees as tricks as a more habit of mind~—which he could teach any dull fellow in two lessons 5 His wit made only one side of his genius—sprung indeed from a central characteristic—the extraordinary rapidity of his apprehension. He saw into the hearts of things. He perceived analogies invisible to other men. These analogies sometimes made him merry, sometimes iiulignant. And as he never hung fire, dull people often saw his wrath before they understood his reason; and they blamed him, not in truth because he was wrong, but because they were slow. Jerrold was born in London on the 3rd of January, l8llil, while Bonaparte was at Boulogne and London was in the riot of anticipated inva» sion. He was chris ened Douglas \Villiam Jerrold, :f)ouglas having been the inai< :11 name of his grand- mother. His father, Samuel Jerrold, was manager of the two theatres of Sheerness and Southend, and in these seaplaces much of his childhood passed, in sight of ships, breakers, press-gangs, theatrical stars, female and male, black~eyed damsels, and prisoners of war. He was the son of his father‘s old age, and he held a theory that the children of old men are always nervous, facile, and short—lived. Few friends or playmates of his own age came near him in the theatre or 'in the town; indeed, he used " to say the only boy he knew familiarly at Sheerness was thelittle buoy at the How. Amongthe theatrical folks who played on his father’s stage he remem- bered Edmund Kean with peculiar vividncss; for the deseemlant of Halifax pleased him by carrying him on the boards in Rollo, and still more by his whiinsicalities in the pantomime. He app “arcd also on the stage with Kean as the b’lranyer’s child. N01546, JUNE 13/57 Author and actor came together afterwards at Drury Lane in Jeirold’s early London life; Kean, who remembered Jerrold, gave him orders and oranges, and Jerrold paid him in athniration and epigrams. Long years of theatrical success—sonic quarrels and misunderstandings—never cooled the ardour with which the Author of ‘ Clovernook’ always spoke of the great artist who had been gentle to him when a boy. Jerrold’s school-days were fei r and the results of his studies at Sheerness unimportant. He used to say, with a merry melancholy, that the only prize he carried home from school was a prize ringworm. In all ways, he was considered a (lull boy; cat nine Heroes dwarf in the eyes of And his ‘ No l years of age he could scarcely read. Breakers were the books which he liked to study. ll‘rigates roll-- ing past the Norc, and the grand tramp of war in Belgium, where Bonaparte was staking his last card, drew his imagination towards the sca——-con~ quermg, for a time, even his passion for oil~lamps, property men, and the hot applause of the family theatre. To sea he would go and fight the French, —entering His Majesty’s service as a midshipman on board the Namur. hiliddies in those days had not learnt to drink claret, smoke cigars, and quote Keats; and the mess-room was anything but a crossbetween a boudoir in Park Lane and a hole in a Cyder Cellar. The life was rough, the usage hard, the dissipation slight. Sea life was then a passion-it is now only a sentiment. Something of Nelson’s genius has passed into the navy——in- extinguishable hate of the French. Jerrold caught this fury,—natural enough to a boy born in the panic of invasion and trained in a war—port; and to his last year there remained in his Writing and in his conversation a pulse—so to say~a breath ~ a suspicion — now taking a literary, now a social, now a political form—of that stern religion of the English in 180-1. Though he afterwards lived in France for years, edu- cated his children there, and spoke its language with the readiness of a practised jester, he never , seemed to ibrget his blue cap and gold band, but rattled among the fish-wives of Boulogne and the flower-girls of Paris with the bciiiguant vivacity of a middy just stepped ashore. His commander, Capt. Austen, brother of the great novelist, was fond of theatricals, and the officers gotup private plays. A man before the mast painted the scenery and Jerrold superintcnded the stage. That man before the mast was Stanfield, our incomparable marine artist. “when Jerrold was transferred to another ship they parted company, to meet again after long years on, the stage of Drury Lane, when Stanfield was painting scenery for ‘The Kent Day.7 Out of these youthful recollections arose, we believe, that series of amateur tlicatricals which introduced the extraordinary histrimiic genius of l‘vlr. Dickens and hlr. Blark Lemon to the public, which secured honourable means to two veteran authors, and made the charm of so many London seasons. A party of friends Were walking over Richmond Park, chatting of other days, when Jerrold cries “ Let’s have a play, Stanfield, like we had on board the Nannu‘.” Mr. Dickens took up the tale and was acclaimed manager ; ‘ Every lllan in his Humour7 \ as selected, the parts were cast, and the row began. After a few months Jerrold returned to shore, and came to London in search of fortune. He found it in a printer’s office, in a court leading from Salisbury Square; to the proprietors of which he was bound ’prentice. \Vorking steadily, and in process of time a master in the mechanism of his craft, he nevertheless only considered this employ- ment as a means to something higher. At this time, though the hours of labour were long, and there were no compositors" reading-rooms for leisure moments, he attacked Latin and Italian; rose at three in the morning to construe Virgil and Livy, and passed stormy hours with grammarians and glossaries before he commenced work with the heavy leaders and light sketches of the periodical press—- the productions of people enjoying fame and pay for writings in which his quick eye detected the weak points and the faded splendours. He began to scribble verse as soon as he learned to write ; and his sonnets, epigrams, and songs appeared in the sixpcnny magazines of the day. He was then a mere boy, and looked, indeed, like. a child. An. N° 1546, JUNE 13, ’57 THE ATHENEEUM 759 American writer, one of those gentlemen from over sea who print Citizen of the \Vorld on their cards and invent peirand-ink portraits of celebrities they have never spoken with, once described him as a tiny man who walked up the Strand fumbling his thunderbolts. Tiny he was: and before his fine fell of hair grisled into a lion’s mane, he seemed ahnost infantinc in the delicate mould of his face and the exquisite beauty of his expression. Eni- boldened by success, he wrote for the stage, to which he felt a family call, and produced clouds of pieces ere he was l)\‘»'011tyf—-S(l11i€, of which still keep the stage, like ‘ hlore Frightened than Hurt,’ performed at Sadler’s \Vells. He engaged with Davidge, then manager of the Uoburg, to produce pieces at a salary; and some of his plays at this time, hastily composed, and as he thought unworthy of his powers, appeared under the name of hlr. Henry Brownrig. In consequence of quarrels he went from the Uoburg Theatre to the Surrey, with ‘Dlack—Eyed Susan’ in his hand. He had brought from the quarter—deck of the Namur a love of the sea and a knowledge of the service, which he turned to account on the stage and in his general writings. Salt air sw‘eeps through these latter like a breeze and a perfume. ‘Black-Eycd Susan,7 the most successful of his naval plays, was written when he was scarcely twenty years old, a piece which made the fortune of the Surrey Theatre, restored Elliston from a long course of disastrous mismanagement,. and gave honour and independence to T. 1’. Uooke. Indeed, no dramatic work of ancient or modern days ever reached the success of this play. lt was poi-formal, without break, for hundreds of nights. All London went over the water, and lV‘ooke became a personage in society, as Garrick had been in the days of Goodman’s Fields. Covent Garden bor- rowed the play, and engaged the actor, for an afterpiece. A liackiicy cab carried the triumphant William, in his blue jacket and white trousers, from the Obelisk to Bow Street; and I\‘l:tyfair maidens wept over the strong situations and laughed over the searching dialogue which had moved an hour before the tears and merriment of the Borough. On the 300th night of rialresentation the walls of the theatre were illuminated, and vast multitudes filled the thoroughfares. \‘s'hen subsequently repro- duced at Drury Lane it kept oifruin for a time even from that magnificent misfortune. Actors and managers throughout the country reaped a golden harvest. Testimonials were got up for Elliston and for Cooke on the glory of its success. But Jerrold’s share of the gain was slight: about 7W. of the many thousands which it realized for the management. \Vith unapproachal )le meanness, Ellis- ton abstained from presenting the youthful writer with the value of a toothpick; and Elliston’s bio- grapher, with a kindred sense of poetic justice, while chaunting the praises ofElliston for producing ‘Black—Eyed Susan,’ forgets to say who wrote the play! \thn the drama had run 500 nights, Elliston said to Jerrold, with amusing coolness, “ hiy dear boy, why don’t you get your friends to present you with a bit of plat "3-” hflany d ‘ainas, comic and serious, followed this first success all shining with points and colours. Among these were ‘ Nell L'r‘.'vf,'nne,’ ‘ The Scliifiolfel— lows,” and ‘ The Housekeeper." Drury Lane opened its exclusive doors to an author who had made for- tune and fame for Elliston and Cooke. But Elli: Osbaldiston, who only timidly perceived the range and sweep of the youthful genius which he wooed to his green-room, proposed the adaptation of a French piece, offering to pay handsomely for the labour. Adapt a French piece ! The Volunteer rose within him, and he turned on his heel with a snort. Drury Lane was then in the hands of the French, freshly captured, and the boy who had gone to sea in order to fight Napoleon refused to serve in Lon- don uiider his literary marshals. He returned to the theatre after a while with his ‘ Bride of Lud- gate,’ the first of many ventures and many suc- cesses on the same boards. ‘The Mutiny at the Nore7 had followed the first nautical success, and his minor pieces on the Surrey side continued to run long and gloriously. .3ut the patent theatres, with a monopoly of the five-act drama, were strongly garrisoned by the French, aided by native troops whom they had raised, and some of whom, such as Poole and Blanche, were men of great technical skill and facile talent; and he never felt his feet secure in either theatre until the production of his ‘Hent Day,’ a play suggested and elaborated from \Vilkie’s pictures. \Nilkic sent him a hand- some letter and a pair of proof engravings with his autograph. The public paid him still more amply. A selection from the early writings for the stage, made by himself, has been published in the Collected Edition of his works. 3>ut many were unjustly condemned, and among those re- jected plays the curious seeker will find some of the most sterling literary gold. His wit was so prodigal, and he prized it so little, save as a delight to others, that he threw it away like dust, never caring for the bright children of his brain, and smiling with complacent kindness at people who repeated to him his jests as their own! At the least demur, too, he would sin ‘ender his most happy allusions and his most trenchant hits. In one of his plays an old sailor, trying to snatch a kiss from a pretty girl—as old sailors will—got a box on the ear. “ There,” exclaimed Blue—jacket, “ like . . subtle and delicate prmluctions of his muse. n‘ my luck ; always wrecked on the coral reefs. The manager, when the play was read in the green- 1 room, could not see the fun, and Jerrold struck it , out. A friend made a captions remark on a very characteristic touch in a manuscript comedy the touch went out :———a cynical d(,)g in a wrangle with his much better-half said to her, “ h’ly notion I of a wife of forty is, that a man. should be able to , ‘ indeed, had always attracted him as they attract the change her, like 1 bank—note, for two twenties." The best part of many years of his life was given , up freely to these theatrical tasks,——for his genius was dramatic——his family belonged to the stage— and his own pulpit, as he thought, stood behind the footlights. His father, his mother, and his two sisters all adorned the stage ; his sisters, older than ' himself, had married two managers,—one the late . llIr. Hammond, an eccentric humourist and un- successful manager of Drury Lana—the other, h’lr. Copeland, of the Liverpool Theatre Royal. He himself for a moment retrod the stage, playing in his own exquisite drama, ‘The Painter of Ghent.’ But the effort of mechanical repetition. wearied a brain so fertile in invention; and he happily re- turned to literature and journalism, only to re—appear as an actor in the plays performed by the amateurs at St. {l'aiiies’s Theatre and Devonshire H<,>11se. After this time appeared, in succession, the greatest and maturcst of his comedies. In ‘The Prisoner of \Var,’ in parts :ast for them, the two Keeleys harvested their highest comic honours. ‘ Bubbles of a Day’ followed,—the most electric and witty play in the English language; a play without story, scenery, or character, but which, by mere power of dialogue, by iiasb, mvirl, and cows cation of fancy, charn'ied one of the most intel— lectual audiences ever gathered in the Haymarket. Then came ‘ Time works \Vonders,’ remarkable as being one of the few works in which the dramatist paid much attention to story. ‘The Catspaw,’ pro- duced at the Haymarket,—‘ St. Cupid,7 an exquisite cal )inct piece, first produced at \Vindsor Castle, and afterwards at the Princess’s Theatre, with 311‘s. liean in Dorm/2y, one of the most dainty and tender assuinj')tioiis of this charming artist, and ‘The Heart of Gold,7 also ]_>roduced by ldr. Kean, complete the series of his later works. \Vc are glad to announce, however, that the dramatist has left behind a finished five-act comedy, with the title of " The Spendthrift,’ for which the manage- ments should be making early inquiries. Contemjlioraneously, he had worked his way into notice as a prose writer of a very brilliant and original type—chiefly through the periodicals. His passion was periodicity—«the power of being able to throw his emotions daily, or weekly, into the common reservoirs of thought. Silence was to him a pain like hunger. He must talk—act upon men—briefly, rapidly, irresistibly. For many years he brooded over the thought of P mar/z. He even found a publisher and a wood-engraver and a suitable Punch appeared, but the publisher was less rich in funds than he in epigrams, and afterfive or six numbers the bantling died. Some time later, his son-in-law, hlr. hlayhew, revived the thought, —and our merry companion—now of world-wide and . ‘ can new command. name—appeared. All the chief writings of our author—'exccpt ‘A Blair made of l\loney’ saw the light in magazines, and were written with the devil at the door. ‘lVlen of Character’ appeared in 13lov/cztood’s illu.,r/((zéac,—-‘Tlie Chronicles of Clover- nook’ in the Illuminated JlIkIf/«zz'ne, of which he was founder and editor,—-——‘ St. Giles and St. tl’aiiies’ in the Shilling ilfuga.2'inc, of which he was also- foundcr and editor, and ‘ The Story of a Feather,’ ‘Punch’s Letters to his Son,’ and ‘The Candle Lectures’ iii- Punch. The exquisite gallery of Fireside Saints which appear in Piano/L’s Alumnaclc for the present year is from his hand. Most of these works bear the magazine mark upon them—- the broad arrow of their origin; but the magazine brand in this case, like the brands of famous vin- tages, if testifying to certain accidents of carriage, attests also the vigour and richness of the soil from which they come. ‘ Clovernook’ is less perfect as a work of art than many a book born and forgotten since the Hermit fed on dainty viands and dis- courscd of sweet philosophy. Some of his essays, ‘ contributed at an early time to the A (llemmm and the THOSli But we have recently devoted a long article to the consideration of his literary merits, and need not repeat in this obituary what we have said before with greater leisure and more calmness than we, to Bloc/moods Ll/(lj/(lfil'nc ‘ank among For seven years past he had devoted himself more exclusively than before to politics. .E.’olitics,. strong and the susceptible. In the dear old days when Leigh Hunt was sunning himself in Horse~ monger Lane for calling George the Fourth a at- Adonis of forty and the like crimes, he composed a ‘ political work—4n a spirit which Would probably in those days have sent him to Newgate. The book was printed, but the jniblishers lacked coura 2., and it was only to be had in secret. Only a few copies- are extant. Of late years he had returned to poli- tics ; as a writer for the Ballot under lilr. Vakley, and as sub-editor of the Examiner under Mr. Fon- blanque; returned to find his opinions popular in the country and triumphant in the House of Commons. Of his efforts as a journalist we need not speak. He found Lloyd‘s Nazi'spapcr, as it were, in the street, and he annexed it to literature. He found it comparatively low in rank, and he spr "Ltl it abroad on the wings of his genius, until its circula- tion became a marvel of the press. \Ve have neither time nor heart at this moment to draw the portrait of the deceased. An ampler biography will not long be wanting: in which those who knew and loved him—and those who knew him best loved him most—will be able to paint him as the index and interpretation of his work. Yet even at a glance, the depth of his i1 sight, the subtlety of his analysis, the vividness of his presen— tation must strike every one who reads. His place among the wits of our own time is clear enough. He had less frolic than Theodore Hook, less elaborate humour than Sydney Smith, less quibble and quaintncss than Thomas Hood. But he surpassed all these in intellectual flash and strength. His wit was all steel points, — and his talk was like squadrons of laiicers in evo- lution. Not one pun, we have heard, is to be found in his writings. His wit stood nearer to poetic fancy than to broad humour. The exquisite confusion of his tipsy gentleman, who, after scraping the door for an hour with his latch-key, leans back and exclaiins, “By Jove! some scoundrel has stolen—stolen as any of his illustrations. His celebrated defini- tion of Doginatism as “Puppyism come to ina~ turity” looks like a happy pun—but is something far more deep and philosophic. letween this, however, and such fancies as his description of Australia “A land so fat, that if you tickle it with a straw, it laughs with a harvest”—~ the distance is not great. In his earlier time, before age and success had mellowed him to his best, he was sometimes accused of ill»nature, a charge which he vehemently resented and which seemed only ludicrous to those privileged with his friendship. To folly, pretence, and assumption he gave no quarter, though in fair fight; and some of the keyhole 2” comes as n tar farce / 760 those who tried lances with him long remembered his home thrust. \Ve may give two instances with- out offence, for the combatants are all gone from the scene. One of those playwrights who occupied Old Drury, under the French, against whom he waged ceaseless war of epigram, was describing himself as suffering from fever of the brain. “Courage, my good fellow,” says Jerrold, “there is no foundation for the fact." \Vhen the flight of Guizot and Louis Philippe from Paris was the fresh talk of London, a writer of no great parts was abusing the Revolution and pitying Guizot. “ You see,” he observed, “ Guizot and I are both historians ——we row in the same boat.”——“Aye, aye,” says Jerrold, “but not with the same sculls.” Yet such personal encounters were but the play of the panther. No man ever used such powers with greater gentleness. Indeed, to speak the plain truth, his fault as a man—if it be a fault—was a too great tenderness of heart. He never could say No. His purse—when he had a purse—was at every man’s service, as were also his time, his pen, and his influence in the world. If he possessed a shilling somebody would get sixpence of it from him. He had a lending look, of which many took advantage. The first time he ever saw Tom Dibdin, that worthy gentleman and song— writer said to him —— “ Youngster, have you sufficient confidence in me to lend me a guinea 2” — “ Oh, yes,” said the Author of ‘ Black- Eyed Susan,’ “I have all the confidence, but I haven’t the guinea.” A generosity which knew no limit—not even the limit at his bankers—led him into trials from which a colder man would have easily escaped. To give all that he possessed to relieve a brother from immediate trouble was nothing; he as willingly mortgaged his future for a friend as another man would bestow his advice or his blessing. And yet this man was accused of ill nature ! If every one who received a kindness at his hands should lay a flower on his tomb, a moun- tain of roses would rise on the last resting-place of Douglas Jerrold. The deceased died, after a few days’ ilhiess, from disease of the heart, at his residence, Greville Place, Kilburn Priory, on Monday last, the 8th of June. No first-class portrait exists of the deceased. Mr. Macknee, of Glasgow, painted him, but the likeness is a failure. Two or three others tried their hands, with even less success. lVIr. hlayall and Mr. VVat— kins have made fair photographs of an extremely difficult face. Dr. Diamond has also obtained some excellent studies taken only a few days before his death. But the only Art-