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labour were long, and there were no compositors'

reading-rooms for leisure moments, he attacked .^.tud,e?

I diligently.

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 sixpenny magazines of the day. He was then a mere boy, and looked, indeed, like a child. An American writer, one of those gentlemen from over sea who print Citizen of the World on their cards and invent pen-and-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 almost infantine in the delicate mould of his face and the exquisite beauty of his expression. Emboldened by success, he wrote for the stage, to which he felt a family call, and produced clouds of pieces ere he was twenty—some of which still keep the stage, like 'More Frightened than Fl^°"ed Hurt,'performed at Sadler's Wells. He engaged than Hurt.' with Davidge, then manager of the Coburg, 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 Mr. Henry Brownrig. In consequence of quarrels he went from the Coburg • Black-Eyed Theatre to the Surrey, with ' Black-Eyed Susan1 in his hand. He had brought from the quarterdeck 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 sweeps through these latter like a breeze and a perfume. 'Black-Eyed Susan,' 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. P. Cooke. Indeed, no dramatic work of ancient or modern days ever reached the success of this play. It was performed, without break, for hundreds of nights. All London went over the water, and Cooke became a personage in society, as Garrick had been in the days of Goodman's Fields. Covent Garden borrowed the play, and engaged the actor, for an afterpiece. A hackney cab carried the triumphant William, in his blue jacket and white trousers, from the Obelisk to Bow Street; and Mayfair 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 representation the walls of the theatre were illuminated, and vast multitudes filled the thoroughfares. When subsequently reproduced at Drury Lane it kept off ruin 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 sue- Jerrold's cess. But Jerrold's share of the gain was slight: —£

—about 70/

"For many years he brooded over the thought of Punch. He even found a publisher—and a The penny wood-engraver—and a suitable Punch appeared, Punch—but the publisher was less rich in funds than he in epigrams, and after five or six numbers the bantling died. Some time later, his son-inlaw, Mr. Mayhew, revived the thought,—and our merry companion—now of world-wide name— Punch. appeared. All the chief writings of our author —except 'A Man made of Money*—saw the light in magazines, and were written with the devil at the door. 'Men of Character' appeared in Blackwood's Magazine,—'The Chronicles of Clovernook' in the Illuminated Magazine, of which he was founder and editor,—'St. Giles

and St. James' in the Shilling Magazine, of which he was also founder and editor,—and 'The Story of a Feather,' 'Punch's Letters to his Son,' and'The Caudle Lectures' in Punch. The exquisite gallery of Fireside Saints which appear in Punch's Almanack for the present year

is from his hand

"For seven years past he had devoted himself more exclusively than before to politics. Politics, indeed, had always attracted him as they attract the strong and the susceptible. In the dear old days when Leigh Hunt was sunning himself in Horsemonger Lane for calling George the Fourth a fat Adonis of forty and the like crimes, he His first composed a political work—in a spirit which Pwork?1 would probably in those days have sent him to Newgate. The book was printed, but the publishers lacked courage, and it was only to be had in secret. Only a few copies are extant. Of late years he had returned to politics; as a writer for the Ballot under Mr. Wakley, and as sub-editor of the Examiner under Mr. Fonblanque; returned to find his opinions popular in the country and triumphant in the House of Commons. Of his efforts as a journalist we need Lloyd's not speak. He found Lloyd's Newspaper, as it Newspaper. were, in street, and he annexed it to literature.

He found it comparatively low in rank, and he spread it abroad on the wings of his genius, until its circulation became a marvel of the press

"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 Tom Dibdin. and song-writer said to him—' Youngster, have you sufficient confidence in me to lend me a guinea?'—'Oh, yes,' said the author of 'BlackEyed 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."

The funeral took place on Monday, the 15th Funeral of June, at Norwood cemetery, in the presence at Nonvoodof between five and six thousand persons of all classes. The pall-bearers were Charles Dickens, Thackeray, Charles Knight, Mark Lemon, John Forster, W. Hepworth Dixon, Sir Joseph Paxton,

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