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as in “Zanoni,” “Peter Schlemil,” and others, the supernatural appears as an element, and yet is made to conform itself in action to real and every-day life, in such a way that the understanding is not shocked, because it reassures itself by referring the supernatural to the regions of allegory. Shall we call this a kind of bastard-allegory? Jericho, when he first appears, is a common man of the common world. He is a money-making, grasping man, yet with a bitter savour of satire about him which raises him out of the common place. Presently it turns out, that by putting his hand to his heart he can draw away bank-notes,—only that it is his life he is drawing away. The conception is fine and imaginative, and ought to rank with the best of those philosophical stories so fashionable in the last century. Its working-out in the every-day part is brilliant and pungent; and much ingenuity is shown in connecting the tragic and mysterious element in Jericho’s life with the ordinary, vain, worldly existence of his wife and daughters. It is startling to find ourselves in the regions of the impossible, just as we are beginning to know the persons of the fable. But the mind reassures itself. This Jericho, with his mysterious fate,—is not he, in this twilight of fiction, shadowing to us the real destiny of real money-grubbers whom we may see any day about our doors? Has not the money become the very life of many such? And so feeling, the reader goes pleasantly on,—just excited a little, and raised out of the ordinary temperature in which fiction is read, by the mystic atmosphere through which he sees things,—and ends, acknowledging that with much pleasure he has also gathered a good moral. For his mere amusement the best fireworks have been cracking round him on his journey. In short, I esteem this Jerrold’s best book,—the one which contains most of his mind. Certain aspects of his mind, indeed, may be seen even to better advantage in others of his works; his sentimental side, for instance, in “Clovernook,” where he has let his fancy run riot like honeysuckle, and overgrow every thing; his wit in “Time works Wonders,” which blazes with epigrams like Vauxhall with lamps. But “A Man made of Money” is the completest of his books as a creation, and the most characteristic in point of style,—is based on a principle which predominated in his mind,—is the most original in imaginativeness, and the best sustained in point and neatness, of the works he has left.

During the years of which I have just been speaking, Jerrold lived chiefly in a villa at Putney, and afterwards at St. John’s Wood,—the mention of which fact leads me to enter on a description of him in his private, social, and friendly relations. Now-a-days it is happily expected of every man who writes of another to recognize his humanity,—not to treat him as a machine for the production of this or that—scientific, or literary, or other—material. Homo sum is the motto of the biographer, and so of the humbler biographic sketcher. Jerrold is just one of those who require and reward this kind of personal sympathy and attention;—so radiant was the man of all that he put into his books!—so quick, so warm, so full of light and life, wit and impulse! He was one of the few who in their conversation entirely come up to their renown. He sparkled wherever you touched him, like the sea at night.

The first thing I have to remark, in treating of Jerrold the man, is the entire harmony between that figure and Jerrold the writer. He talked very much as he wrote, and he acted in life on the principles which he advocated in literature. He united, remarkably, simplicity of character with brilliancy of talk. For instance, with all his success, he never sought higher society than that which he found himself gradually and by a natural momentum borne into, as he advanced. He never suppressed a flash of indignant sarcasm for fear of startling the “genteel” classes and Mrs. Grundy. He never aped aristocracy in his household. He would go to a tavern for his oysters and a glass of punches simply as they did in Ben Jonson’s days; and I have heard of his doing so from a sensation of boredom at a very great house indeed,—a house for the sake of an admission to which, half Bayswater would sell their grandmothers’ bones to a surgeon. This kind of thing stamped him in our polite days as one of the old school, and was exceedingly refreshing to observe in an age when the anxious endeavour of the English middle classes is to hide their plebeian origin under a mockery of patrician elegance. He had none of the airs of success or reputation,—none of the affectations, either personal or social, which are rife everywhere. He was manly and natural,—free and off-handed to the verge of eccentricity. Independence and marked character seemed to breathe from the little, rather bowed figure, crowned with a lion-like head and falling light hair,—to glow in the keen, eager, blue eyes glancing on either side as he walked along. Nothing could be less commonplace, nothing less conventional, than his appearance in a room or in the streets.

His quick, impulsive nature made him a great talker, and conspicuously convivial,—yea, convivial, at times, up to heights of vinous glory which the Currans and Sheridans shrank not from, but which a respectable age discourages. And here I must undertake the task of saying something about his conversational wit,—so celebrated, yet so difficult (as is notoriously the case with all wits) to do justice to on paper.

The first thing that struck you was his extreme readiness in conversation. He gave the electric spark whenever you put your knuckle to him. The first time I called on him in his house at Putney, I found him sipping claret We talked of a certain dull fellow whose wealth made him prominent at that time. “Yes,” said Jerrold, drawing his finger round the edge of his wineglass, “that’s the range of his intellect,—only it had never any thing half so good in it.” I quote this merely as one of the average bons-mots which made the small change of his ordinary conversation. He would pun, too, in talk, which he scarcely ever did in writing. Thus he extemporized as an epitaph for his friend Charles Knight, “GOOD NIGHT!”—When Mrs. Glover complained that her hair was turning gray,—from using essence of lavender (as she said),—he asked her “whether it wasn’t essence of thyme?” On the occasion of starting a convivial club, (he was very fond of such clubs,) somebody proposed that it should consist of twelve members, and be called “The Zodiac,”—each member to be named after a sign. “And what shall I be?” inquired a somewhat solemn man, who feared that they were filled up. “Oh, we’ll bring you in as the weight in Libra,” was the instant remark of Douglas. A noisy fellow had long interrupted a company in which he was. At last the bore said of a certain tune, “It carries me away with it.” “For God’s sake,” said Jerrold, “let somebody whistle it.”—Such dicteria, as the Romans called them, bristled over his talk. And he flashed them out with an eagerness, and a quiver of his large, somewhat coarse mouth, which it was quite dramatic to see. His intense chuckle showed how hearty was his gusto for satire, and that wit was a regular habit of his mind.

I shall set down here some Jerroldiana current in London,—some heard by myself, or otherwise well authenticated. Remember how few we have of George Selwyn’s, Hanbury Williams’s, Hook’s, or indeed any body’s, and you will not wonder that my handful is not larger.

 

When the well-known “Letters” of Miss Martineau and Atkinson appeared, Jerrold observed that their creed was, “There is no God, and Miss Martineau is his prophet.”

 

“I have had such a curious dinner!” said C. “Calves’ tails.”—“Extremes meet,” Douglas said, instantly.

 

He admired Carlyle; but objected that he did not give definite suggestions for the improvement of the age which he rebuked. “Here,” said he, “is a man who beats a big drum under my windows, and when I come running down stairs has nowhere for me to go.”

 

A wild Republican said profanely, that Louis Blanc was “next to Jesus Christ”—“On which side?” asked the wit.

 

Pretty Miss –-, the actress, being mentioned, he praised her early beauty. “She was a lovely little thing,” he said, “when she was a bud, and”—(a pause)—“before she was a blowen’.”—This was in a very merry vein, and the serious reader must forgive me.

 

He called a small, thin London littérateur of his acquaintance, “a pin without the head or the point.”

 

When a plain, not to say ugly, gentleman intimated his intention of being godfather to somebody’s child, Jerrold begged him not to give the youngster his “mug.”

 

A dedication to him being spoken of,—“Ah!” said he, with mock gravity, “that’s an awful power that –- has in his hands!”

 

Carlyle and a much inferior man being coupled by some sapient review as “biographers,”—“Those two joined!” he exclaimed. “You can’t plough with an ox and an ass.”

 

“Is the legacy to be paid immediately?” inquired somebody,—_apropos_ of a will which made some noise.—“Yes, on the coffin-nail,” answered he.

 

Being told that a recent play had been “done to order,”—he observed, that “it would be done to a good many ‘orders,’ he feared.”

 

It may be honestly said that these are average specimens of the pleasantries which flowed from him in congenial society. His talk was full of such, among friends and acquaintance, and he certainly enjoyed the applause which they excited. But in his graver and tenderer moods, in the country walks and lounges of which he was fond, his range was higher and deeper. For a vein of natural poetry and piety ran through the man,—wit and satirist as he was,—and appeared in his speech, occasionally, as in his writings.

A long habit of indulgence in epigram had made him rather apt to quiz his friends. But we are to remember that he was encouraged in this, and that a self-indulgent man is only too liable to have the nicety of his sensitiveness spoiled. Certainly, he had a kind heart and good principles. He would lend any man money, or give any man help,—even to the extent of weakness and imprudence. This was one reason why he died no better off,—and one reason why his friends have so much exerted themselves to pay a tribute to his memory in the shape of an addition to the provision he had made for his family. The quickness of feeling which belonged to him made him somewhat ready to take offence. But if he was easily ruffled, he was easily smoothed. Of few men could you say, that their natural impulses were better, or that, given such a nature and such a fortune, they would have arrived at fifty-four years of age with so young a heart.

The last literary event of any magnitude in Jerrold’s life was his assuming the editorship of “Lloyd’s Newspaper.” This journal, which before his connection with it had no position to brag of, rose under his hands to great circulation and celebrity. Every week, there you traced his hand at its old work of embroidering with queer and fanciful sarcasm some bit of what he thought timely and necessary truth. Against all tyrants, all big-wigged impostors, black, white, or gray, was his hammer ringing, and sparks of wit were flying about as ever under his hand. He was getting up in years; but still there seemed many to be hoped for him, yet. Though