bless and thank you always," writes the kindly and affectionate soul, to another excellent friend, Mr. Forster. There were other friends, such as Mr. Fonblanque, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom he was connected in literary labour, who were not less eager to serve and befriend him.

As soon as he was dead, a number of other persons came forward to provide means for the maintenance of his orphan family. Messrs. Chapman and Hall took one son into their publishing-house, another was provided in a merchant's house in the City, the other is of an age and has the talents to follow and succeed in his father's profession. Mr. Col

burn and Mr. Ainsworth gave up their copyrights of his Essays, which are now printed in three handsome volumes, for the benefit of his children.

The following is Sir Edward Bulwer's just estimate of the writer :

"It remains now to speak (and I will endeavour to do so not too partially) of the talents which Laman Blanchard dis played, and of the writings he has left behind.

"His habits, as we have seen, necessarily forbade the cultivation of deep scholarship, and the careful developement of serious thought. But his in. formation upon all that interested the day was, for the same reason, various and extending over a wide surface. His observation was quick and lively. He looked abroad with an inquiring eye, and noticed the follies and humours of men with a light and pleasant gaiety, which wanted but the necessary bitterness (that was not in him) to take the dignity of satire. His style and his conceptions were not marked by the vigour which comes partly from concentration of intellect, and partly from heat of passion; but they evince, on the other hand, a purity of taste, and a propriety of feeling, which preserve him from the caricature and exaggeration that deface many compositions obtaining the praise of broad humour or intense purpose. His fancy did not soar high, but its play was sportive, and it sought its aliment with the graceful instincts of the poet. He certainly never fulfilled the great promise which his Lyric Offerings held forth. He never wrote up to the full mark of his powers; the fountain never rose to the level of its source. But in our day the professional man of letters is com pelled to draw too frequently, and by too small disbursements, upon his capital, to allow large and profitable investments of

the stock of mind and idea, with which he commences his career. The number and variety of our periodicals have tended to results which benefit the pecuniary interests of the author, to the prejudice of his substantial fame. A writer like Otway could not now-a-days starve; a writer like Goldsmith might live in May. fair and lounge in his carriage; but it may be doubted whether the one would now-a-days have composed a Venice Preserved, or the other have given us a Deserted Village and a Vicar of Wakefield. There is a fatal facility in supplying the wants of week by the rapid striking off a pleasant article, which interferes with the steady progress, even with the mature conception, of an elaborate work.

"Born at an earlier day, Laman Blanchard would probably have known sharper trials of pecuniary circumstance; and instead of the sufficient, though recarious income, which his reputation as a periodical writer afforded him, he might have often slept in the garret, and been fortunate if he had dined often in the cellar. But then he would have been compelled to put forth all that was in him of mind and genius; to have written books, not papers; and books not intended for the week or the month, but for permanent effect upon the public.

"In such circumstances, I firmly be lieve that his powers would have sufficed to enrich our poetry and our stage with no inconsiderable acquisitions. All that he wanted for the soil of his mind was time to wait the seasons, and to sow upon the more patient system. But too much activity and too little preparation were his natural doom. To borrow a homely illustration from the farm, he exhausted the land by a succession of white crops.

"On the other hand, had he been born a German, and exhibited, at Jena or Bonn, the same abilities and zeal for knowledge which distinguished him in the school of Southwark, he would, doubtless, have early attained to some moderate competence, which would have allowed fair play and full leisure for a character of genius which, naturally rather elegant than strong, required every advantage of forethought and prepara

tion.

"But when all is said-when all the drawbacks upon what he actually was are made and allowed-enough remains to justify warm eulogy, and to warrant the rational hope that he will occupy an honourable place among the writers of his age. Putting aside his poetical pretensions, and regarding solely what he performed, not what he promised, he unquestionably stands high amongst a class of writers, in which for the last century

we have not been rich-the Essayists, whose themes are drawn from social subjects, sporting lightly between literature and manners. And this kind of composition is extremely difficult in itself, requiring intellectual combinations rarely found. The volumes prefaced by this slight memoir deserve a place in every collection of belles lettres, and form most agreeable and characteristic illustrations of our manners and our age. They possess what is seldom found in light reading, the charm that comes from bequeath. ing pleasurable impressions. They are suffused in the sweetness of the author's disposition; they shun all painful views of life, all acerbity in observation, all gall in their gentle sarcasms. Added to

this, they contain not a thought, not a line, from which the most anxious parent would guard his child. They may be read with safety by the most simple, and yet they coutain enough of truth and character to interest the most reflective.'

Such an authority will serve to recommend these Sketches from Life, we hope, to many a library. Of the essays themselves, it is hardly necessary to select specimens. There is not one that can't be read with pleasure; they are often wise, and always witty and kindly. Let us dip into the volume, and select one at random. Here is one which relates to that class, which is ranked somehow as last in the literary profession, and is known under the famous name of

"The Penny-a-Liner.

"The penny-a-liner, like Pope, is 'known by his style.' His fine Roman hand once seen, may be sworn to by the most cursory observer. But though in this one respect of identity resembling Pope, he bears not in any other the least likeness to author dead or living. He has no brother, and is like no brother, in literature. Such as he was, he is. He disdains to accommodate his manner to the ever-altering taste of the times. He refuses to bow down to the popular idol, innovation. He has a style, and he sticks to it. He scorns to depart from it, to gratify the thirst for novelty. He even thinks that it improves with use, and that his pet phrases acquire a finer point and additional emphasis upon every fresh application. Thus, in relating the last fashionable occurrence, how a noble family has been plunged into consternation and sorrow by the elopement of Lady Prudentia a month after marriage, he informs you, as though the phrase itself carried conviction to the heart, that the

'feelings of the injured husband may be more easily conceived than described.' If he requires that phrase twice in the same narrative, he consents to vary it by saying, that that they may be imagined, but cannot be depicted.' In reporting an incident illustrative of the fatal effects of taking prussic acid, he states that the 'vital spark is extinct,' and that not the smallest hopes are entertained of the unfortunate gentleman's recovery. A lady's bag is barbarously stolen from her arm by a monster in the human form.' A thunder-storm is described as having 'visited' the metropolis, and the memory of the oldest inhabitant furnishes no parallel to the ravages of the electric fluid.' A new actress surpasses the most sanguine expectations' of the public, and exhibits talents that have seldom been equalled, never excelled. A new book is not simply published, it emanates from the press.' On the demise of a person of eminence, it is confidently averred that he had a hand 'open as day to melting charity,' and that, take him for all in all, we ne'er shall look upon his like again.' Two objects not immediately connected are sure to be far as the poles asunder;' although they are very easily brought together and reconciled in the reader's mind by the convenience of the phrase as it were,' which is an especial favourite, and constantly in request. He is a great admirer of amplitude of title, for palpable reasons; as when he reports, that Yesterday the Right Honourable Lord John Russell, M.P., his Majesty's Secretary of State for the Home Department, dined with,' &c. He is wonderfully expert in the measurement of hailstones, and in the calculation of the number of panes of glass which they demolish in their descent. He is acquainted with the exact circumference of every gooseberry that emulates the plenitude of a pumpkin; and can at all times detect a phenomenon in every private family, by simply reckoning up the united ages of its various members. But in the discharge of these useful duties, for the edification and amusement of the public, he employs, in the general course of things, but one set of phrases. If a fire can be rendered more picturesque by designating it the devouring element,' the devouring element rages in the description to the end of the chapter. Once a hit always a hit; a good thing remains good for ever; a happy epithet is felicitous to the last. The only variation of style that he can be prevailed upon to attempt, he introduces in his quotations. To these he often gives an entirely new aspect, and occasionally, by accident, he improves upon the originals. Of this, the following may stand as a specimen :

'Tis not in mortals to deserve success; But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll command it.""

The good-natured satirist seldom hits harder than this, and makes fun so generously, that it is a pleasure to be laughed at by him. How amusingly the secret of the penny-a-liner's craft is unveiled here! Well, he, too, is a member of the great rising fraternity of the press, which, weak and despised yesterday, is powerful and in repute to-day, and grows daily in strength and good opinion.

Out of Blanchard's life (except from the melancholy end, which is quite apart from it), there is surely no ground for drawing charges against the public of neglecting literature. His career, untimely concluded, is in the main a successful one. In truth, I don't see how the aid or interposition of government could in any way have greatly benefited him, or how it was even called upon to do so. does not follow that a man would produce a great work even if he had leisure. Squire Shakspeare of Stratford, with his lands and rents, and his arms over his porch, was not the working Shakspeare; and indolence (or contemplation, if you like) is no

It

unusual quality in the literary man. Of all the squires who have had acres and rents, all the holders of lucky, easy, government places, how many have written books, and of what worth are they? There are some persons whom government, having a want of, employs and pays-barristers, diplomatists, soldiers, and the like; but it doesn't want poetry, and can do without tragedies. Let men of letters stand for themselves. Every day enlarges their market, and multiplies their clients. The most skilful and successful among the cultivators of light literature have such a hold upon the public feelings, and awaken such a sympathy, as men of the class never enjoyed until now: men of science and learning, who aim at other distinction, get it; and, in spite of Doctor Carus's disgust, I believe there was never a time when so much of the practically useful was written and read, and every branch of bookmaking pursued, with an interest so

eager.

But I must conclude. My letter has swelled beyond the proper size of letters, and you are craving for news have you not to-day's Times' battle of Ferozeshah? Farewell.

M. A. T.

THE Common lodging-house, as the reader is no doubt aware, is a house of accommodation for all classes, no matter what may be their appearance or character, provided they can produce when required the necessary quantity of coins. In every considerable village in the kingdom there is a domicile called the Beggars' House; and in every town, fewer such houses or more, according to its size or population. In London there are hundreds of such, from that which suits the poor tenant of a room or cellar, with its two or three shakedown-beds upon the floor, to the more substantial holding of the landlord, with his ten or twenty up to two or three hundred beds. In one or other of these the houseless wanderer may find shelter, provided he pay from a penny to sixpence a-night; sleeping, according to the rate of his payments, on iron, or wood, or straw,

or in a hammock. If he be the penny-a-night lodger, he will have no softer resting-place than the floor. This common lodging-house business is a thriving trade; very little capital is required to carry it on. An old house will do in any back street or filthy lane; indeed, the more wretched the neighbourhood the better. Old bedsteads and bed-clothes of the coarsest description, with a few forms and a table for the kitchen, are nearly all that is required for the concern. The front room, or what is usually termed the parlour, is generally fitted up into a shop; or, when this is not the case, there is always some accommodating neighbour at hand who has for sale bacon, butter, cheese, bread, tea, coffee, sugar, tobacco, potatoes, red and salt herrings, smuggled liquors, and table - beer. Some add the savoury profession of the cook to

that of the huckster, and dish up a little roast and boiled beef, mutton, pork, vegetables, &c. The whole of these viands, the reader may be assured, are of very moderate quality. They are retailed to the lodgers at profitable prices and in the smallest saleable quantities, so that for the trifling sum of one penny the poor epicure may gratify his palate with a taste of beef, mutton, and other luxuries. Very little credit is given in those places, and that only to those who are well known; they who do not happen to possess this advantage are often compelled to take the handkerchiefs from their necks, the coats and even the shirts off their backs, and to give them to the cautious housekeeper, before they can procure a night's lodging or a morsel of food. Indeed, in the country it is a common thing, when a traveller (which is the appellation by which the alms-seeking gentry designate themselves) seeks for a night's lodging, for the landlord to refuse admittance unless the applicant carry a bundle, which is looked upon as a kind of guarantee that he may be trusted should he not have the "desirable" in his pocket.

It may naturally be supposed, that where there are such small outlays and such large returns good round sums must be produced; indeed, there are few who commence this kind of business but earn for themselves a speedy independency. Many whom I could mention have accumulated such enormous fortunes by the encouragement of vagrancy, that they are now the proprietors of valuable houses, in one or other of which they reside, while they continue to conduct their original establishments in the rest. The servants that are kept in such houses are generally male, men being considered better adapted to preserve peace and quietness than women. It is customary with lodgers who have any thing of value to deposit it with the landlord, and, in most cases, it is returned with safety. There are some whose character stands so high for honesty, that twenty pounds and upwards may be intrusted to them; while with others it would be best to trust nothing, for they are thieves and robbers, and often join with ruffians to get up a row during the night in

order to plunder their lodgers. It is not to be supposed that in such establishments the laws of decency, as they concern the sexes, are much observed; and they are universally filthy. But enough of this. Let us rather enter at once amongst those strange scenes, and endeavour to give the reader a correct view of one of them.

It was on a Saturday afternoon that I put myself in order, and had just reached St. George's, in the Borough, as the clock struck five. Opposite to that sacred edifice, and at the end of a narrow, dirty street leading into the main one, were standing some halfdozen fellows in flannel-jackets and other vestments, indicating that the class to which they belonged was that of labourers. On one side of this group sat an old woman with fruit, and on the other a middle-aged female, with that true Hibernian feature-the scowl, and retailing commodities of a similar description. As I looked for the name I could just discern on the wall, in small letters, THE MINT. Proceeding along the street, oysters, green-groceries, and huckstery goods, lined the doors and windows of a few dark, low-roofed shops on each side of the way, set off by that very necessary convenience, a gutter, which contributed to carry off the superabundant moisture as it crept between oyster-shells, turnip-tops, and various other matters. Women and children might be seen sitting or gossiping on the sills, -a sure sign of a low neighbourhood. The open door of a licensed victualler was not long in making its appearance; nor was it without a neighbour, another retailer of malt ;-both pretty well filled with comers-in and goers-out. The bustle, such as it was, now ceased, and the street widened a little, presenting a number of old furniture and petty chandlers'shops. Here all was dull, dirty, and quiet. A stout, bucanier-like fellow, in a tight, light-coloured worstedshirt and canvass-trousers, was coming crouching along with his bare feet, followed by a man upon crutches, both walking steadily in the direc tion of Barclay and Perkins. A singular-looking house next arrested our attention, which was painted r with a large board raised to the c

tre, and daubed with the same colour, upon which were written, in large white letters, "The Travellers' Rest, No. 18. Stephenson. The Red House. Good accommodations for Travellers." The parlour, or low front room, looked as if it had been a shop, having two large bow-windows, one of which was nearly closed with shutters, and the other partly so. Three or four half-naked, squalidlooking wretches were leaning against the entrance. I gave an involuntary shudder, for the place smelled of bones and rags, and all about the door had the stench of rottenness. "Does Mrs. Belch live here?" I inquired.

66 No, higher up," was the answer. "Thank God!" I mentally ejaculated, and moved on; and higher up, sure enough. stood another group of ragged gentry, whiling away their time with the sweets of Virginia, and quietly inhaling the evening air.

On one side of these men was a shop, to which I was directed by a nod. There was nothing peculiar that I could perceive about this place. It was a small chandler's shop, with two windows. In the one were placed a few eatables for show, and the other was screened off by a scanty curtain. On entering, the shop assumed a more marked-like character. One half was partitioned, apparently for private use; and the other left open for business, as if the owner had already accumulated so much as to be quite indifferent to trade, and only kept a few articles to pass away the time, or accommodate some old, particular customers. That which was set apart for traffic exhibited the cadging-shop to perfection. Quartern loaves cut into pennyworths (Poverty being a keen bargainer), and piled one upon the other; penny and halfpennyworths of tea, coffee, sugar, and tobacco, were all packed in paper, and lying in separate heaps; a large dish filled with the cuttings of rancid bacon, another with pieces of cheese, and a third with the scrapings of butter, were placed upon the counter; and in a corner on the floor were standing some half-dozen bottles of that delicious wash called table-beer, their sides all laving again with the foaming liquid. But, notwithstandhose preparations for the starveit not be supposed that there

was any lack of eatables that were worth eating. On a shelf or two in the centre of the shop were a few choice pieces of ham, a half-side of bacon, rolls of butter that might have graced the Mansion House for breakfast, with half and quarter cheeses from the best cheese counties in the kingdom, not forgetting that very necessary relish for a cadger's breakfast, a red herring. And all were temptingly arranged for those who might be pleased to term themselves lucky (namely, gents who depend upon chance, and find a purse or a flat thrown unexpectedly in their way). By this time the landlady had made her appearance, and was favouring me with so penetrating a glance that it convinced me she was a practical reader of that index of the mind, the face. After the usual inquiries and answers, an elderly female was desired to shew me down stairs. I was accordingly ushered through the parlour, a small room behind the shop, most curiously furnished. The walls were literally lined with pictures, for the most part small oil paintings. Two, however, were exceptions, being full-sized portraits. One represented the late John Belch, arrayed in a fashion which Nature certainly never intended him to put on, for he looked as if he had just bludgeoned a gentleman and then dressed himself in his clothes; the other was, of course, designed for his spouse, and a real dowdy it was, neither true nor flattering. The mantelpiece was loaded with superb shells and other marine specimens. Two old-fashioned corner cupboards, with their doors thrown open, fronted each other by the fire, displaying a rich store of china. A comfortable carpet was spread upon the floor; the hearth, too, had its rug. Chairs and tables were crowded together, evincing that the owner was more solicitous for a show of abundance than good taste. "Now here," thought I, "must be the room where the artist, half gentleman and whole vagabond, creeps in of a morning to blarney the good hostess about gentility and all that; where poor Jack, after squandering away his all, offers his last relic from the South Seas to be allowed to stay till he gets another ship; where the honest trader from Bordeaux, with his red nightcap and