The History of "Punch" Part 23

In point of fact, he was no more pleased, artistically, with the success of Mrs. Caudle among his books than he was pleased with the position of "Black-eyed Susan" among his plays, as he was well aware that he had done much better work in both branches. But for _Punch's_ sake he was delighted. So after the death of Mrs. Caudle, which in decency could no longer be delayed, Jerrold attempted to carry on the idea by marrying the widower to the lady of whom his wife had been so jealous; so that Mr. Caudle--his head turned by his new-born liberty--might, in the "Breakfast Talk" levelled at his second spouse, avenge the oppression he had suffered from his first. But the experiment, which took place in the Almanac of the following year, fell flat, and Mr. and Mrs. Caudle, too, dropped out of Mr. Punch's doll-box for good and all.

Then followed, in 1846, "_Punch's_ Complete Letter-writer," which in consequence of the odium incurred a short time before by Sir James Graham, the Home Secretary,[38] by the opening of certain letters while they were pa.s.sing through the post, Jerrold sarcastically dedicated to the heckled baronet. He did this on the ground that Sir James, having the whole run of the Post Office and the fingering of all the letters, must therefore possess "a most refined, most exquisite taste for the graces of epistolary composition," and could thoroughly appreciate them.

This was another version of Hood's lines--

"A daw's not reckon'd a religious bird Because he keeps a-cawing from a steeple,"

and is the pattern on which Mr. Whistler's effort was founded--that the mere company of pictures can impart no feeling or knowledge of art, else the policeman in the National Gallery must be the best of critics. But at this time better work of Jerrold's, "St. Giles's and St. James's,"

was appearing in his "Shilling Magazine" (newly started by Bradbury and Evans), as well as in the "Daily News," under the t.i.tle of the "Hedgehog Papers;" while "Time Works Wonders" raised his reputation higher than ever upon the stage.

In the same year appeared the commencement of the series "Mrs. Bibs'

Baby"--but it was not a success, and was entirely thrown into the shade, as it appeared, by Thackeray's first triumph, the "Sn.o.b Papers." The chief charm about "Mrs. Bibs' Baby" is that it was the outcome of Jerrold's pa.s.sionate love of children. This delightful trait in Jerrold's character--as in Steele's, Fielding's, Goldsmith's, and d.i.c.kens's--has been common to many of the _Punch_ Staff, as we know in their lives and have seen in their works. We all know how Thackeray never saw a boy without wanting to tip him--a practical form of sympathy which found great approval. Leech loved all children, even the terrible ones, and makes us feel it in his drawings. Mr. du Maurier adores the nice and the pretty ones, and even has a fatherly sort of pity for the stupid and the ugly. Mr. Harry Furniss's "Romps" reflects his keen delight in young people, the wilder the better. Shirley Brooks loved to read the "Jabberwock" to them, and Sir John Tenniel, like his old chief, Mark Lemon, loved them for their childhood's sake--or he would never have been able to give us "Alice in Wonderland." Of course, there may be others on the Staff who have no particularly p.r.o.nounced feeling in this direction; but Jerrold would often go out of his way to introduce babies into his serious articles. He speaks somewhere of something "sweeter than the sweetest baby"--and once said that "children are earthly idols that hold us from the stars." So he began "Mrs. Bibs' Baby," and felt humiliated and disappointed when the public showed no glimmer of interest in it, and he was soon induced by his own good sense and the editorial hint to desert his latest offspring.

Then came "The Female Robinson Crusoe," and the last (modified) success, "Twelve Fireside Saints;" but outside undertakings were almost monopolising his attention. His "Weekly Newspaper," founded on the strength of his "Q Papers," had been born and was already dead. His powerful novel "A Man Made of Money" made his next unqualified success; then in 1850 he became attached to the "Examiner," and two years later "Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper" brought him an editorship and a thousand pounds a year--and he knew at last, and for the first time, the meaning of freedom from care. He became, moreover, independent of the publishers of _Punch_, to whom he was pecuniarily indebted, although they had more than once raised his salary (once in order to enable him to dispense with working for the "Pictorial Times"); but his indebtedness he felt as a tie, which was none the less irksome that it was a golden fetter which bound him to his friends. Still, to the end he sent in his satires, couplets, and epigrams--stinging, brilliant, and original--jokes and sarcasms by the score, but extremely few puns.

Sometimes, reviving the memories of his early trade, he would enter the compositors' room, and, while waiting for a proof, would seize a "stick," set up some concluding lines or a fresh paragraph in type, and even make his own corrections in proof, almost driving the "reader" out of his mind, until he learned how the corrections and additions had been effected.

That Jerrold's wit ran in a higher groove than mere verbal quips and cranks is proved by the retorts and epigrams that have been preserved and ticketed in cases like a collection of brilliant b.u.t.terflies. When one March or April he tumbled backwards into water where, but for the unseasonable weather, no water ought to have been, he suggested that the accident was "owing to the backward spring;" reminding us of that similar witticism of Henry Compton's, when fine hot weather followed suddenly on March snows--"We have jumped from winter to summer without a spring." His reply was characteristic to the poet Heraud's enquiry as to whether he had seen his "Descent into h.e.l.l" (then newly published)--"I wish to Heaven I had;" together with his well-known retort to Albert Smith, who, before he left the paper, protested coaxingly against Jerrold's merciless chaff, adding, "After all, you know, we row in the same boat." "True," answered Jerrold, quick as thought, "but not with the same skulls."

But he did not always come off scot-free; and, like many a wit whose tongue is feared, he could be silenced by a well-directed thrust which, for want of practice and experience in defence, he knew not how to parry. Mr. Charles Williams tells me the story, recounted to him by Thackeray, of how, when one wet night they were all at a little oyster-shop then facing the Strand Theatre, the barmaid Jane, thoroughly out of humour at Jerrold's chaff, slapped down before the little man the liquor he had ordered, with the words, "There's your grog and take care you don't drown yourself;" with the effect of damping his spirits for the rest of the night. When Alfred Bunn retaliated with "A Word with Punch,"[39] Jerrold made no reply, to the astonished delight of the rival press. No man had greater courage than he; but he probably found that he had nothing more to say, seeing that from week to week for years past he had written against Bunn all he knew or could think of. And when Shirley Brooks struck at him in "The Man in the Moon" in the course of a mock election-address beginning--"I hate the humbug of the 'wrongs of the poor man' cla.s.s of writing when any sneaking rascal is found poaching and punished for it"--Jerrold held his peace, and in due time voted to have the damaging a.s.sailant invited to join _Punch's_ Staff.

Mrs. Landells, without straining their friendship, called him "the little wasp" to his face; but, as Leigh Hunt more justly said, if he had the sting of the bee, he also had the honey. When Jerrold said in his wife's presence that a man ought to be able to change a spouse like a bank-note--change one of forty for two of twenty--he indulged in kindly chaff which she well understood and could appreciate; and when, on the occasion of a party at their house, he replied to a question as to who was dancing with his wife, "Oh, a member of the Humane Society, I suppose," she had no objection to Leech making it into a picture for _Punch's_ pages. When Jerrold said anything witty he would always laugh frankly and unreservedly at it, and, like d.i.c.kens, he would burst out laughing as he wrote, when he struck upon a comic idea for _Punch_.

The report that Mark Lemon said of Douglas Jerrold that "he was doubtless considered caustic because he blackened every character he touched" is probably apocryphal--though Jerrold's occasional treatment of Lemon might perhaps have justified some sort of retaliation from his genial Editor. Still, it was Jerrold's firm belief, as he declared to Mr. Sidney Cooper, R.A., that he had never in his life said or written a bitter thing of anyone who did not deserve it. But when he was on his death-bed, the day before he died, he sent a last affectionate message to his old comrades at the Table: "Tell the dear boys that if I've ever wounded any of them, I've always loved them." Horace Mayhew was with him when he pa.s.sed away, and thence from the bedside brought the dead man's love to them as a token to wipe out the sting of words which, if they had not been forgotten, had been forgiven long ago.

After 1848 Jerrold wrote less and less for _Punch_; but until 1857, the year of his death, he faithfully attended at the Table, and exerted himself in _Punch's_ behalf. And when he died--the greatest blow _Punch_ had hitherto suffered by death (for Dr. Maginn was never on the Staff)--Henry Mayhew (his son-in-law), Thackeray, Horace Mayhew, Mark Lemon, and W. Bradbury were his pall-bearers, and Leech, Shirley Brooks, Tom Taylor, John Oxenford, Percival Leigh, James Hannay, Landells, Kenny Meadows, Albert Smith, and John Tenniel attended at his graveside. d.i.c.kens took a prominent part in raising a fund for the benefit of the widow, and with Thackeray and Dr. W. H. (now Sir William) Russell gave readings, while d.i.c.kens' Amateurs made a public appearance, and T. P. Cooke returned to the stage for the occasion--with a result amounting to 2,000. Tom Taylor's feeling address, which was spoken at the Adelphi Theatre by Albert Smith, between whom and Jerrold a kindlier feeling had latterly sprung up, concluded thus:--

"... If one joy From earth can reach souls freed from earth's alloy, 'Tis sure the joy to know kind hands are here Drying the widow's and the orphan's tear; Helping them gently o'er lone life's rough ways, Sending what light may be to darkling days-- A better service than to hang with verse, As our forefathers did, the poet's hea.r.s.e.

Two things our Jerrold left, by death removed-- The works he wrought: the family he loved.

The first to-night you honour; honouring these, You lend your aid to give the others ease."

FOOTNOTES:

[37] Dr. Strauss's attribution of this repartee to Robert Brough in reproof of James Hannay appears to be quite without foundation.

[38] See p. 113 _et seq._

[39] See p. 227 _et seq._

CHAPTER XIV.

_PUNCH'S_ WRITERS: 1841-2.

Percival Leigh--His Medical Shrewdness--Unsuspected Wealth--His Ability and Work--His Decay--Kindness of the Proprietors to the Old Pensioner--Albert Smith--Inspires varied Sentiments--Jerrold's Hostility--"Lord Smith"--Parts Company--H. A. Kennedy--Dr.

Maginn--John Oxenford--W. M. Thackeray--His First Contribution--"Miss Tickletoby" Fails to Please--He Withdraws--And Resumes--Rivalry with Jerrold--As an Ill.u.s.trator--A Mysterious Picture--Thackeray's Contributions--And Pseudonyms--Quaint Orthography--"The Sn.o.bs of England"--He Tires of _Punch_--His Motives for Resignation--The Letter--Death of "Dear Old Thack"--_Punch's_ Tribute to his Memory.

How Percival Leigh (otherwise called "Paul Prendergast" in those early days) was sought out by George Hodder, on the strength of the "Comic Latin Grammar," and how, after a judicious pause, he joined the Staff of _Punch_, has already been made known. He was twenty-four when, in 1835, he took his M.R.C.S. He had been a medical student of "Bart's," but had already abandoned, in great measure, the lancet for the pen. He sent in as his first contribution the article to accompany Leech's "Foreign Affairs;" and though he became best known as a humorist, as a doctor he was in his early days equally to be respected. Mr. Arthur a Beckett tells the following stories of his powers in the direction of diagnosis and surgery:--

Although he had given up practice for a number of years, he was an excellent doctor. Sir James Paget has told me that when he and "the Professor" [Leigh's nickname at the Table] were fellow-students at "Bart's," the latter was considered quite the best man of his year.

He was admirable at diagnosis, and I shall never forget one of his prognostications. He was in the company of a number of _litterateurs_ and artists who were dining together. A well-known dramatist was expected, and did not turn up to time. The absentee was allowed ten minutes' grace, and then dinner was commenced without him. After a while he came in full of apologies. He had missed one train (he lived in the suburbs), and would have missed another had he not run for it. And then he laughingly explained to "the Professor" that he thought he had sprained his leg. Percival Leigh, who had been looking at him with keen attention since his entrance, asked him a couple of questions; and having received replies to them, spoke as follows: "My dear fellow, if you will take my advice, you will go home at once in a cab and get to bed.

Send for your doctor and make him overhaul you. But call special attention to the sprain." The dramatist, who was one of "the Professor's" oldest friends, obeyed orders and departed. Then the rest of the company twitted the doctor on the clever ruse "of getting rid of one who deserved to be punished for keeping the soup waiting." Of course, it was only chaff, but "the Professor" took it seriously. "No, my boys," he replied, very gravely, "I did not send him away on our account, but in his own interest. Of course, while there is life there is hope; but, unless I am very greatly mistaken, we shall never see him again." And "the Professor" was right. Within a month the dramatist had joined the silent majority.

The second story about my dear old friend is not so grim as its predecessor.

Mr. Percival Leigh, when he was more than seventy years old, was knocked down by a pa.s.sing vehicle as he was crossing the road. He was immediately picked up by a policeman and conveyed in a cab to the nearest hospital. "The Professor," who was covered in mud, asked to be taken home, but the constable would not listen to him.

So he was carried into the accident ward. After a while he was seen by the house-surgeon and his a.s.sistant. The two medicos entirely ignored "the Professor," and gave their exclusive attention to his leg. "I think you are wrong," said Mr. Leigh, in a mild tone of voice, after he had listened to their conversation for a few moments. The doctors paid not the slightest attention to the observation, and continued their investigations. Now "the Professor" was the most mild and kindly of gentlemen--courteous to a degree, and as polished as a traditional Frenchman--but when he was roused he was--well, emphatically roused. He attempted a second remonstrance, but with the same result. The two medicos calmly ignored him. "Drop that leg, you confounded blockheads!" he thundered out suddenly. "Can't you see, you idiots, that I have fractured my ----," and then he supplied a highly technical and scientific description of his accident. The two medicos stared at "the Professor" in blank astonishment. Then "the Professor"

abandoned his incognito, and gave his name and quality. "You see, gentlemen," he said, resuming his customary courteous tone, "I venture to believe that I know more about my leg than you do. It has been under my personal observation all my life, and I consequently have given more time to studying its const.i.tution and idiosyncracies than you, naturally (with all your numerous engagements), could afford to devote to such a purpose!"

Leigh had a philosopher's head and a fine face. In later life he was extremely careless in his person--so much so that when he died Mr.

Bradbury, with his usual thoughtfulness, went to the funeral with a cheque-book in his pocket, intending, if necessary, to pay the undertaker's expenses. His surprise, therefore, was great when he learned that "the Professor" had died worth from ten to eleven thousand pounds. Leigh, who lived for some years in Hammersmith Road, in a house which, judged from its exterior, promised little comfort within, was a profound Shakespearean and a good cla.s.sical scholar, and from these attainments he earned the sobriquet by which he was known. He vied with Jerrold himself in his knowledge of the Bard, and was fond of spouting the poets, cla.s.sic and English, with the least possible excuse, breaking out into verse with a loud voice, utterly oblivious of his companions.

It was he who introduced into the pages of _Punch_ the a.s.sumption of scholarship in its readers, and so acquired at once for the paper a position never held by any other humorous journal in this country. His work, which for many years averaged a column and a half each week, included nearly every sort of contribution known to _Punch_, including, in 1845, his striking "Pauper Song"--the wail of the poor man who prefers the prison to the workhouse, the second stanza running thus:--

"There shall I get the larger crust, The warmer house-room there; And choose a prison since I must, I'll choose it for its fare.

The Dog will s.n.a.t.c.h the biggest bone, So much the wiser he: Call me a Dog;--the name I'll own:-- The gaol--the gaol for me."

In 1843 Leigh began his effectively satirical "_Punch's_ Labours of Hercules," and in 1849 "Mr. Pipps's Diary" appeared as the text accompanying Doyle's pictures of "Ye Manners and Customs of ye Englyshe." The extraordinary success of this admirable parody was, perhaps, the greatest he ever won, though he achieved many. He was essentially a "safe man" at his work, and for that reason he would act as _loc.u.m tenens_ to Shirley Brooks when that Editor was away; and the only occasions on which he failed (so far as I can ascertain) except towards the end, was in May, 1847, when his wife died, and in April of the following year, when he lost his father. He always had a strong feeling for art, both in subject and treatment, and was always very fastidious about his work; he would touch up a poem over and over again, and take the utmost pains with metre and "swing" until he was satisfied.

But as he grew old it became evident that the "Professor" was beyond his work, and although he attended the Table with the utmost regularity up to the very end, the decay of nature robbed him of his value as a member of the Staff. Then came an example of the kindliness of spirit that has animated for so long the little coterie of humorists of Bouverie Street and the generosity of the men for whom they work. For a long while before his death "the Professor's" copy had been practically useless to the Editor; yet everything was done to spare him the pain of rejection.

At first Mr. Burnand or Mr. Arthur a Beckett would rewrite the paragraphs; and Leigh's delight when they were printed was sad to see.

But soon it was impossible to conceal the fact that they were utterly useless; and so for some years it was the practice to set his "copy" up in type and to send him proofs, which he duly corrected and returned.

But they never appeared in the paper, nor was ever question asked nor explanation offered. Did the old gentleman forget all about them? Or was he hoping against hope that some day room might again be found for him in the pages to which he had contributed with so much applause? Or did he appreciate the real motive and kindly feeling of the proprietors, who, though they could not use his work, actually increased his salary?

Whatever the cause, "the Professor" to the last maintained a pathetic silence. He died at Oak Cottage, King Street, Hammersmith, on October 24th, 1889, and was laid to rest in the Hammersmith Cemetery in the presence of a circle of old _Punch_ friends. For one thing, at least, he had laid the paper under a deep debt of grat.i.tude--he had introduced to it his hospital chum and life-long friend, John Leech, and that was a service which could never be forgotten.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ALBERT SMITH.

(_From an Engraving by Cook._)]

The third of the medical trio was Albert Smith, a writer who was not fortunate in making a good impression on the majority of his a.s.sociates.

With Leech, with whom he had shared rooms in his "sawbones days," he remained a steadfast friend; but it is probable that that friendship was maintained by the artist by reason of the other's good nature, and in spite of his manner. Henry Vizetelly, who evidently bore him no particular goodwill, wrote to me his recollections of the man in these words: "He was not the amiable person depicted by Yates in his 'Recollections.' He was vulgar and b.u.mptious in manner until he became polished by concerting with 'swells' after the success of his entertainments. He always had a keen eye for the main chance, and never neglected an opportunity for self-advertis.e.m.e.nt. Jerrold and Thackeray detested him, though only Jerrold showed this openly--which he occasionally did to Smith's face, in the most offensive manner. Albert Smith retained his position on _Punch_ for some time after Jerrold's animosity had declared itself--first, because his copy was always certain; and secondly, because he and Leech were great friends, and Leech was then a power--though not in the same degree as Jerrold, who was almost absolute." These strictures are repeated in Vizetelly's autobiography. Smith's "Physiologies," he says, which were some of them enlarged from the _Punch_ sketches, brought him great popular favour, in spite of their slight intrinsic worth. Thackeray was invited by Vizetelly to produce similar sketches at a hundred pounds apiece--which was double the amount he was then receiving for the monthly parts of "Vanity Fair;" but he declined to do anything "in the Albert Smith line," and he similarly refused to write for "Gavarni in London," of which Smith was editor. "Pigmy as Jerrold physically was, Albert Smith quailed before him;" for Jerrold's stinging attacks and repartees were merciless. So Smith bought a toy-whip, which he playfully produced to his friends with the explanation that he intended to apply it to "Master Jerrold;" but he was never known to bring it out in his tormentor's presence. Jerrold's "skull" witticism has already been recorded; and of the same kind was his loud enquiry over the _Punch_ dinner-table--when Smith's obtrusive foible of calling his acquaintances by their abbreviated Christian names became intolerable--"I say, Leech, how long is it necessary for a man to know you before he can call you 'Jack'?"

When Jerrold first saw Smith's initials, he had said that he believed they were "only two-thirds of the truth"--and he continued to act upon the a.s.sumption until Smith left _Punch_ and had become a successful "Entertainer." Then a truce was called, for his Mont Blanc ascent and the "Entertainment" he made out of it (of which Leech himself said, "It's only bad John Parry") had made of Smith one of the lions of the day, and of his St. Bernard, which had accompanied him, the most petted beast in the metropolis. But to the end he remained, generally speaking, the best-abused humorist of his day. He did not even succeed in escaping the quiet scorn of his occasional companion, d.i.c.kens, whose literary style it was reported he was trying to copy. The novelist, who much enjoyed Albert's sobriquet of "Lord Smith," simply shrugged his shoulders as he replied--"We all have our Smiths." It is believed by those who should know best that the cause of the final rupture between Smith and _Punch_ was the discovery that some of his articles were simply adaptations from the French; and this belief is still current in the _Punch_ office.

Smith's connection with _Punch_ was through his engagement for the "Cosmorama," on which Landells and Last committed infanticide at the starting of _Punch_. He sent his first paper from his temporary rooms at Chertsey; it was the burlesque, "Transactions and Yearly Report of the Hookham-c.u.m-Snivey Literary, Scientific, and Mechanics' Inst.i.tute" (12th September, 1841). This was succeeded in the following month, with the opening of his "Physiology of a London Medical Student," which was rather laughable in itself, while displaying a wonderful intimacy with the rough and noisy world with which it dealt. The idea, however, had already been sketched by Percival Leigh in "The Heads of the People."

Smith was now living at 14, Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road, in an unpalatial lodging, where he nominally carried on the profession of surgeon-dentist; but his best energies were thrown into his literary work, and there is no doubt that that work was to the taste of the _Punch_ readers. Mr. Walton Henning has told me how his father, A. S.

Henning, calling upon Smith concerning his work, found him like a typical Bob Sawyer, with his heels upon the table, playing the cornet as a grand finale to his breakfast. Then he would don his French workman's blouse and scribble for dear life. The "Physiology of London Evening Parties," which was originally written by him in 1839 for the "Literary World," was ill.u.s.trated by Newman, who was still a far more important man on _Punch_ than Leech; and the series was followed by "Curiosities of Medical Experiences," the less successful "Side-scenes of Everyday Society," and "Physiology of a London Idler"--which, taken together, were voted the most entertaining descriptions of social life that _Punch_ was publishing, even at a time when _Punch_ was declared to be vastly entertaining. Verse, epigram, jokelets, and articles on current events came from Albert Smith's pen before the strained relations between the parties and the irresistible hostility of Jerrold bore him down, though it is probable that the practical joke on him described among the proceedings of the _Punch_ Club had some part in bringing matters to a head; and on January 7th, 1844, his last contribution appeared--"Important and Telegraphic." _Punch_, in reply to a criticism of the "Boston Atlas," declared that Smith left in December, 1843; but Albert Smith himself wrote (November 20th, 1845) to Mr. James Silk Buckingham (who was protesting to him against _Punch's_ attacks): "I have not written or suggested anything for _Punch_ since January, 1844.... I withdrew in consequence of being unable to agree with Mr.

Mark Lemon, the editor. Indeed, I have been attacked since then through my novel of 'The Marchioness of Brinvilliers' both in _Punch_ and in 'Jerrold's Magazine,' for which I do not care a straw."

It was after his retirement from _Punch_ that, in conjunction with A. B.

Reach, he started "The Man in the Moon," with the express purpose of making himself obnoxious to _Punch_ in general and Jerrold in particular, in which laudable desire he in part, at least, succeeded; while at the same time he turned his attention to the publishers by bringing out a little Christmas volume ent.i.tled "A Bowl of _Punch_." But in time all bitterness disappeared; Albert the Great, as Smith was called, had "discovered" Mont Blanc and Chamonix, and peace prevailed, though to the end Smith had no further access to _Punch's_ pages.

The last regular contributor of the year 1841 whose name has been preserved is H. A. Kennedy, whose parodies of Horace were as good as anything Leigh ever did of the kind. The parody of Horace's "Donec gratus" is worth preserving, and that (p. 20, Volume II.) of "Ad Lydiam"--becomingly rendered into a tender ode "To Judy"--is hardly less excellent.

Dr. Maginn's connection with _Punch_ began with the first Almanac, while he was, with James Hannay, in residence in the "Fleet." The doctor, as one of the most versatile writers of the day, was looked upon by the "Punchites" as useful for their purpose as he was for any of the rival papers with which he was connected. "He would write a leader for the 'Standard' one evening," it is said in J. F. Clarke's "Auto-biographical Recollections," "answer it in the 'True Sun' the following day, and abuse both in the 'John Bull' on the ensuing Sunday."

Such a man could not be without a sense of humour, especially with ample gin and water to enrich it and poverty to point it. He was the brilliant Morgan O'Doherty of "Fraser" and "Blackwood," and was nearly, but not quite, "Captain Shandon" in "Pendennis." Thackeray had an affectionate admiration for his talents. But the times and the doctor were out of gear; he lost sympathy through his persecution of "L.E.L.," and his misfortunes led him to follow a cla.s.s of journalism out of all consonance with his powers and better feeling; he is credited with having been the forerunner of scurrilous society-journalism. But no hint of these defects is apparent in his work for _Punch_, in which, perhaps, he saw an opportunity for some degree of re-instatement; and he conveyed his grat.i.tude in a five-stanza poem in praise of the paper (p. 131, Vol.

II.), "Verses by a Bard--Much be-rhymed in _Punch_." But he was near his end; and when he died a year afterwards, _Punch_ devoted to him the first of his little black-bordered obituaries.

The year 1842 was the stormiest and most threatening in _Punch's_ history; so that, with an empty till and growing liabilities, there was no disposition towards introducing new contributors involving the principle of "cash down." Only three names belong to this year, but all were men of great importance, each in his own line--John Oxenford, W. M.

Thackeray, and Horace Mayhew. In common with Coyne, Oxenford had a stronger sympathy for the stage than for periodical literature, so that after the tenth volume he ceased to be even an occasional contributor.