Filling her veins with sunshine-vital blood Of all that now from her full breast doth smile Of light, where every mote is some small minstrel's isle.' "The next sonnet is on EVENING. Already hath the Day grown gray with age; And sharp leaves rustling at my casement tap, And beckon forth my mind to dream upon thy lap !' "In a sonnet on Midnight there is one most solemn and even sublime verse : 66 Again, among some very fine lines, in which, however, the mannerism of Shakspeare, if I may use the expression, has been too much imitated, is the following bold image :— "The author of these poems is a gentleman chiefly known in periodical literature—a contemporary and rival of our own. Be it So. The public hath room for all ! "Our poet, it is true, however, requires advice if he meditate another volume of verse. Let him break up the staff he has borrowed from the old poets, and walk alone. Does he remember a certain line in Sidney's 'Astrophel and Stella ' : : 'Look,' said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write.' "Let him more diligently study simplicity, and more carefully shun the ambition to be quaint. Charles Lamb and Wordsworth are beautiful writers, but bad models. Let him not forget too that Periodical writing is the grave of much genius-it leads men to write more than they reflect. All great works require stern and silent meditation. We must brood deeply over what we would wish to last long. Therefore among his stores-let there be one more sacred than the rest—not to be wasted lightly, but to be constantly and secretly fed. There is a beautiful passage in Quinctilian, an author not sufficiently studied. What he says of oratory is equally applicable to poetry :- Ars magna sicut flamma materiâ alitur, et motibus excitatur, et urendo clarescit. Crescit enim cum amplitudine rerum vis ingenii.' The power of the genius is increased by the abundance of the fuel that supplies it." * My criticism drew from the author a letter, in which he laid bare much of his secret ambition. "I look forward (it said) to some day, which the nature of my inevitable pursuits must render distant, when I may realise the dreams I cherished when my little volume was written, and escape from the hurried compositions intended for the day, into what I may call my inner self, and there meditate something that may verify your belief in the promise of my early efforts." From the date of our correspondence on this subject, I conceived a lively interest and a sincere friendship for Mr. Blanchard, which every year served to increase. It was impossible to know and not to love him. He was thoroughly honest, true, and genuine; ever ready to confer a kindness; and of a grateful disposition, which * From the New Monthly Magazine, May 1, 1832. Article on "Retrospective Criticism." exaggerated into obligation the most commonplace returns to his own affectionate feelings and ready friendship. And yet such are the distractions of our life of London, and so engrossing are the peculiar labours and pursuits of each of its more active denizens, that we met more seldom than I could have wished, and, with a few exceptions among men of letters, our common associates were not the same. Some time after this, Mr. Blanchard was engaged in the editorship of the Courier, and his political articles were of considerable value to the party he espoused; although free from the acerbity and the personalities which the warfare of journalism rarely fails to engender. A change of proprietorship and of politics in that newspaper occasioned Mr. Blanchard's retirement, and necessitated the loss of an income, for him considerable. His services to the Whigs, then in office, had been sufficient to justify a strong appeal in his behalf for some small appointment. The appeal, though urged with all zeal by one who had himself some claims on the government, was unsuccessful. The fact really is,\ that governments, at present, have little among their subordinate patronage, to bestow upon men whose abilities are not devoted to a profession. The man of letters is like a stray joint in a boy's puzzle; he fits into no place. Let the partisan but have taken orders -let him but have eaten a sufficient number of dinners at the inns of court-and livings, and chapels, and stalls, and assistant-barristerships, and commissionerships, and colonial appointments, can reward his services and prevent his starving. But for the author there is nothing but his pen, till that and life are worn to the stump and then, with good fortune, perhaps on his death-bed he receives a pension-and equals, it may be, for a few months, the income of a retired butler! And so, on the sudden loss of the situation in which he had frittered away his higher and more delicate genius, in all the drudgery that a party exacts from its defender of the press, Laman Blanchard was thrown again upon the world, to shift as he might and subsist as he could. His practice in periodical writing was now considerable; his versatility was extreme. He was marked by publishers and editors as a useful contributor, and so his livelihood was secure. From a variety of sources thus he contrived, by constant waste of intellect and strength, to eke out his income, and insinuate rather than force his place amongst his contemporary penmen. And uncomplainingly and with patient industry, he toiled on, seeming farther and farther off from the happy leisure, in which "the something to verify promise was to be completed." No time had he for profound reading, for lengthened works, for the mature development of the conceptions of a charming fancy. He had given hostages to Fortune. He had a wife and four children, and no income but that which he made from week to week. The grist must be ground, and the wheel revolve. All the struggles, all the toils, all the weariness of brain, nerve, and head, which a man undergoes in this career, are imperceptible even to his friends-almost to himself; he has no time to be ill, to be fatigued; his spirit has no holiday; it is all school-work. And thus generally, we find in such men that the break-up of constitution seems sudden and unlooked for. The causes of disease and decay have been long laid; but they are smothered beneath the lively appearances of constrained industry and forced excitement. Laman Blanchard was now past forty. He had been twenty-two years at his vocation; it was evident that a man of letters he must continue to the last. At this time, in February, 1844, his wife,—to whom he remained as tenderly attached as ever, was seized with an attack of paralysis (her illness terminating fatally); was constantly subject to fits; and the mind was weakened with the body. A disease of this kind has something contagious for susceptible temperaments; they grow excitable in the excitement they seek to soothe. Those who saw most of my poor friend began to perceive that a change was at work within him. Naturally of the most cheerful habits, especially with those who knew him best, his spirits now failed him, and were subject to deep depression. His friends, on calling suddenly at his house, have found him giving way to tears and vehement grief without apparent cause. In mixed society he would strive to rally-sometimes with success—sometimes utterly in vain. He has been obliged to quit the room, to give way to emotions which seemed to rise spontaneously, unexcited by what passed around him, except as it jarred, undetected by others, upon the irritable chords within. In short, the nerves, so long overtasked, were giving way. In the long and gallant struggle with circumstances, the work of toil told when the hour of grief came. Still, to the public, he wore the mask-which authors wear unto the grave. Still were his writings as full of pleasant amenity, and quiet and ready grace. Still, for |