Time Works Wonders was the most prosperous
of all, and it is that comedy precisely
which has the most story and the most situation
in it. The idea, and the management
of the charming love-tale out of which the
events of this play spring, show what Jerrold
might have achieved in the construction of
other plots, if his own superabundant wit had
not dazzled him and led him astray. As it is,
the readers of these comedies, who can appreciate
the rich fancy, the delicate subtleties
of thought, the masterly terseness of expression,
and the exquisite play and sparkle
of wit scattered over every page, may rest
assured that they rather gam than lose—
especially in the present condition of theatrical
companies—by not seeing the last
dramatic works of Douglas Jerrold
represented on the stage.

The next, and, sad to say, the final achievement
of his life, connected him most honourably
and profitably with the newspaper
press. Many of our readers will remember
the starting of Douglas Jerrold's Weekly
Newspaper—its great temporary success—
and then its sudden decline, through defects in
management, to which it is not now necessary
to refer at length. The signal ability with
which the editorial articles in the paper were
written, the remarkable aptitude which they
displayed in striking straight at the sympathies
of large masses of readers, did not
escape the notice of men who were well fitted
to judge of the more solid qualifications which
go to the production of a popular journalist.
In the spring of the year eighteen hundred
and fifty-two, the proprietor of Lloyd's
Weekly Newspaper proposed the editorship to
Jerrold, on terms of such wise liberality as to
ensure the ready acceptance of his offer. From
the spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-two,
to the spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-seven
—the last he was ever to see—Jerrold
conducted the paper, with such extraordinary
success as is rare in the history of
journalism. Under his supervision, and with
the regular assistance of his pen, Lloyd's
Newspaper rose, by thousands and thousands
a week, to the great circulation which it now
enjoys. Of the many successful labours of
Jerrold's life none had been so substantially
prosperous as the labour that was destined
to close it.

His health had shown signs of breaking,
and his heart was known to be affected, for
some little time before his last brief illness:
but the unconquerable energy and spirit of
the man upheld him through all bodily
trials, until the first day of June, eighteen
hundred and fifty-seven. Even his medical
attendant, did not abandon all hope when his
strength first gave way. But he sank rapidly—
so rapidly, that in one short week the struggle
was over. On the eighth day of June,
surrounded by his family and his friends,
preserving all his faculties to the last, passing
away calmly, resignedly, affectionately,
Douglas Jerrold closed his eyes on the world,
which it had been the long and noble purpose
of his life to inform and to improve.

It is too early yet to attempt any estimate
of the place which his writings will ultimately
occupy in English literature. So long
as honesty, energy, and variety are held to be
the prominent qualities which should distinguish
a genuine writer, there can be no doubt
of the vitality of Douglas Jerrold's reputation.
The one objection urged against the
works, which, feeble and ignorant though it
was, often went to the heart of the writer,
was the objection of bitterness. Calling to
mind many of the passages in his books in
which this bitterness most sharply appears,
and seeing plainly in those passages what the
cause was that provoked it, we venture to
speak out our own opinion boldly, and to
acknowledge at once, that we admire this
so-called bitterness as one of the great and
valuable qualities of Douglas Jerrold's
writings; because we can see for ourselves
that it springs from the uncompromising
earnestness and honesty of the author. In
an age when it is becoming unfashionable to
have a positive opinion about anything;
when the detestable comic element scatters
its profanation with impunity on all beautiful
and all serious things; when much, far too
much, of the current literature of the day
vibrates contemptibly between unbelieving
banter and unblushing clap-trap, that
element of bitterness in Jerrold's writings—
which never stands alone in them; which is
never disassociated from the kind word that
goes before, or the generous thought that
comes after it— is in our opinion a right
wholesome element, breathing that manful
admiration of truth, and that manful hatred
of falsehood, which is the chiefest and
brightest jewel in the crown of any writer,
living or dead.

This same cry of bitterness, which assailed
him in his literary character, assailed him in
his social character also. Absurd as the
bare idea of bitterness must appear in connection
with such a nature as his, to those
who really knew him, the reason why
strangers so often and so ridiculously misunderstood
him, is not difficult to discover.
That marvellous brightness and quickness
of perception which has distinguished him
far and wide as the sayer of some of the
wittiest, and often some of the wisest things
also, in the English language, expressed itself
almost with the suddenness of lightning. This
absence of all appearance of artifice or preparation,
this flash and readiness which made
the great charm of his wit, rendered him, at
the same time, quite incapable of suppressing
a good thing from prudential considerations.
It sparkled off his tongue before he was
aware of it. It was always a bright surprise
to himself; and it never occurred to him
that it could be anything but a bright surprise
to others. All his so-called bitter