INTRODUCTION
Muchof Douglas Jerrold’s writing took essay form although he only applied the title to five short pieces which were added asEssaystoThe Chronicles of Clovernookin 1846. Those five pieces are included in this volume along with others from his collected works, and from among those scattered contributions to periodicals which have been brought together at various times since his death.
Born in London on January 3rd, 1803, Douglas William Jerrold was the youngest son of a theatrical manager then of the Kent circuit. His baby years were passed at Cranbrook, his childhood at Sheerness, and then, not having quite attained the mature age of eleven, he was entered as a first-class volunteer on board theNamur, guardship at the Nore, on December 22, 1813. Here in the ship’s school his education was continued, and here the midshipman was allowed privileges dear to the boyish heart; he was permitted to keep pigeons, and not the least of his privileges was the being permitted the use of the captain’s collection of books—that captain, it is pleasant to recall, being a brother of Jane Austen. About fifteen months after joining theNamurhe was transferred to the brigErnest, engaged in convoying transports and in bringing home wounded soldiers from the Continent. Then came Waterloo and Peace. In October 1815 theErnestwas paid off and the boy-officer returned to civil life. At the end of the year the Jerrold family left Sheerness for London, and Douglas made a new start as printer’s apprentice, and perseveringly pursued a rigorous plan of self-education. Then he began writing verses and plays,and when he was eighteen his first piece was represented on the stage. Play-writing and slight journalism were combined with the compositor’s work for a few years before, throwing aside the composing stick, he relied entirely on the pen. Numerous plays—of many of which nothing beyond the names is now recoverable—were written before Douglas Jerrold made his “hit” withBlack-eyed Susanin 1829. Thenceforward he was a busy playwright and a constant contributor to the magazines, annuals and newspapers. In 1841 the advent ofPunchintroduced him to a medium peculiarly suited to his genius, and to that periodical he contributed his most popular work,Mrs Caudle’s Curtain Lectures, and one of his best novels,The Story of a Feather. To theIlluminated Magazine(1843-4) andDouglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine(1845-8), both of which he edited, he contributed many characteristic essays and stories, but later he devoted himself more particularly to political writing as editor ofDouglas Jerrold’s Weekly Newspaper(1846-8), and ofLloyd’s Weekly Newspaper(1852-7). He died on June 8th, 1857.
We have heard much within recent years for and against fiction “with a purpose,” as though this was some new literary manifestation. Among the best remembered writers of the early Victorian era are just those who had a purpose other than that of merely amusing their readers—Thackeray and Dickens are of course the two most striking examples. The author’s purpose is often the salt not only flavouring his work for immediate contemporaries, but also preserving it for future readers. That with Douglas Jerrold this purpose counted for much we have his own words to show. Prefacing one of his serial ventures he said: “It will be our chief object to make every essay—however brief, and however light and familiar in its treatment—breathewith a purpose. Experience assures us that, especially at the present day, it isby a defined purpose alone,whether significant in twenty pages or in twenty lines, that the sympathies of the world are to be engaged, and its support insured.” That this conviction was at the back of the greater part of Douglas Jerrold’s writings no student of his work can fail to recognise. The fact is perhaps answerable for much of his work having enjoyed but a temporary popularity, for there are two ways of writing “with a purpose”—the first the topical or journalistic way, and the second the general or more philosophical. Yet if Douglas Jerrold expended himself to a considerable extent over the particular, he by no means neglected the general, of which there is abundant testimony in this volume, as well as inSt Giles and St James,The Story of a Feather,Punch’s Letters, and that little book of golden philosophy,The Chronicles of Clovernook.
The essays collected into this volume are, as has been hinted, from various sources; the earliest dates from the late ’twenties, the latest from the last year of the author’s life. No attempt has been made to place them chronologically. It has seemed well to keep the five Shakespearean essays together, representing as they do a life-long interest of their author’s. In the early ’thirties Douglas Jerrold and a number of other young Shakespeare enthusiasts—William Godwin the Younger, Laman Blanchard, Kenny Meadows, etc.—formed the Mulberry Club, at the gatherings of which essays and verses were read by the members; some certainly of the following papers formed part of the club’s “Mulberry Leaves,” as also did the same writer’s song onShakespeare’s Crab Tree, a song which may be quoted here, as it is not widely known, to complete Jerrold’s “leaves.”
To Shakespeare’s mighty lineLet’s drink with heart and soul;’Twill give a zest divine,Though humble be the bowl.Then drink while I essay,In slipshod, careless rhyme,A legendary layOf Willy’s golden time.One balmy summer’s night,As Stratford yeomen tell,One Will, the royst’ring wight,Beneath a crab tree fell;And, sunk in deep repose,The tipsy time beguiled,Till Dan Apollo roseUpon his greatest child.Since then all people vowedThe tree had wondrous power:With sense, with speech endowed,’Twould prattle by the hour;Though scattered far about,Its remnants still would blab:Mind, ere this fact you doubt,—It was a female crab.“I felt,” thus spoke the tree,“As down the poet lay,A touch, a thrill, a glee,Ne’er felt before that day.Along my verdant bloodA quick’ning sense did shoot,Expanding every bud,And rip’ning all my fruit.“What sounds did move the air,Around me and above!The yell of mad despair,The burning sigh of love!Ambition, guilt-possessed,Suspicion on the rack,The ringing laugh and jest,Begot by sherris-sack!“Since then, my branches fullOf Shakespeare’s vital heat,My fruit, once crude and dullBecame as honey sweet;And when, o’er plain and hill,Each tree was leafless seen,My boughs did flourish stillIn everlasting green.”And thus our moral foodDoth Shakespeare leaven still,Enriching all the goodAnd less’ning all the ill;—Thus, by his bounty shedLike balm from angel’s wing,Though winter scathe our head,Our spirits dance with spring.
To Shakespeare’s mighty lineLet’s drink with heart and soul;’Twill give a zest divine,Though humble be the bowl.Then drink while I essay,In slipshod, careless rhyme,A legendary layOf Willy’s golden time.One balmy summer’s night,As Stratford yeomen tell,One Will, the royst’ring wight,Beneath a crab tree fell;And, sunk in deep repose,The tipsy time beguiled,Till Dan Apollo roseUpon his greatest child.Since then all people vowedThe tree had wondrous power:With sense, with speech endowed,’Twould prattle by the hour;Though scattered far about,Its remnants still would blab:Mind, ere this fact you doubt,—It was a female crab.“I felt,” thus spoke the tree,“As down the poet lay,A touch, a thrill, a glee,Ne’er felt before that day.Along my verdant bloodA quick’ning sense did shoot,Expanding every bud,And rip’ning all my fruit.“What sounds did move the air,Around me and above!The yell of mad despair,The burning sigh of love!Ambition, guilt-possessed,Suspicion on the rack,The ringing laugh and jest,Begot by sherris-sack!“Since then, my branches fullOf Shakespeare’s vital heat,My fruit, once crude and dullBecame as honey sweet;And when, o’er plain and hill,Each tree was leafless seen,My boughs did flourish stillIn everlasting green.”And thus our moral foodDoth Shakespeare leaven still,Enriching all the goodAnd less’ning all the ill;—Thus, by his bounty shedLike balm from angel’s wing,Though winter scathe our head,Our spirits dance with spring.
To Shakespeare’s mighty lineLet’s drink with heart and soul;’Twill give a zest divine,Though humble be the bowl.Then drink while I essay,In slipshod, careless rhyme,A legendary layOf Willy’s golden time.
To Shakespeare’s mighty line
Let’s drink with heart and soul;
’Twill give a zest divine,
Though humble be the bowl.
Then drink while I essay,
In slipshod, careless rhyme,
A legendary lay
Of Willy’s golden time.
One balmy summer’s night,As Stratford yeomen tell,One Will, the royst’ring wight,Beneath a crab tree fell;And, sunk in deep repose,The tipsy time beguiled,Till Dan Apollo roseUpon his greatest child.
One balmy summer’s night,
As Stratford yeomen tell,
One Will, the royst’ring wight,
Beneath a crab tree fell;
And, sunk in deep repose,
The tipsy time beguiled,
Till Dan Apollo rose
Upon his greatest child.
Since then all people vowedThe tree had wondrous power:With sense, with speech endowed,’Twould prattle by the hour;Though scattered far about,Its remnants still would blab:Mind, ere this fact you doubt,—It was a female crab.
Since then all people vowed
The tree had wondrous power:
With sense, with speech endowed,
’Twould prattle by the hour;
Though scattered far about,
Its remnants still would blab:
Mind, ere this fact you doubt,—
It was a female crab.
“I felt,” thus spoke the tree,“As down the poet lay,A touch, a thrill, a glee,Ne’er felt before that day.Along my verdant bloodA quick’ning sense did shoot,Expanding every bud,And rip’ning all my fruit.
“I felt,” thus spoke the tree,
“As down the poet lay,
A touch, a thrill, a glee,
Ne’er felt before that day.
Along my verdant blood
A quick’ning sense did shoot,
Expanding every bud,
And rip’ning all my fruit.
“What sounds did move the air,Around me and above!The yell of mad despair,The burning sigh of love!Ambition, guilt-possessed,Suspicion on the rack,The ringing laugh and jest,Begot by sherris-sack!
“What sounds did move the air,
Around me and above!
The yell of mad despair,
The burning sigh of love!
Ambition, guilt-possessed,
Suspicion on the rack,
The ringing laugh and jest,
Begot by sherris-sack!
“Since then, my branches fullOf Shakespeare’s vital heat,My fruit, once crude and dullBecame as honey sweet;And when, o’er plain and hill,Each tree was leafless seen,My boughs did flourish stillIn everlasting green.”
“Since then, my branches full
Of Shakespeare’s vital heat,
My fruit, once crude and dull
Became as honey sweet;
And when, o’er plain and hill,
Each tree was leafless seen,
My boughs did flourish still
In everlasting green.”
And thus our moral foodDoth Shakespeare leaven still,Enriching all the goodAnd less’ning all the ill;—Thus, by his bounty shedLike balm from angel’s wing,Though winter scathe our head,Our spirits dance with spring.
And thus our moral food
Doth Shakespeare leaven still,
Enriching all the good
And less’ning all the ill;—
Thus, by his bounty shed
Like balm from angel’s wing,
Though winter scathe our head,
Our spirits dance with spring.
With reference to the first of the following essays there recently came into my hands an interesting letter from the author, which may well be quoted here. Walter Savage Landor’sCitation and Examination of William Shakespearehad been published in 1834, and apparently Jerrold’s correspondent had pointed out the similarity of theme:—
“11 Thistle Grove, Little Chelsea,
“August 6th (1835).
“My dear Sir,—The Trial of Shakespearewas, I think, published by Bentley. I have only read extracts from it in reviews; and though therein I recognisednothing similar to my little sketch, nevertheless the publication of the book does, on consideration, seem to preoccupy the subject. I concluded that you had seen something of the volume, or should before have pointed it out to you. If you please—for I confess myself somewhat thin-skinned under any charge of plagiary, the more especially when unmerited—you may omit the first legend.
“For the second, it has never yet seen the light; nor amI aware of the existence of any essay to which even the uncharitableness of criticism might imagine a resemblance.
“It struck me, on reading it, that were it broken up more into paragraphs—as new objects are introduced—it would be more effective. As it is the images crowding so closely upon each other—(whilst the spirit of the essay depends upon the distinctness with which they represent the several plays)—may confuse, and thus fail to satisfy the reader. If you think with me, and will again favour me with the proof, I will make the alterations with as little trouble as possible to the printer. There being now only one legend, I should call the paperShakespeare at Bank-side.—I am, my dear Sir, yours truly,
“Douglas Jerrold.”
“W. H. Harrison, Esq.”
Beyond the fact that they both deal with the tradition of Shakespeare’s deer-stealing escapade and departure from Stratford-on-Avon, there is but little similarity between Douglas Jerrold’s brief essay and Landor’s much longer work. With reference toShakespeare in Chinait may be of interest to point out—the author in satirising his fellow countryman later used the fiction of describing English characters from the Chinese point of view inPunchof May 25th, 1844.
If the first few essays testify to the author’s loving homage to Shakespeare, others in no uncertain voice proclaim his political radicalism, his detestation of war, and his sense of the truth that man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn. InRecollections of Guy Fawkesthe references to the Isle of Sheppy “some five and twenty years ago” are reminiscences of Jerrold’s boyhood at Sheerness. The pleasant little homily on human consistency,The Manager’s Pig, is said to have been founded in fact; the manager in question being Davidge of theCoburg Theatre, to whom Jerrold was for a time “household author” at a weekly salary. The series ofCat-and-Fiddle Moralitiesso auspiciously begun withThe Tale of a Tigerwas not pursued any further.The Drill SergeantandThe Greenwich Pensionerformed part of a series ofFull Lengths, contributed to theMonthly Magazinein 1826-7; there were at least six of them, but as I have not been able to consult a complete set of the magazine, I have only been able to trace three—the two given and one onThe Ship Clergyman.
In the closing item of this collection we have a satiric essay of a sort, which seems to have been in the air at the time; it was published originally in 1839 with illustrations by Phiz, at the same time that Thackeray by contributing hisCatherinetoFraser’swas also seeking to discredit “the Newgate school” of fiction. Later, inPunch, Douglas Jerrold reverted to the “Newgate novel-mongers,” mentioning them as still a power, and showing that satire had not stopped the demand for their productions; and in one of the most popular of his comedies a character is made to say, “When I was young, girls used to readPilgrim’s Progress,Jeremy Taylor, and such books of innocence; now, young ladies know the ways of Newgate as well as the turnkeys. Then, books gave girls hearty, healthy food; now, silly things, like larks in cages, they live upon hemp-seed.”
W. J.