'Dear Sir, I have been so much pleased by a discovery I have made this morning, that I cannot help writing to you, although I really have a world of work (at least for an invalid) to finish this week. In looking over the "New Monthly" I saw the critique on "Lyric Offerings," and my " discovery" is your brilliant and deep poetic genius, which really surprised me even in the few extracts given. I can account to you for never having seen your poems, by telling you I was in France when they were published, and on my return home if I had met with the volume I should have scarcely ventured on it unrecommended, as I have too often suffered the horrors of a voyage of discovery among the unknown poets. Unfortunately for me, I cannot calmly wade through a parcel of words ranged into lines, merely because they are said to be "poetry;" to tempt me onwards there must be deep, novel, brilliant, and poetical thoughts, expressed with perspicuity and clearness. Such I have found in the specimens given of your high talent, of which I should have remained ignorant but for accident, as, like all persons of decided genius, you are silent on your own productions. You will perhaps wonder that anyone who feels. true poetry so intensely as I do should devote their time to a lighter kind of literature. It is that very intensity of feeling (which amounts almost to the painful now) that makes me shun all excitement in my invalid state, and I turn for safety to the comic, where I can write quickly and without study. I have been so charmed with the beauty of the "world coming forth to slake a holy thirst for light!"—and again, the grandeur of "the pulse of time is stopt!" really seems to give a momentary check to one's heart beating! I was looking at some portraits of Mr. Chatfield's a short time since with a highly talented friend: on seeing your portrait, he exclaimed, "That young man's genius and ideas are as quick as lightning, but he would be an unforgiving critic towards stupidity!" I am quite sorry you have given up "La Belle," as women never manage periodicals so well as men conduct them; however, as I am acquainted with the trouble of an amateur weekly paper, I can readily conceive the all-engrossing nature of your daily occupation. I fear you have forgotten the halfdozen pages you promised for the poor dear little "Comic Offering." I have only the first fortnight in June to finish my arrangements, and half that period is now over. Do let me know whether you will write, and I can wait two or three days longer for you, but this is entre nous, as I am whipping up my lazy dogs! 'I think you will be pleased with some of the contributions I have received. With sincere wishes your well-merited success, for 'Believe me, my dear Sir, 'Very sincerely yours, 'LOUISA H. SHERIDAN.' Among Blanchard's intimate early friends was Cornelius Webbe, an enthusiastic Shakspearian, author of some thoughtful and vigorous verse,1 and in his day a regular contributor to periodical literature. He was of the company of Shakspearians who gathered together for many years, calling themselves 'The Mulberries;' and who contributed papers and poems (which were read at their meetings) that were gathered together as 'Mulberry Leaves.' Some of these leaves have been published; one by Blanchard is now for the first time placed with his poetical works; but the MS. volume which fell at last, after the death of the society, into the hands of Kenny Meadows, is lost. In the following letter Webbe (sending his mul 1 'Lyric Leaves.' berry-leaf for the Bard's birthday) banters his friend Laman Blanchard as an 'idler upon Parnassus.' 'My dear Blanchard,―Here is that same sonnet,1 and much good may it do you, you lover of sonnets! 'Do you never mean to write any more yourself, you idler upon Parnassus? I thought my tome would have spurred you on, knowing your emulative spirit, to a new book of your own; but no, you won't, because you are wished to do it. 'Do give one of your best and newest verse, or The periods of Prose, the chink of Rhyme, Bear with this utterance of our love, whose merit Not in its eloquence but silence lies, And, while our voices flatter, speaks in our hearts and eyes. April 23, 1833. CORNELIUS WEBBE. else go hang your harp at once up in the hall of the Castle of Indolence. While Elton was singing that song of yours last night, I could not help feeling a regret that you should be so negligent of your true walk of intellect. Your other is very well for bread, but if you mean to merit a stone, the other is the proper one. 'April 23, 1833.' 'Yours in haste and at leisure, 'C. WEBBE. But journalism claimed the better part of Laman Blanchard's life. He was a staunch and steady Liberal, flushed with the enthusiasm of early manhood, when the great Reform struggle was in progress, and ready at any sacrifice to serve the party to which he was given up heart and soul. He gave up the secretaryship of the Zoological Society in 1831, for higher and more congenial duties. He became acting editor of the new 'Monthly Magazine,' under Dr. Croly; and shortly afterwards was selected to edit the True Sun' daily newspaper, which he directed until it was discontinued. From the 'True Sun' he passed to the Constitutional'-a daily morning paper |