e as anything he did, and are certainly the best
records of a people who have practically vanished. He was astonishingly
careless about his work. Hundreds of original designs were thrown into
the waste-paper basket; apart from their local interest similar sketches
have found willing purchasers of late years."

Like many other artists whose pecuniary reward had not been commensurate
with their ability,[G] he became the recipient of a pension. The kind
instrumentality of a few Royal Academicians obtained for him an annual
grant which had been previously enjoyed by the late GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

On the 8th of July, 1882, the death occurred of the famous "Phiz." At
the quiet village of Hove, near Brighton, where the last few years of
his life were spent, he succumbed in his sixty-seventh year to infirmity
rather than old age. Almost forgotten as a man, his productions have
remained in our memories, and will continue to do so as long as the
works of DICKENS and LEVER are read and appreciated. His remains were
interred at the extra-mural Cemetery, Brighton. The funeral was private,
the only mourners present being the four sons of the deceased, Dr.
Ambler, Mr. George Halse,[H] and Mr. Robert Harrison.

As admirers of his artistic ability we place this Memoir as a wreath
upon his grave.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CORRESPONDENCE.

The following letters were addressed by the artist-humorist to his son,
Mr. Walter Gr. Browne:--

BLENHEIM CRESCENT, _Sept., Saturday, 3 o'clk._ P.M., A.D.
_1867_.

_My Dear Dr._,

I have nearly bursted my heart out, and proved, that my soul
or soles (I have two) is'nt--or an't--immortal,--by wearing
on 'em out running to and fro after yr.
_Balmorals_--Bootless errands! The wretched slave (of awl)
has but just brought them! I bristle with wrath! and could
welt him!--but--no--I won't--he may want his calf's skin
whole, to mend his own _Bad-morals_!!

* * * * *

I rush! I fly! to the Gt. W. R. Station!----!!!!

[Illustration]

I sink--breathless into the arms of the astounded
clerk--point to the boots----

_My-mouth_ faintly whispers "_Wey-mouth_ in his pen-adorned
_Ear_!!" and--and--"Bless me! where am _I_?"--and, and--I
wish--you may get 'em!

* * * * *

If you visit Portland again, make a note of any
pec