"Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?" Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue. "Surely," they cry, "that tedious Ordinary His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,— Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!" But hark! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. "He comes, he comes!" A thrill shoots through each gazer's heart.

Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. "He comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices, As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came, Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. "He comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath— Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.

With step majestic to the cart advances The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. He feels that on him now are fixed the glances Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet, Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat. In him the honour of "The Road" is centred, And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered.

His was the transport—his the exultation Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, Up to the Capitol, in the ovation, They bore with them, in the triumphal car, Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. Io Triumphe! They forgot their clay. E'en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.

His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, The many-tinted nosegay in his hand, His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, Like the old vintages of Spanish land, Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn's steep Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep.

He saw it, but he heeded not. His story, He knew, was graven on the page of Time. Tyburn to him was as a field of glory, Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme. He left his deeds behind him, and his name— For he, like Caesar, had lived long enough for fame.

He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,— St Giles's bowl,—filled with the mildest ale, To pledge the crowd, on her—his beauteous Alice— His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale, She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl, Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.

He bit his lip—it quivered but a moment— Then passed his hand across his flushing brows: He could have spared so forcible a comment Upon the constancy of woman's vows. One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows; But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.

A princely group of England's noble daughters Stood in a balcony suffused with grief, Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, And waving many a snowy handkerchief; Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief! His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam— That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.

And now, his bright career of triumph ended, His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, And fixed the hempen bandages, while he Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free. The car rolled on, and left him dangling there, Like famed Mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air.

As droops the cup of the surcharged lily Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, Or the soft petals of the daffodilly, When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, So drooped his head upon his manly form, While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all, And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall: "THESE ARE THE BONES OF THE RENOWNED DUVAL!" There still they tell us, from their glassy case, He was the last, the best of all that noble race!



Eastern Serenade.

BY THE HONOURABLE SINJIN MUFF.

The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool; The voice of the musnud is heard from the west, And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest. The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore.

Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride? Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side! I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik— I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu!

Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still, And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill; No sullen aleikoum—no derveesh is here, And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere! Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!

I see thee—I hear thee—thy antelope foot Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot; The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!

Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb, 'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub; Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star! Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier, Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear?

Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss! And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss! Wherever I wander—wherever I roam, My spirit flies back to its beautiful home; It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! {269}



Dame Fredegonde.

When folks, with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice And modest air, for your advice. But as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe, and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess offered juice of grape, Could for her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavour to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad,— A jovial coaxing way she had; And,—what was more her fate than blame,— A nine months' widow was our dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. "And what can a lone woman do? The nights are long and eerie too. Now, Guillot there's a likely man, None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't." With thoughts like these her mind is crossed: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice Of Father Haulin's good advice."

Prankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'm worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square. I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! He's steady, knows his business well. What do you think?" When thus he met her: "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." "Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!" "But help I must have; there's the curse. I may go farther and fare worse." "Why, take him, then!" "But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good— In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?" "Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing,—hark! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest— If 'No,' why—do as you think best."

The bells rang out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, As thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,—and they rang for her bridal. But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek, She lost her beauties plump and sleek; For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed, And backed his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this,— "I fear you've read the bells amiss: If they have lead you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough their chime went so,— "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about?" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink.



Song of the Ennuye.

I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted With Britain's mechanical din; Where I'm much too well known to be trusted, And plaguily pestered for tin; Where love has two eyes for your banker, And one chilly glance for yourself; Where souls can afford to be franker, But when they're well garnished with pelf.

I'm sick of the whole race of poets, Emasculate, misty, and fine; They brew their small-beer, and don't know its Distinction from full-bodied wine. I'm sick of the prosers, that house up At drowsy St Stephen's,—ain't you? I want some strong spirits to rouse up A good revolution or two!

I'm sick of a land, where each morrow Repeats the dull tale of to-day, Where you can't even find a new sorrow To chase your stale pleasures away. I'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols; So I'll off where the golden Pacific Round Islands of Paradise rolls.

There the passions shall revel unfettered, And the heart never speak but in truth, And the intellect, wholly unlettered, Be bright with the freedom of youth! There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, Unsullied by vapour or soot, And there chimpanzees and opossums Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.

There I'll sit with my dark Orianas, In groves by the murmuring sea, And they'll give, as I suck the bananas, Their kisses, nor ask them from me. They'll never torment me for sonnets, Nor bore me to death with their own; They'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, For milliners there are unknown.

There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, My curtains the night and the stars, And my spirit shall gather new powers, Uncramped by conventional bars. Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, My days shall be manfully sped; I shall know that I'm loved while I'm living, And be wept by fond eyes when I'm dead!



The Death of Space.

[Why has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the "Death of Space"? Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.]

Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky, And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile, And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.

While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, And those that people all that dreary void, When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.

And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail, The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, And lash the empyrean with his tail.

And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath, Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws.

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, Infinity shall creep into her shell, Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, And end their strife with suicidal yell:

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings, 'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, Nonenity, on circumambient wings, An everlasting Phoenix shall arise.



Caroline.

Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine, Easy, breezy Caroline! With thy locks all raven-shaded, From thy merry brow up-braided, And thine eyes of laughter full, Brightsome cousin mine! Thou in chains of love hast bound me— Wherefore dost thou flit around me, Laughter-loving Caroline?

When I fain would go to sleep In my easy-chair, Wherefore on my slumbers creep— Wherefore start me from repose, Tickling of my hooked nose, Pulling of my hair? Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, So to words of anger move me, Corking of this face of mine, Tricksy cousin Caroline?

When a sudden sound I hear, Much my nervous system suffers, Shaking through and through. Cousin Caroline, I fear, 'Twas no other, now, but you, Put gunpowder in the snuffers, Springing such a mine! Yes, it was your tricksy self, Wicked-tricked little elf, Naughty Caroline!

Pins she sticks into my shoulder, Places needles in my chair, And, when I begin to scold her, Tosses back her combed hair, With so saucy-vexed an air, That the pitying beholder Cannot brook that I should scold her: Then again she comes, and bolder, Blacks anew this face of mine, Artful cousin Caroline!

Would she only say she'd love me, Winsome, tinsome Caroline, Unto such excess 'twould move me, Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer-tray, Tickle still my hooked nose, Startle me from calm repose With her pretty persecution; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a pierced cushion; Would she only say she'd love me, Darning-needles should not move me; But, reclining back, I'd say, "Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine! Cork me, cousin Caroline!"



To a Forget-Me-Not,

FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE-TOKENS.

Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye Didst once look up in shady spot, To whisper to the passer-by Those tender words—Forget-me-not!

Though withered now, thou art to me The minister of gentle thought,— And I could weep to gaze on thee, Love's faded pledge—Forget-me-not!

Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, And happiness arose unsought; When she, the whispering woods among, Gave me thy bloom—Forget-me-not!

That rapturous hour with that dear maid From memory's page no time shall blot, When, yielding to my kiss, she said, "Oh, Theodore—Forget me not!"

Alas for love! alas for truth! Alas for man's uncertain lot! Alas for all the hopes of youth That fade like thee—Forget-me-not!

Alas for that one image fair, With all my brightest dreams inwrought! That walks beside me everywhere, Still whispering—Forget-me-not!

Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh For friendships dead and loves forgot, And many a cold and altered eye That once did say—Forget-me-not!

And I must bow me to thy laws, For—odd although it may be thought— I can't tell who the deuce it was That gave me this Forget-me-not!



The Meeting.

Once I lay beside a fountain, Lulled me with its gentle song, And my thoughts o'er dale and mountain With the clouds were borne along.

There I saw old castles flinging Shadowy gleams on moveless seas, Saw gigantic forests swinging To and fro without a breeze;

And in dusky alleys straying, Many a giant shape of power, Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing, Singing, dancing, hour on hour.

I, too, trod these plains Elysian, Heard their ringing tones of mirth, But a brighter, fairer vision Called me back again to earth.

From the forest shade advancing, See, where comes a lovely May; The dew, like gems, before her glancing, As she brushes it away!

Straight I rose, and ran to meet her, Seized her hand—the heavenly blue Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter, As she asked me—"Who are you?"

To that question came another— What its aim I still must doubt— And she asked me, "How's your mother? Does she know that you are out?"

"No! my mother does not know it, Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!" "Then be off, my handsome poet, And say I sent you with the news!"



The Mishap.

"Why art thou weeping, sister? Why is thy cheek so pale? Look up, dear Jane, and tell me What is it thou dost ail?

"I know thy will is froward, Thy feelings warm and keen, And that that Augustus Howard For weeks has not been seen.

"I know how much you loved him; But I know thou dost not weep For him;—for though his passion be, His purse is noways deep.

"Then tell me why those tear-drops? What means this woeful mood Say, has the tax-collector Been calling, and been rude?

"Or has that hateful grocer, The slave! been here to-day? Of course he had, by morrow's noon, A heavy bill to pay!

"Come, on thy brother's bosom Unburden all thy woes; Look up, look up, sweet sister; Nay, sob not through thy nose."

"Oh, John, 'tis not the grocer Or his account, although How ever he is to be paid I really do not know.

"'Tis not the tax-collector; Though by his fell command They've seized our old paternal clock, And new umbrella-stand!

"Nor that Augustus Howard, Whom I despise almost,— But the soot's come down the chimney, John, And fairly spoilt the roast!"



Comfort in Affliction.

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord? Why this anguish in thine eye? Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now! And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start! What, love! husband! is thy pain? There is a sorrow on thy heart, A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye; 'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake! Tell me, what is amiss with thee? Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear, No, nor my brain, in sooth; But Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,—oh, first best antidote,— Sweet partner of my bed! Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head!"



The Invocation.

"Brother, thou art very weary, And thine eye is sunk and dim, And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled, And thy collar out of trim; There is dust upon thy visage,— Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye, When I say, that altogether You appear extremely dirty.

"Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee To thy chamber's distant room; Drown the odours of the ledger With the lavender's perfume. Brush the mud from off thy trousers, O'er the china basin kneel, Lave thy brows in water softened With the soap of Old Castile.

"Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead Now in loose disorder stray; Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers Cut those ragged points away; Let no more thy calculations Thy bewildered brain beset; Life has other hopes than Cocker's, Other joys than tare and tret.

"Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, Waiting to the very last, Twenty minutes after seven, And 'tis now the quarter past. 'Tis a dinner which Lucullus Would have wept with joy to see, One, might wake the soul of Curtis From death's drowsy atrophy.

"There is soup of real turtle, Turbot, and the dainty sole; And the mottled roe of lobsters Blushes through the butter-bowl. There the lordly haunch of mutton, Tender as the mountain grass, Waits to mix its ruddy juices With the girdling caper-sauce.

"There a stag, whose branching forehead Spoke him monarch of the herds, He whose flight was o'er the heather Swift as through the air the bird's, Yields for thee a dish of cutlets; And the haunch that wont to dash O'er the roaring mountain-torrent, Smokes in most delicious hash.

"There, besides, are amber jellies Floating like a golden dream; Ginger from the far Bermudas, Dishes of Italian cream; And a princely apple-dumpling, Which my own fair fingers wrought, Shall unfold its nectared treasures To thy lips all smoking hot.

"Ha! I see thy brow is clearing, Lustre flashes from thine eyes; To thy lips I see the moisture Of anticipation rise. Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!" "Only wait one moment, Jane: I'll be dressed, and down, before you Can get up the iced champagne!"



The Husband's Petition.

Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving— A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak— I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine,— I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above: These little taper fingers— Ah, Jane! how white they be!— Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best— By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes;

By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel music, When first I wooed thee, dear!

By thy great vow which bound thee For ever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task— A BOILED SHEEP'S-HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask!



Sonnet to Britain.

BY THE D—- OF W—-

Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were! Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease! O Britain! O my country! Words like these Have made thy name a terror and a fear To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks, Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, Where the grim despot muttered—Sauve qui peut! And Ney fled darkling.—Silence in the ranks! Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash Of armies, in the centre of his troop The soldier stands—unmoveable, not rash— Until the forces of the foeman droop; Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash, Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.



NOTES.

{vii} Prologue de premiere livre.

{ix} A fact. That such a subject for cathedral chimes, and in Scotland, too, could ever have been chosen, will scarcely be believed. But my astonished ears often heard it.

{7} W. Gomersal, for many years a leading actor and rider at Astley's Amphitheatre.

{8} John Esdaile Widdicomb, from 1819 to 1852 riding-master and conductor of the ring at Astley's Amphitheatre.

{11} Stickney, a very dashing and graceful rider at Astley's.

{12} A not uncommon tribute from the gallery at Astley's to the dash and daring of the heroes of the ring was half-eaten oranges or fragments of orange-peel. Either oranges are less in vogue, or manners are better in the galleries of theatres and circuses in the present day.

{18} The allusion here is to one of Ducrow's remarkable feats. Entering the ring with the reins in his hands of five horses abreast, and standing on the back of the centre horse, he worked them round the ring at high speed, changing now and then with marvellous dexterity their relative positions, and with his feet always on more than one of them, ending with a foot on each of the extreme two, so that, as described, "the outer and the inner felt the pressure of his toes."

{44} The value of these Bonds at the time this poem was written was precisely nil.

{49} A fact.

{64} The Yankee substitute for the chapeau de soie.

{97} The Marquis of Waterford,

{99} The fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds.

{117} The reference here and in a subsequent verse is to a song very popular at the time:—

"All round my hat I vears a green villow, All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day, And if any van should arsk you the reason vy I vears it, Say, all for my true love that's far, far away. 'Twas agoin of my rounds on the streets I first did meet her, 'Twas agoin of my rounds that first she met my heye, And I never heard a voice more louder nor more sweeter, As she cried, 'Who'll buy my cabbages, my cabbages who'll buy?'"

There were several more verses, and being set to a very taking air, it was a reigning favourite with the "Social Chucksters" of the day. Even scholars thought it worth turning into Latin verse. I remember reading in some short-lived journal a very clever version of it, the first verse of which ran thus—

"Omne circa petusum sertum gero viridem Per annum circa petasum et unum diem plus. Si quis te rogaret, cur tale sertum gererem, Dic, 'Omne propter corculum qui est inpartibus.'"

Allusions to the willow, as an emblem of grief, are of a very old date. "Sing all, a green willow must be my garland," is the refrain of the song which haunted Desdemona on the eve of her death (Othello, act iv. sc. 3). That exquisite scene, and the beautiful air to which some contemporary of Shakespeare wedded it, will make "The Willow Song" immortal.

{119a} {119b} Madame Laffarge and Daniel Good were the two most talked about criminals of the time when these lines were written. Madame Laffarge was convicted of poisoning her husband under extenuating circumstances, and was imprisoned for life, but many believed in her protestations of innocence—this, of course, she being a woman and unhappily married. Daniel Good died on the scaffold on the 23rd of May 1842, protesting his innocence to the last, and asserting that his victim, Jane Sparks, had killed herself, an assertion which a judge and jury naturally could not reconcile with the fact that her head, arms, and legs had been cut off and hidden with her body in a stable. He, too, found people to maintain that his sentence was unjust.

{121} The two papers here glanced at were 'The Age' and 'The Satirist,' long since dead.

{122a} The colonnaded portion of Regent Street, immediately above the Regent Circus, was then called the Quadrant. Being sheltered from the weather, it was a favourite promenade, but became so favourite a resort of the "larking" population—male and female—that the Colonnade was removed in the interests of social order and decorum.

{122b} The expression of contemptuous defiance, signified by the application of the thumb of one hand to the nose, spreading out the fingers, and attaching to the little finger the stretched-out fingers of the other hand, and working them in a circle. Among the graffiti in Pompeii are examples of the same subtle symbolism.

{122c} Well known to readers of Thackeray's 'Newcomes' as "The Cave of Harmony."

{123} Sir Peter Laurie, Lord Mayor; afterwards Alderman, and notable for his sagacity and severity as a magistrate in dealing with evil-doers.

{157} Sir James Graham was then, and had been for some years, Secretary Of State under Sir Robert Peel.

{160} Moxon was Tennyson's publisher.

{162} Edward Fitzball, besides being the prolific author of the most sulphurous and sanguinary melodramas, flirted also with the Muses. His triumph in this line was the ballad, "My Jane, my Jane, my pretty Jane," who was for many long years implored in the delightful tenor notes of Sims Reeves "never to look so shy, and to meet him, meet him in the evening when the bloom was on the rye." Fitzball, I have heard, was the meekest and least bellicose of men, and this was probably the reason why he was dubbed by Bon Gaultier "the terrible Fitzball."

{168} Two less poetically-disposed men than Goulburn and Knatchbull could not well be imagined.

{177} The most highly reputed oysters of the day.

{200} Lord John Russell's vehement letter on Papal Aggression in November 1850 to the Bishop of Durham, provoked by the Papal Bull creating Catholic bishops in England, and the angry controversy to which it led, were followed by the passing of the Ecclesiastic Titles Bill in 1857. Aytoun was not alone in thinking that Cardinal Wiseman, the first to act upon the mandate from Rome, was more than a match for Lord John, and that the Bill would become a dead letter, as it did. The controversy was at its hottest when Aytoun expressed his view of the probable result of the conflict in the preceding ballad.

{269} This poem appeared in a review by Bon Gaultier of an imaginary volume, 'The Poets of the Day,' and was in ridicule of the numerous verses of the time, to which the use of Turkish words was supposed to impart a poetical flavour. His reviewer's comment upon it was as follows:—

"Had Byron been alive, or Moore not ceased to write, we should have bidden them look to their laurels. 'Nonsense,' says Dryden, 'shall be eloquent in love,' and here we find the axiom aptly illustrated, for in this Eastern Serenade are comprised nonsense and eloquence in perfection. But, apart from its erotic and poetical merits, it is a great curiosity, as exhibiting in a very marked manner the singular changes which the stride of civilisation and the bow-string of the Sultan Mahmoud have made in the Turkish language and customs within a very few years. Thus we learn from the writer that a 'musnud,' which in Byron's day was a sofa, now signifies a nightingale. A 'tophaik,' which once fired away in Moore's octosyllabics as a musket, is metamorphosed into a bank of flowers. 'Zemzem,' the sacred well, now makes shift as a chemise; while the rallying-cry of 'Allah-hu' closes in a stanza as a military cloak. Even 'Gehenna,' the place of torment, is mitigated into a valley, rich in unctuous spices. But the most singular of all these transmutations of the Turkish vocabulary is that of the word 'Effendi,' which used to be a respectful epithet applied to a Christian gentleman, but is now the denomination of a dog. Most of these changes are certainly highly poetical, and, while we admire their ingenuity, we do not impugn their correctness. But with all respect for the author, the Honourable Sinjin Muff, we think that, in one or two instances, he has sacrificed propriety at the shrine of imagination. We do not allude to such little incongruities as the waving of a minaret, or the watching of a mosque. These may be accounted for; but who—who, we ask with some earnestness, ever heard of cheroots growing ready-made among the grass, or of a young lady keeping an appointment in a scarf trimmed with mutton cutlets? We say nothing to the bold idea of a dragoman, who snaps Eblis in twain, as a gardener might snap a frosted carrot; but we will not give up our own interpretation of 'kiebaubs,' seeing that we dined upon them not two months ago at the best chop-house in Constantinople."

THE END