The Bon Gaultier Ballads | Page 5

doubt Cousin Amy behaved shockingly; but why, on that
account, should the Bank of England, incorporated by Royal Charter,
or the most respectable practitioner who prepared the settlements, along
with his innocent clerk, be handed over to the uncovenanted mercies of
the foul fiend? No, no, Smifzer, this will never do! In a more manly
strain is what follows."
The remainder of the poem is then given, ending with,
"Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!"
and the critic resumes:--
"Bravo, Smifzer! This is the right sort of thing--no wishy-washy
snivelling about a wounded heart and all that kind of stuff, but savage
sarcasm, the lava of a volcanic spirit. In a fine prophetic strain is that
vision of Amy's feelings as the inebriated nawab stumbles hazily into
the drawing-room, steaming fulsomely of chilma! And that picture of
the African jungle, with Smifzer _in puris_ mounted on a high-trotting
giraffe, with his twelve dusky brides around him,--Cruikshank alone
could do it justice. But the triumph of the poem is in the high-toned
sentiment of civilisation and moral duty, which, esteeming 'the grey
barbarian' lower than the 'Christian cad,'--and that is low enough in all
conscience,--tears the captivating delusions of freedom and polygamy
from the poet's eyes, even when his pulse is throbbing at the wildest,
and sends him from the shades of the palm and the orange tree to the
advertising columns of the 'Morning Post.' This is indeed a great poem,
and we need only add that the reader will find something like it in Mr
Alfred Tennyson's 'Locksley Hall.' There has been pilfering somewhere;
but Messieurs Smifzer and Tennyson must settle it between them."
How little did I dream, when writing this, that I should hear the parody
quoted through the years up till now almost as often as the original
poem! Smifzer was wiser than Tennyson, for he never spoiled the
effect of his poem by admitting, like Tennyson in his "Locksley Hall,
Sixty Years After," that it was a good thing that "spider-hearted" Amy

threw him over as she did.
Luckily for us, not a few poets were then living whose style and
manner of thought were sufficiently marked to make imitation easy,
and sufficiently popular for a parody of their characteristics to be
readily recognised. Lockhart's "Spanish Ballads" were as familiar in the
drawing-room as in the study. Macaulay's "Lays of Ancient Rome,"
and his two other fine ballads, were still in the freshness of their fame.
Tennyson and Mrs Browning were opening up new veins. These, with
Moore, Leigh Hunt, Uhland, and others of minor note, lay ready to our
hands, as Scott, Byron, Crabbe, Coleridge, Moore, Wordsworth, and
Southey had done to James and Horace Smith in 1812, when writing
the "Rejected Addresses." Never, probably, were verses thrown off
with a keener sense of enjoyment, and assuredly the poets parodied had
no warmer admirers than ourselves. Very pleasant were the hours when
we met, and now Aytoun and now myself would suggest the subjects
for each successive article, and the verses with which they were to be
illustrated. Most commonly this was done in our rambles to favourite
spots in the suburbs of "our own romantic town," on Arthur Seat, or by
the shores of the Forth, and at other times as we sat together of an
evening, when the duties of the day were over, and joined in putting
line after line together until the poem was completed. In writing thus
for our own amusement we never dreamed that these "nugae literariae"
would live beyond the hour. It was, therefore, a pleasant surprise when
we found to what an extent they became popular, not only in England,
but also in America, which had come in for no small share of severe
though well-meant ridicule. In those days who could say what fate
might have awaited us had we visited the States, and Aytoun been
known to be the author of "The Lay of Mr Colt" and "The Fight with
the Snapping Turtle," or myself as the chronicler of "The Death of
Jabez Dollar" and "The Alabama Duel"? As it was, our transatlantic
friends took a liberal revenge by instantly pirating the volume, and
selling it by thousands with a contemptuous disregard of author's
copyright.
For Aytoun the extravagances of melodrama and the feats and
eccentricities of the arena at Astley's amphitheatre had always a

peculiar charm. "The terrible Fitzball," the English Dumas, in quantity,
not quality, of melodrama, Gomersal, one of the chief equestrians, and
Widdicomb, the master of the ring at Astley's, were three of his
favourite heroes. Ducrow, manager of Astley's, the most daring and
graceful of equestrians, and the fair Miss Woolford, the star of his
troupe, had charms irresistible for all lovers of the circus. In Aytoun's
enthusiasm