[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.”