The Book of Ballads Edited by Bon Gaultier [i.e. W. E. Aytoun and Theodore Martin]. A New Edition, with Several New Ballads. Illustrated by Alfred Crowquill, Richard Doyle and John Leech |
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The American's Apostrophe to Boz.
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The American's Apostrophe to Boz.
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[Rapidly as oblivion does its work now-a-days, the burst of amiable indignation with which enlightened America received the issue of Boz's “Notes,” can scarcely yet be forgotten. Not content with waging a universal rivalry in the piracy of the work, Columbia showered upon its author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse; while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the propriety of gouging the “strannger,” and furnishing him with a permanent suit of tar and feathers, in the very improbable event of his paying them a second visit. The perusal of these animated expressions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who remember Boz's book, and the festivities with which he was all but hunted to death, will at once understand. We hope we have done justice to the bitterness and “immortal hate” of these thin-skinned sons of freedom.]
Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling child,
Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou hast reviled;
Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa should'st thou lie,
Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by.
Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and creaking ship,
Thou should'st yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden lip;
When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's expiring shade,
From the bagman's berth above thee comes the bountiful cascade.
Better than upon the Broadway thou should'st be at noonday seen,
Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien,
With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest,
Worse than even N. P. Willis for an evening party dressed!
Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou hast reviled;
Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa should'st thou lie,
Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by.
Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and creaking ship,
Thou should'st yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden lip;
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From the bagman's berth above thee comes the bountiful cascade.
Better than upon the Broadway thou should'st be at noonday seen,
Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien,
With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest,
Worse than even N. P. Willis for an evening party dressed!
We received thee warmly—kindly—though we knew thou wert a quiz,
Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz!
Much we bore and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells
Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlasting Nells.
When you talk of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing,
Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling;
And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near,
Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear.
Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz!
Much we bore and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells
Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlasting Nells.
When you talk of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing,
Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling;
And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near,
Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear.
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Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense
We engaged the place in Park Street at a ruinous expense;
Ev'n our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old prescriptive right,
And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night.
Clusters of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool,
Saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of La Poule:
And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the tune,—
“Don't he beat all natur hollow? Don't he foot it like a 'coon?”
We engaged the place in Park Street at a ruinous expense;
Ev'n our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old prescriptive right,
And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night.
Clusters of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool,
Saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of La Poule:
And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the tune,—
“Don't he beat all natur hollow? Don't he foot it like a 'coon?”
Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky-grogs?
Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a Newman Noggs;
And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then to blame,
To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milk they came.
Did the hams of old Virginny find no favour in thine eyes?
Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of pumpkin pies?
Could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to draw it mild?
But, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right! We spoilt the child!
Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a Newman Noggs;
And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then to blame,
To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milk they came.
Did the hams of old Virginny find no favour in thine eyes?
Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of pumpkin pies?
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But, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right! We spoilt the child!
You, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broadest hints
Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints.
Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung;
Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth; you, I guess, may hold your tongue.
Down our throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hard as pickled salmon,
That, I s'pose, you call free-trading, I pronounce it utter gammon.
No, my lad, a 'cuter vision than your own might soon have seen
That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green.
Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump a cent or two
For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you.
Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints.
Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung;
Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth; you, I guess, may hold your tongue.
Down our throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hard as pickled salmon,
That, I s'pose, you call free-trading, I pronounce it utter gammon.
No, my lad, a 'cuter vision than your own might soon have seen
That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green.
Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump a cent or two
For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you.
I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the Falls,
I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls;
But “a holy calm sensation,” one, in fact, of perfect peace,
Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas geese.
As for “old familiar faces,” looking through the misty air,
Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your Chuckster there.
One familiar face, however, you will very likely see,
If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee,
Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch,
In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators, Lynch.
Half-an-hour of conversation with his worship in a wood
Would, I strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good.
Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did before,
Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor,
Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the chairs,
Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he bears:—
Why he sneers at the Old Country with republican disdain,
And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his chain.
All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land thou hast reviled;
Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling child!
I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls;
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Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas geese.
As for “old familiar faces,” looking through the misty air,
Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your Chuckster there.
One familiar face, however, you will very likely see,
If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee,
Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch,
In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators, Lynch.
Half-an-hour of conversation with his worship in a wood
Would, I strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good.
Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did before,
Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor,
Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the chairs,
Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he bears:—
Why he sneers at the Old Country with republican disdain,
And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his chain.
All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land thou hast reviled;
Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's puling child!
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