aceful. What her sensations must be on
reading the following passionate appeal we cannot of course divine;
but if one spark of feeling lingers in her bosom, she must, for
four-and-twenty hours at least, have little appetite for
mulligatawny."

The reviewer then quotes the poem down to the general commination, ending
with

"Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern!"

He then resumes his commentary:--

"This sweeping system of anathema may be consonant to what the
philosophers call a high and imaginative mood of passion, but it is
surely as unjust as any fulminations that ever emanated from the
Papal Chair. No 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