III.

I hope to turn M.P. You have not any notion, So awkward you would be At “seconding a motion!”

TO A CRITIC.

O Cruel One! How littel dost thou knowe How manye poetes with Unhappyenesse Thou mayest have slaine; are they beganne to blowe Like to yonge Buddes in theyre firste sappyenesse! Even as Pinkes from littel Pipinges growe Great Poetes yet maye come of singinges smalle, Which, if an hungrede Worme doth gnawe belowe, Fold up theyre strypëd leaves, and dye withalle. Alake, that pleasaunt Flowre must fayde and falle Because a Grubbe hath ete into yts Hede,-- That els had growne soe fayre and eke soe talle To-wardes the Heaven, and opened forthe and sprede Its blossomes to the Sunne for Menne to rede In soe brighte hues of Lovelinesse indeede!

THE SWEETS OF YOUTH.

“Sweets to the sweet--farewell.”--HAMLET.

Time was I liked a cheesecake well enough-- All human children have a sweetish taste; I used to revel in a pie, or puff; Or tart--we all were _Tartars_ in our youth To meet with jam or jelly was good luck, All candies most complacently I crumped, A stick of liquorice was good to suck, And sugar was as often liked as lumped! On treacle’s “linkèd sweetness long drawn out,” Or honey I could feast like any fly; I thrilled when lollipops were hawked about; How pleased to compass hard-bake or bull’s-eye; How charmed if Fortune in my power cast Elecampane--but that campaign is past.

TO HENRIETTA,[8]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS.

When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam, They will not just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it’s my belief, They’ll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef, With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock, And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they’ll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack, And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back; And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle, For anyhow you’ll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together, But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather; For they’ll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!) In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

What next?--to fill your head with French to match the native girls In scraps of _Galignani_ they’ll screw up your little curls; And they’ll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose, And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You’ll have to learn a _chou_ is quite another sort of thing To that you put your foot in; that a _belle_ is not to ring; That a _corne_ is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes; Nor _peut-être_ a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.

No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch, But you may get in course of time a _pomme de terre_ to munch, With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing, You’ll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite, No matter what you eat or drink, “whatever is, is right!” So when you’re told at dinner-time that some delicious stew Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer “_Tant mi--eux!_”

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam, They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

HINTS TO PAUL PRY.

Oh, pleasing, teasing, Mr. Pry, Dear Paul--but not Virginia’s Paul, As some might haply deem, to spy The umbrella thou art arm’d withal, Cool hat, and ample pantaloons, Proper for hot and tropic noons;--

Oh no! for thou wert never born To watch the barren sea and cloud In any desert isle forlorn-- Thy home is always in a crowd Drawn nightly, such is thy stage luck, By Liston--that dramatic Buck.

True as the evening’s primrose flower, True as the watchman to his beat, Thou dost attend upon the hour And house, in old Haymarket Street. Oh, surely thou art much miscall’d, Still Paul--yet we are never pall’d!

Friend of the keyhole and the crack, That lets thee pry within and pore, Thy very nose betrays the knack-- Upturn’d through kissing with the door; A peeping trick that each dear friend Sends thee to Coventry, to mend!

Thy bended body shows thy bent, Inclined to news in every place; Thy gossip mouth and eyes intent, Stand each a query in thy face; Thy hat a curious hat appears, Pricking its brims up like thy ears;

Thy pace, it is an ambling trot, To post thee sooner here and there, To every house where thou shouldst not; In gait, in garb, in face, and air, The true eavesdropper we perceive, Not merely dropping in at eve,--

But morn and noon, through all the span Of day,--to disconcert and fret, Unwelcome guest to every man, A kind of dun, without a debt, Well cursed by porter in the hall, For calling when there is no call.

Harm-watching, harm thou still dost catch-- That rule should save thee many a sore; But watch thou wilt, and, like a watch, A box attends thee at the door-- The household menials e’en begin To show thee out ere thou art in!

Old Grasp regards thee with a frown, Old Hardy marks thee for a shot, Young Stanley longs to knock thee down, And Subtle mourns her ruin’d plot, And bans thy bones--alas! for why! A tender curiosity!

Oh leave the Hardys to themselves-- Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams-- ’Tis true that they were laid on shelves-- Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes; More things there are, the public sigh To know the rights of, Mr. Pry!

There’s Lady L---- the late Miss P----, Miss P---- and lady both were late, And two in ten can scarce agree, For why the title had to wait; But thou mightst learn from her own lips What wind detain’d the lady-ship?

Or Mr. P.!--the sire that nursed Thy youth, and made thee what thou art, Who form’d thy prying genius first-- (Thou wottest his untender part), ’Twould be a friendly call and fit, To know “how soon he hopes to sit.”

Some people long to know the truth Whether Miss T. does mean to try For Gibbon once again--in sooth, Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry; A verbal extract from the brief Would give some spinsters great relief!

Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodge The porter’s glance, and just drop in At Windsor’s shy sequester’d lodge, (Thou wilt, if any man can win His way so far)--and kindly bring Poor Cob’s petition to the king.

There’s Mrs. Coutts--hath she outgrown The compass of a prying eye? And, ah! there is the Great Unknown, A man that makes the curious sigh; ’Twere worthy of your genius quite To bring that lurking man to light.

O, come abroad, with curious hat, And patch’d umbrella, curious too-- To poke with this, and pry with that-- Search all our scandal through and through, And treat the whole world like a pie Made for thy finger, Mr. Pry!

ON STEAM.

BY AN UNDER-HOSTLER.

I wish I livd a Thowsen year Ago Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers But Now by means of Powers of Steam forces A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!

ALLEGORY.

A MORAL VEHICLE.

I had a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure, Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt, He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure; Although he sometimes kicked, and shied aslant. I had a Chaise, and christened it Enjoyment, With yellow body, and the wheels of red, Because ’twas only used for one employment, Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led. I had a wife, her nickname was Delight; A son called Frolic, who was never still: Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright! Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill, Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite, And Pleasure fell a splitter on _Paine’s Hill_!

A SOMNAMBULIST.

“A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.”--BYRON.

Methought--for Fancy is the strangest gadder When sleep all homely Mundane ties hath riven-- Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder, With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven: Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding seven When I set foot upon that long one-pair; And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven, Nor yet of landing-place became aware; Step after step in endless flight seem’d there; But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still, To gain that blessed haven from all care, Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill, When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair-- Tramp--tramp--tramp--tramp--upon the Brixton Mill!

TO VAUXHALL.

“The English Garden.”--MASON.

The cold transparent ham is on my fork-- It hardly rains--and hark the bell!--ding-dingle-- Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work, Mocking a Vauxhall shower!--Married and Single Crush--rush;--Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle. Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk, Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle To study the Sublime, &c.--(vide Burke) All Noses are upturn’d!--Whish--ish--! On high The rocket rushes--trails--just steals in sight-- Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light-- And Darkness reigns--Then balls flare up and die-- Wheels whiz--smack crackers--serpents twist--and then Back to the cold transparent ham again!

TO A SCOTCH GIRL,

WASHING LINEN AFTER HER COUNTRY FASHION.

Well done and wetly, thou Fair Maid of Perth, Thou mak’st a washing picture well deserving The pen and pencilling of Washington Irving: Like dripping Naiad, pearly from her birth, Dashing about the water of the Firth, To cleanse the calico of Mrs. Skirving, And never from thy dance of duty swerving As there were nothing else than dirt on earth! Yet what is thy reward? Nay, do not start! I do not mean to give thee a new damper, But while thou fillest this industrious part Of washer, wearer, mangler, presser, stamper, Deserving better character--thou art What Bodkin would but call--“a common tramper.”

TO A DECAYED SEAMAN.

Hail! seventy-four cut down! Hail, Top and Lop! Unless I’m much mistaken in my notion, Thou wast a stirring Tar, before that hop Became so fatal to thy locomotion;-- Now, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean, Thou readest still to men a lesson good, To King and Country showing thy devotion, By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood! Still is thy spirit strong as alcohol; Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-egg,-- Methinks,--thou Naval History in one Vol.-- A virtue shines, e’en in that timber leg, For unlike others that desert their Poll, Thou walkest ever with thy “Constant Peg!”

TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME-BILL.

I’m fond of partridges, I’m fond of snipes, I’m fond of black cocks, for they’re very good cocks-- I’m fond of wild ducks, and I’m fond of woodcocks-- And grouse that set up such strange moorish pipes. I’m fond of pheasants with their splendid stripes-- I’m fond of hares, whether from Whig or Tory-- I’m fond of capercailzies in their glory,-- Teal, widgeons, plovers, birds in all their types: All these are in your care, Law-giving Peer, And when you next address your Lordly Babel, Some clause put in your Bill, precise and clear, With due and fit provision to enable A man that holds all kinds of game so dear To keep, like Crockford, a good Gaming Table.

[Illustration: THE TOP OF HIS PROFESSION.]

[Illustration: JOINING IN A CATCH.]

LIEUTENANT LUFF.

A COMIC BALLAD.

All you that are too fond of wine, Or any other stuff, Take warning by the dismal fate Of one Lieutenant Luff. A sober man he might have been, Except in one regard, He did not like _soft_ water, So he took to _drinking hard_!

Said he, “Let others fancy slops, And talk in praise of Tea, But I am no _Bohe_mian, So do not like _Bohea_. If wine’s a poison, so is Tea, Though in another shape; What matter whether one is kill’d By _canister_ or _grape_!”

According to this kind of taste Did he indulge his drouth, And being fond of _Port_, he made A _port_-hole of his mouth! A single pint he might have sipp’d And not been out of sorts, In geologic phrase--the rock He split upon was _quarts_!

To “hold the mirror up to vice” With him was hard, alas! The worse for wine he often was, But not “before a glass.” No kind and prudent friend had he To bid him drink no more,-- The only _chequers_ in his course Were at a tavern door!

Full soon the sad effects of this His frame began to show, For that old enemy the gout Had taken him in _toe_! And join’d with this an evil came Of quite another sort,-- For while he drank, himself, his purse Was getting “_something short_.”

For want of cash he soon had pawn’d One half that he possess’d, And drinking show’d him _duplicates_ Beforehand of the rest! So now his creditors resolved To seize on his assets; For why,--they found that his _half-pay_ Did not _half-pay_ his debts.

But Luff contrived a novel mode His Creditors to chouse; For his own _execution_ he Put into his own house! A pistol to the muzzle charged He took devoid of fear; Said he, “This _barrel_ is my last, So now for my last _bier_!”

Against his lungs he aimed the slugs, And not against his brain, So he blew out his _lights_--and none Could blow them in again! A Jury for a Verdict met And gave it in these terms:-- “We find as how as certain _slugs_ Has sent him to the _worms_!”

LOVE HAS NOT EYES.

Of all the poor old Tobits a-groping in the street, A Lover is the blindest that ever I did meet, For he’s blind, he’s blind, he’s very blind,-- He’s as blind as any mole!

He thinks his love the fairest that ever yet was clasp’d, Though her clay is overbaked, and it never has been rasp’d. For he’s blind, &c.

He thinks her face an angel’s, although it’s quite a frump’s, Like a toad a-taking physic, or a monkey in the mumps. For he’s blind, &c.

Upon her graceful figure then how he will insist, Though she’s all so much awry, she can only eat a twist! For he’s blind, &c.

He’ll swear that in her dancing she cuts all others out, Though like a _Gal_ that’s galvanised, she throws her legs about. For he’s blind, &c.

If he should have a letter in answer to his sighs, He’ll put it to his lips up, instead of to his eyes. For he’s blind, &c.

Then if he has a meeting the question for to put, In suing for her hand he’ll be kneeling at her foot. For he’s blind, &c.

Oh Love is like a furnace wherein a Lover lies, And like a pig before the fire, he scorches out his eyes. Till he’s blind, &c.

A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

“If the affairs of this world did not make us so sad, ’Twould be easy enough to be merry.”--OLD SONG.

There is nothing but plague in this house! There’s the turbot is stole by the cat, The Newfoundland has eat up the grouse, And the haunch has been gnawed by a rat! It’s the day of all days when I wish That our friends should enjoy our good cheer; Mr. Wiggins--our dinner is dished-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

Mr. Fudge has not called, but he will, For his Rates, Church, and Highway, and Poor; And the butcher has brought in his bill-- Twice as much as the quarter before. Little Charles is come home with the mumps, And Matilda with measles, I fear; And I’ve taken two sov’reigns like dumps-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

Your poor brother is in the Gazette, And your banker is off to New York; Mr. Bigsby has died in your debt, And the “Wiggins” has foundered near Cork. Mr. Merrington’s bill is come back; You are chosen to serve overseer; The new wall is beginning to crack-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

The best dinner-set’s fallen to the ground; The militia’s called out, and you’re drawn; Not a piece of our plate can be found, And there’s marks of men’s feet on the lawn: Two anonymous letters have come, That declare you shall die like a Weare; And it may--or may not--be a hum-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

The old law-suit with Levy is lost; You are fined for not cleansing the street; And the water-pipe’s burst with the frost, And the roof lets the rain in and sleet. Your old tenant at seventy-four Has gone off in the night with his gear, And has taken the key of the door-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

There’s the “Sun” and the “Phœnix” to pay, For the chimney has blazed like Old Nick; The new gig has been jammed by a dray, And the old horse has taken to kick. We have hardly a bushel of small, And now coal is extravagant dear; Your great coat is stole out of the hall-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

The whole greenhouse is smashed by the hail, And the plants have all died in the night; The magnolia’s blown down by the gale, And the chimney looks far from upright; And--the deuce take the man from the shop, That hung up the new glass chandelier!-- It has come, in the end, to one drop-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

There’s misfortune wherever we dodge-- It’s the same in the country and town; There’s the porter has burned down his lodge, While he went off to smoke at the Crown. The fat butler makes free with your wine, And the footman has drunk the strong beer, And the coachman can’t walk in a line-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

I have doubts if your clerk is correct-- There are hints of a mistress at Kew, And some day he’ll abscond, I expect; Mr. Brown has built out your back view; The new housemaid’s the greatest of flirts-- She has men in the house, that is clear; And the laundress has pawned all your shirts-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

Your “Account of a Visit to Rome” Not a critic on earth seems to laud; And old Huggins has lately come home, And will swear that your Claude isn’t Claude; Your election is far from secure, Though it’s likely to cost very dear; You’re come out in a caricature-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

You’ve been christened an ass in the Times, And the Chronicle calls you a fool; And that dealer in boys, Dr. Ghrimes, Has engaged the next house for a school; And the playground will run by the bower Which you took so much trouble to rear; We shall never have one quiet hour-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

Little John will not take to his book, He’s come home black and blue from the cane; There’s your uncle is courting his cook, And your mother has married again! Jacob Jones will be tried with his wife, And against them you’ll have to appear; If they’re hung you’ll be wretched for life-- But I wish you a happy New Year!

SEA-SONG.

AFTER DIBDIN.

Pure water it plays a good part in The swabbing the decks and all that-- And it finds its own level for sartin-- For it sartinly drinks very flat:-- For my part a drop of the creatur I never could think was a fault, For if Tars should swig water by nature The sea would have never been salt!-- Then off with it into a jorum, And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, For if I’ve any sense of decorum It never was meant to be neat!--

One day when I was but half sober,-- Half measures I always disdain-- I walk’d into a shop that sold Soda, And ax’d for some Water Champagne;-- Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys, Till I’d shipped my six bottles or more, And blow off my last limb but it’s true, boys, Why, I warn’t half so drunk as afore!-- Then off with it into a jorum, And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, For if I’ve any sense of decorum It never was meant to be neat.

REFLECTIONS ON A NEW YEAR’S DAY.

Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear! By way of compliment and common chat, It’s very well to wish me a New Year; But wish me a new hat!

Although not spent in luxury and ease, In course a longer life I won’t refuse; But while you’re wishing, wish me, if you please, A newer pair of shoes!

Nay, while new things and wishes are afloat, I own to one that I should not rebut-- Instead of this old rent, to have a coat With more of the New Cut!

O yes, ’tis very pleasant, though I’m poor, To hear the steeple make that merry din; Except I wish one bell was at the door, To ring new trousers in.

To be alive is very nice indeed, Although another year at last departs; Only with twelve new months I rather need A dozen of new shirts.

Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear, By way of compliment and common chat, It’s very well to wish me a New Year, But wish me a new hat!

WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS.

Alas! of all the noxious things That wait upon the poor, Most cruel is that Felon-Fear That haunts the “Debtor’s Door!”

Saint Sepulchre’s begins to toll, The Sheriffs seek the cell-- So I expect their officers, And tremble at the bell!

I look for _beer_, and yet I quake With fright at every _tap_; And dread a _double-knock_, for oh! I’ve not a _single rap_!

A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.

When I reflect with serious sense, While years and years run on, How soon I may be summon’d hence-- There’s cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor, On sand and not on rocks, We’re hourly standing at Death’s door-- There’s some one double-knocks.

All human days have settled terms, Our fates we cannot force; This flesh of mine will feed the worms-- They’re come to lunch of course.

And when my body’s turn’d to clay And dear friends hear my knell, O let them give a sigh and say-- I hear the up-stairs bell.

A BULL.

One day, no matter where or when, Except ’twas after some Hibernian revel, For why? an Irishman is ready then “To play the Devil”-- A Pat, whose surname has escaped the Bards, Agreed to play with Nick a game at cards. The stake, the same that the old Source of Sin From German Faustus and his German Cousins Had won by dozens; The only one in fact he cares a pin To win.

By luck or roguery of course Old Nick Won ev’ry trick: The score was full, the last turn-up had done it-- “Your soul--I’ve won it!”

“It’s true for you I’ve lost that same,” Said Pat a little hazy in his wits-- “My soul is yours--but come, another game-- _Double_, or quits!”

ON THE DEATH OF THE GIRAFFE.

They say, God wot! She died upon the spot: But then in spots she was so rich,-- I wonder which?

ON THE REMOVAL OF A MENAGERIE.

Let Exeter Change lament its change, Its beasts and other losses-- Another place thrives by its case, Now _Charing_ has two _Crosses_.

ON HER MAJESTY’S VISIT TO THE CITY, 1844.

We’ve heard of comets, blazing things, With “fear of change” perplexing Kings; But, lo! a novel sight and strange, A Queen who does not fear a ‘Change!

ON THE QUEEN’S VISIT TO THE CITY,

BY A CORNHILL TRADESMAN.

Sure the measure is strange And all Commerce so stops, And, to open a ‘Change, Make us shut up our shops.

ON THE STATUES IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

If Nelson looks down on a couple of Kings, However it pleases the Loyals; ’Tis after the fashion of nautical things, A sky-scraper over the Royals.

ON A PICTURE (407) IN THE BRITISH INSTITUTION, 1843.

Sir, let me just your tasteful eye enveigle To yonder Painting, of the Madman Eagle.[9] Which, _that_ by Poole? Excuse me, sir, I beg, I really have no wish to catch “The Plague.”

HEART-SPRINGS.

My heart’s wound up just like a watch, As far as springs will take-- It wants but one more evil turn, And then the cords will break.

CHANGE OF MINISTRY.

As human fashions change about, The reign of Fools should now begin, For when the _Wigs_ are going out The _Naturals_ are coming in.

A PIG IN A POKE.

A Lord bought of late an outlandish estate, At its Wild Boars to Chevy and dig; So some people purchase a pig in a poke, And others, a poke in a pig.

COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY.

That flesh is grass is now as clear as day, To any but the merest purblind pup; Death cuts it down, and then, to make her hay, My Lady B---- comes and rakes it up.

THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS.

The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute; But the English make _Letters_ still more a pursuit; For a Cockney will go from the banks of the Thames To Cologne for an _O_, and to Nassau for _M’s_.

A REFLECTION.

When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press’d with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!

LAYING THE DUST.

After such years of dissension and strife, Some wonder that Peter should weep for his wife: But his tears on her grave was nothing surprising,-- He’s laying her dust, for fear of its rising.

ON LIEUTENANT EYRE’S NARRATIVE OF THE DISASTERS AT CABUL.

A sorry tale, of sorry plans, Which this conclusion grants, That Affghan clans had all the _Khans_ And we had all the _cant’s_.

THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY.

A Mechanic his labour will often discard If the rate of his pay he dislikes; But a clock--and its case is uncommonly hard-- Will continue to work, tho’ it _strikes_!

PARTY SPIRIT.

“Why did you not dine,” said a Lord to a Wit, “With the Whigs, you political sinner?” “Why really I meant, but had doubts how the _Pit_ Of my stomach would bear a Fox Dinner.”

LORD B----.

’Tis said of Lord B., none is keener than he To spit a Wild Boar with éclât; But he never gets near to the Brute with his spear, He gives it so very much _law_.

TRAITORS’ AIMS.

Three traitors, Oxford--Francis--Bean, Have missed their wicked aim; And may all shots against the Queen, In future do the same: For why, I mean no turn of wit, But seriously insist, That if Her Majesty were _hit_, No one would be so _miss’d_.

ON A CERTAIN LOCALITY.

Of public changes, good or ill, I seldom lead the mooters, But really Constitution Hill Should change its name with Shooter’s!

ON THE ART-UNIONS.

That Picture-Raffles will conduce to nourish Design, or cause good colouring to flourish, Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing, But surely Lotteries encourage Drawing!

A MORNING THOUGHT.

No more, no more will I resign My couch so warm and soft, To trouble trout with hook and line, That will not spring aloft.

With larks appointments one may fix To greet the dawning skies, But hang the getting up at six, For fish that will not _rise_!

ON A CERTAIN EQUESTRIAN STATUE AT THE ROYAL EXCHANGE.

Whoever has looked upon Wellington’s breast, Knows well that he’s not so full in the chest; But the sculptor, to humour the Londoners partial, Has turn’d the lean Duke to a plump City Marshal.

ON A DAGUERREOTYPE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Yes, there are her features! her brow, and her hair, And her eyes, with a look so seraphic, Her nose, and her mouth, with the smile that is there, Truly caught by the Art Photographic!

Yet why should she borrow such aid of the skies, When by many a bosom’s confession, Her own lovely face, and the light of her eyes, Are sufficient to _make an impression_?

SUGGESTIONS BY STEAM.

When Woman is in rags and poor, And sorrow, cold, and hunger tease her, If man would only listen more To that small voice that crieth--“Ease her!”

Without the guidance of a friend, Though legal sharks and screws attack her, If man would only more attend To that small voice that crieth--“Back her!”

So oft it would not be his fate To witness some despairing dropper In Thames’s tide, and run too late To that small voice that crieth--“Stop her!”

PUNISHMENT OF SUICIDES.

When would-be Suicides in purpose fail, Who could not find a morsel though they needed-- If Peter sends them for attempts to jail, What would he do to them if they succeeded?

ATHOL BROSE.

Charm’d with a drink which Highlanders compose, A German traveller exclaim’d with glee,-- “Potztausend! sare, if dis is Athol Brose, How goot dere Athol Boetry must be!”

ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY.

They may talk of the plugging and sweating, Of our coinage that’s minted of gold, But to me it produces no fretting Of its shortness of weight to be told:

All the sov’reigns I’m able to levy As to lightness can never be wrong, But must surely be some of the heavy, _For I never can carry them long_.

ON MRS. PARKES’S PAMPHLET.

Such strictures as these Could a learned Chinese Only read on some fine afternoon, He would cry with pale lips, “We shall have an Eclipse, For a Dragon has seized on the Moon!”

AN EXPLANATION

BY ONE OF THE LIVERY.

Says Blue-and-Buff, to Drab-and-Pink, “I’ve heard the hardest word I think, That ever posed me since my teens, I wonder what As-best-os means!”

Says Drab-and-Pink, to Blue-and-Buff, “The word is clear, and plain enough. It means a Nag wot goes the pace, And so _as best os_ wins the race.”

ON THE NEW HALF-FARTHINGS.

“Too small for any marketable shift, What purpose can there be for coins like these?” Hush, hush, good Sir!--Thus charitable Thrift May give a _Mite_ to him who wants a cheese!

THE SURPLICE QUESTION.

BY A BENEDICT.

A very pretty public stir Is making, down at Exeter, About the surplice fashion: And many bitter words and rude Have been bestowed upon the feud, And much unchristian passion.

For me, I neither know nor care Whether a Parson ought to wear A black dress or a white dress; Fill’d with a trouble of my own,-- A Wife who preaches in her gown, And lectures in her night-dress!

THE EPPING HUNT.

“HUNT’S ROASTED----”

“On Monday they began to hunt.”--_Chevy Chase._

John Huggins was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round And single Glos’ter flat; And English butter in a lump, And Irish--in a _pat_.

Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At _counter_, with his apron tied About his _counter-part_.

The seventh, in a Sluice-house box He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays, for _eel-pie_ty, A very noted spot.

Ah, blest if he had never gone Beyond its rural shed! One Easter-tide, some evil guide Put Epping in his head!

Epping, for butter justly famed, And pork in sausage popp’d; Where, winter time or summer time, Pig’s flesh is always _chopp’d_.

But famous more as annals tell, Because of Easter chase; There every year, ’twixt dog and deer, There is a gallant race.

With Monday’s sun John Huggins rose, And slapped his leather thigh, And sang the burden of the song, “This day a stag must die.”

For all the live-long day before, And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished “Thoughts On Hunting” in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo’s answering sounds, All poets’ wit hath ever writ In _dog_-rel verse of _hounds_.

Alas! there was no warning voice To whisper in his ear, Thou art a fool in leaving _Cheap_ To go and hunt the _dear_.

No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs; Not _chicken-hearted_ he, although ’Twas whispered of his _eggs_!

Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill; Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout’s_ fee, And Surgeon _Hunter’s_ bill.

So he drew on his Sunday boots, Of lustre superfine; The liquid black they wore that day Was _Warren_-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close, As erst upon a stag; Thus well equipped he gayly skipped, At once upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein A crown he nimbly flung; For holding of the horse!--why, no, For holding of his tongue.

To say the horse was Huggins’ own Would only be a brag; His neighbour Fig and he went halves, Like Centaurs, in a nag.

And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit; The horse he knew would never tell, Although it was a _tit_.

A well-bred horse he was, I wis, As he began to show, By quickly “rearing up within The way he ought to go.”

But Huggins, like a wary man, Was ne’er from saddle cast; Resolved, by going very slow, On sitting very fast.

And so he jogged to Tot’n’am Cross, An ancient town well known, Where Edward wept for Eleanor In mortar and in stone.

A royal game of fox and goose, To play on such a loss; Wherever she set down her _orts_ Thereby he put a _cross_.

Now Huggins had a crony here, That lived beside the way; One that had promised sure to be His comrade for the day.

Whereas the man had changed his mind Meanwhile upon the case! And meaning not to hunt at all, Had gone to Enfield Chase!

For why, his spouse had made him vow To let a game alone, Where folks that ride a bit of blood, May break a bit of bone.

“Now, be his wife a plague for life! A coward sure is he!” Then Huggins turned his horse’s head, And crossed the bridge of Lea.

Thence slowly on through Laytonstone, Past many a Quaker’s box-- No Friends to hunters after deer, Though followers of a _Fox_.

And many a score behind--before-- The self-same rout inclined; And, minded all to march one way, Made one great march of mind.

Gentle and simple, he and she, And swell, and blood, and prig; And some had carts, and some a chaise, According to their gig.

Some long-eared jacks, some knacker’s hacks (However odd it sounds), Let out that day to _hunt_, instead _Of going to the hounds_!

And some had horses of their own, And some were forced to job it; And some, while they inclined to _Hunt_, Betook themselves to _Cob-it_.

All sorts of vehicles and vans, Bad, middling, and the smart; Here rolled along the gay barouche, And there a dirty cart!

And lo! a cart that held a squad Of costermonger line; With one poor hack, like Pegasus, That slaved for all the Nine!

Yet marvel not at any load That any horse might drag; When all, that morn, at once were drawn Together by a stag.

Now when they saw John Huggins go At such a sober pace; “Hallo!” cried they; “come trot away, You’ll never see the chase!”

But John, as grave as any judge, Made answer quite as blunt; “It will be time enough to trot, When I begin to hunt!”

And so he paced to Woodford Wells, Where many a horseman met, And letting go the _reins_ of course, Prepared for _heavy wet_.

And lo! within the crowded door, Stood Rounding, jovial elf; Here shall the Muse frame no excuse, But frame the man himself.

A snow-white head, a merry eye, A cheek of jolly blush; A claret tint laid on by health, With master Reynard’s brush;

A hearty frame, a courteous bow, The prince he learned it from; His age about threescore and ten, And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he, So many guests to boast; So certain congregations meet, And elevate the host.

“Now welcome lads,” quoth he, “and prads, You’re all in glorious luck: Old Robin has a run to-day, A noted forest buck.

“Fair Mead’s the place, where Bob and Tom, In red already ride; ’Tis but a _step_, and on a horse, You soon may go _a-stride_.”

So off they scampered, man and horse, As time and temper pressed-- But Huggins, hitching on a tree, _Branched_ off from all the rest.

Howbeit he tumbled down in time To join with Tom and Bob, All in Fair Mead, which held that day Its own fair meed of mob.

Idlers to wit--no Guardians some, Of Tattlers in a squeeze; Ramblers in heavy carts and vans, Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butchers’ hacks, That _shambled_ to and fro! Bakers intent upon a buck, Neglectful of the _dough!_

Change Alley Bears to speculate, As usual for a fall; And green and scarlet runners, such As never climbed a wall!

’Twas strange to think what difference A single creature made; A single stag had caused a whole _Stag_nation in their trade.

Now Huggins from his saddle rose, And in the stirrups stood; And lo! a little cart that came Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse--though not For corpses in the least; For this contained the _deer alive_, And not the _dear deceased_!

And now began a sudden stir, And then a sudden shout, The prison doors were opened wide, And Robin bounded out!

His antlered head shone blue and red, Bedecked with ribbons fine; Like other bucks that come to ‘list The hawbucks in the line.

One curious gaze of wild amaze, He turned and shortly took: Then gently ran adown the mead, And bounded o’er the brook.

Now Huggins, standing far aloof, Had never seen the deer, Till all at once he saw the beast Come charging in his rear.

Away he went, and many a score Of riders did the same, On horse and ass--like High and Low And Jack pursuing game!

Good Lord! to see the riders now, Thrown off with sudden whirl, A score within the purling brook, Enjoyed their “early purl.”

A score were sprawling on the grass, And beavers fell in showers; There was another _Floorer_ there, Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips, Some had no caps to show: But few, like Charles at Charing Cross Rode on in _Statue_ quo.

“O dear! O dear!” now might you hear, “I’ve surely broke a bone;” “My head is sore”--with many more Such Speeches from the _Thrown_.

Howbeit their wailings never moved The wide Satanic clan, Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned, To see the fall of Man.

And hunters good that understood, Their laughter knew no bounds, To see the horses “throwing off” So long before the hounds.

For deer must have due course of law, Like men the Courts among; Before those Barristers the dogs Proceed to “giving tongue.”

But now Old Robin’s foes were set That fatal taint to find, That always is scent after him, Yet always left behind.

And here observe how dog and man A different temper shows: What hound resents that he is sent To follow his own nose?

Towler and Jowler--howlers all, No single tongue was mute; The stag had led a hart, and lo! The whole pack followed suit.

No spur he lacked; fear stuck a knife And fork in either haunch; And every dog he knew had got An eye-tooth to his paunch!

Away, away! he scudded like A ship before the gale; Now flew to _h_ills we know not of, Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now, Went off at furious pitch;-- A perfect Tam O’Shanter mob, Without a single witch.

But who was he with flying skirts, A hunter did endorse, And, like a poet, seemed to ride Upon a wingèd horse?

A whipper-in? no whipper-in: A huntsman? no such soul: A connoisseur, or amateur? Why, yes--a horse patrol.

A member of police, for whom The county found a nag, And, like Actæon in the tale, He found himself in stag!

Away they went, then, dog and deer, And hunters all away; The maddest horses never knew _Mad staggers_ such as they!

Some gave a shout, some rolled about, And anticked as they rode; And butchers whistled on their curs, And milkmen _Tally-ho’d_!

About two score there were, or more, That galloped in the race; The rest, alas! lay on the grass, As once in Chevy Chase!

But even those that galloped on Were fewer every minute; The field kept getting more select, Each thicket served to thin it.

For some pulled up, and left the hunt, Some fell in miry bogs, And vainly rose and “ran a muck,” To overtake the dogs.

And some, in charging hurdle stakes, Were left bereft of sense; What else could be premised of blades That never learned to fence?

But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate, Nor hedge, nor ditch could stay; O’er all they went, and did the work Of leap-years in a day!

And by their side see Huggins ride, As fast as he could speed; For, like Mazeppa, he was quite At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check, The gallop to remit, For firm and fast, between his teeth, The biter held the bit.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled Beneath him as he sate; He never saw a county go At such a county rate!

“Hold hard! hold hard! you’ll lame the dogs!” Quoth Huggins, “so I do; I’ve got the saddle well in hand, And hold as hard as you!”

Good Lord! to see him ride along, And throw his arms about, As if with stitches in the side That he was drawing out!

And now he bounded up and down, Now like a jelly shook; Till bumped and galled--yet not where Gall For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while, As tars are apt to ride; With every kick he gave a prick Deep in the horse’s side!

But soon the horse was well avenged For cruel smart of spurs, For, riding through a moor, he pitched His master in a furze!

Where, sharper set than hunger is, He squatted all forlorn; And, like a bird, was singing out While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well might be, Such cushion to resign; “Possession is nine points,” but his Seems more than ninety-nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points That entered in his skin, His nag was running off the while The thorns were running in!

Now had a Papist seen his sport, Thus laid upon the shelf, Although no horse he had to cross, He might have crossed himself.

Yet surely still the wind is ill That none can say is fair; A jolly wight there was, that rode Upon a sorry mare!

A sorry mare, that surely came Of pagan blood and bone; For down upon her knees she went To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins’ nag adrift, This farmer, shrewd and sage, Resolved, by changing horses here, To hunt another stage!

Though felony, yet who would let Another’s horse alone, Whose neck is placed in jeopardy By riding on his own?

And yet the conduct of the man Seemed honest-like and fair; For he seemed willing, horse and all, To go before the _mare_!

So up on Huggins’ horse he got, And swiftly rode away, While Huggins mounted on the mare Done brown upon a bay!

And off they set in double chase, For such was fortune’s whim, The farmer rode to hunt the stag, And Huggins hunted him!

Alas! with one that rode so well In vain it was to strive; A dab was he, as dabs should be-- All leaping and alive.

And here of Nature’s kindly care Behold a curious proof, As nags are meant to leap, she puts A frog in every hoof!

Whereas the mare, although her share She had of hoof and frog, On coming to a gate stopped short As stiff as any log;

While Huggins in the stirrup stood With neck like neck of crane, As sings the Scottish song--“to see The _gate_ his _hart_ had gane.”

And, lo! the dim and distant hunt Diminished in a trice: The steeds, like Cinderella’s team, Seemed dwindling into mice;

And, far remote, each scarlet coat Soon flitted like a spark-- Though still the forest murmured back An echo of the bark!

But sad at soul John Huggins turned: No comfort could he find; While thus the “Hunting Chorus” sped, To stay five bars behind.

For though by dint of spur he got A leap in spite of fate-- Howbeit there was no toll at all-- They could not clear the gate.

And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, And sorely cursed the day, And mused a New Gray’s elegy On his departed gray.

Now many a sign at Woodford town Its Inn-vitation tells: But Huggins, full of ills, of course Betook him to the Wells,

Where Rounding tried to cheer him up With many a merry laugh: But Huggins thought of neighbour Fig, And called for half-and-half.

Yet, spite of drink, he could not blink Remembrance of his loss; To drown a care like his, required Enough to drown a horse.

When thus forlorn, a merry horn Struck up without the door-- The mounted mob were all returned; The Epping Hunt was o’er!

And many a horse was taken out Of saddle, and of shaft; And men, by dint of drink, became The only “_beasts of draught_.”

For now begun a harder run On wine, and gin, and beer; And overtaken men discussed The overtaken deer.

How far he ran, and eke how fast, And how at bay he stood, Deerlike, resolved to sell his life As dearly as he could:--

And how the hunters stood aloof, Regardful of their lives, And shunned a beast, whose very horns They knew could _handle_ knives!

How Huggins stood when he was rubbed By help and ostler kind, And when they cleaned the clay before, How worse “remained behind.”

And one, how he had found a horse Adrift--a goodly gray! And kindly rode the nag, for fear The nag should go astray;

Now Huggins, when he heard the tale, Jumped up with sudden glee;

[Illustration: THE JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.]

[Illustration: “I WISH YOU MAY GET IT.”]

“A goodly gray! why, then, I say, That gray belongs to me!

“Let me endorse again my horse, Delivered safe and sound; And gladly I will give the man A bottle and a pound!”

The wine was drunk--the money paid, Though not without remorse, To pay another man so much For riding on his horse;--

And let the chase again take place For many a long, long year-- John Huggins will not ride again To hunt the Epping Deer!

MORAL.

Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp Just when we think to grip her: And hunting after Happiness, We only hunt the slipper.

JACK HALL.

’Tis very hard when men forsake This melancholy world, and make A bed of turf, they cannot take A quiet doze, But certain rogues will come and break Their “bone” repose.

’Tis hard we can’t give up our breath, And to the earth our earth bequeath, Without Death-Fetches after death, Who thus exhume us; And snatch us from our homes beneath, And hearths posthumous.

The tender lover comes to rear The mournful urn, and shed his tear-- Her glorious dust, he cries, is here! Alack! alack! The while his Sacharissa dear Is in a sack!

’Tis hard one cannot lie amid The mould, beneath a coffin-lid, But thus the Faculty will bid Their rogues break through it, If they don’t want us there, why did They send us to it?

One of these sacrilegious knaves, Who crave as hungry vulture craves, Behaving as the ghoul behaves, ‘Neath church-yard wall-- Mayhap because he fed on graves, Was named Jack Hall.

By day it was his trade to go Tending the black coach to and fro; And sometimes at the door of woe, With emblems suitable, He stood with brother Mute, to show That life is mutable.

But long before they pass’d the ferry, The dead that he had help’d to bury, He sack’d--(he had a sack to carry The bodies off in) In fact, he let them have a very Short fit of coffin.

Night after night, with crow and spade, He drove this dead but thriving trade, Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’d A single horsehair; On corses of all kinds he prey’d, A perfect corsair!

At last--it may be, Death took spite, Or, jesting only, meant to fright-- He sought for Jack night after night The churchyards round; And soon they met, the man and sprite, In Pancras’ ground.

Jack, by the glimpses of the moon, Perceiv’d the bony knacker soon, An awful shape to meet at noon Of night and lonely; But Jack’s tough courage did but swoon A minute only.

Anon he gave his spade a swing Aloft, and kept it brandishing, Ready for what mishaps might spring From this conjunction; Funking indeed was quite a thing Beside his function.

“Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sands Run out? the stoutest never stands A chance with me,--to my commands The strongest truckles; But I’m your friend--so let’s shake hands, I should say--knuckles.”

Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightly And meaning nothing but uprightly, Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly, His mull did proffer: But Death, who had no nose, politely Declin’d the offer.

Then sitting down upon a bank, Leg over leg, shank over shank, Like friends for conversation frank, That had no check on: Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank, “You’re Death, I reckon.”

The Jaw-bone grinn’d:--“I am that same, You’ve hit exactly on my name; In truth it has some little fame Where burial sod is.” Quoth Jack (and wink’d), “of course ye came Here after bodies.”

Death grinn’d again and shook his head:-- “I’ve little business with the dead; When they are fairly sent to bed I’ve done my turn: Whether or not the worms are fed Is your concern.

“My errand here, in meeting you, Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’ I’ve done what jobs I had--a few Along this way; If I can serve a crony too, I beg you’ll say.”

Quoth Jack, “Your Honour’s very kind: And now I call the thing to mind, This parish very strict I find; But in the next ‘un There lives a very well-inclined Old sort of sexton.”

Death took the hint, and gave a wink As well as eyelet holes can blink; Then stretching out his arm to link The other’s arm,-- “Suppose,” says he, “we have a drink Of something warm.”

Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease Spoke up at once:--“Why, what ye please, Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese, A famous tap.” But this suggestion seem’d to tease The bony chap.

“No, no--your mortal drinks are heady, And only make my hand unsteady; I do not even care for Deady, And loathe your rum; But I’ve some glorious brewage ready, My drink is--Mum!”

And off they set, each right content-- Who knows the dreary way they went? But Jack felt rather faint and spent, And out of breath; At last he saw, quite evident, The Door of Death.

All other men had been unmann’d To see a coffin on each hand, That served a skeleton to stand By way of sentry; In fact, Death has a very grand And awful entry.

Throughout his dismal sign prevails, His name is writ in coffin nails; The mortal darts make area rails; A skull that mocketh, Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails Whoever knocketh.

And lo! on either side, arise Two monstrous pillars--bones of thighs; A monumental slab supplies The step of stone, Where waiting for his master lies A dog of bone.

The dog leapt up, but gave no yell, The wire was pull’d, but woke no bell, The ghastly knocker rose and fell, But caused no riot; The ways of Death, we all know well, Are very quiet.

Old Bones stept in; Jack stepp’d behind; Quoth Death, I really hope you’ll find The entertainment to your mind, As I shall treat ye-- A friend or two of goblin kind, I’ve asked to meet ye.

And lo! a crowd of spectres tall, Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall, Were standing--every ghastly ball-- An eager watcher. “My friend,” says Death--“friends, Mr. Hall, The body-snatcher.”

Lord, what a tumult it produced, When Mr. Hall was introduced! Jack even, who had long been used To frightful things, Felt just as if his back was sluic’d With freezing springs!

Each goblin face began to make Some horrid mouth--ape--gorgon--snake; And then a spectre-hag would shake An airy thigh-bone; And cried, (or seem’d to cry,) I’ll break Your bone, with my bone!

Some ground their teeth--some seem’d to spit-- (Nothing, but nothing came of it,) A hundred awful brows were knit In dreadful spite. Thought Jack--“I’m sure I’d better quit Without good-night.”

One skip and hop and he was clear, And running like a hunted deer, As fleet as people run by fear Well spurr’d and whipp’d, Death, ghosts, and all in that career Were quite outstripp’d.

But those who live by death must die; Jack’s soul at last prepared to fly; And when his latter end drew nigh, Oh! what a swarm Of doctors came,--but not to try To keep him warm.

No ravens ever scented prey So early where a dead horse lay, Nor vulture sniff’d so far away A last convulse: A dozen “guests” day after day Were “at his pulse.”

’Twas strange, altho’ they got no fees, How still they watch’d by twos and threes, But Jack a very little ease Obtain’d from them; In fact he did not find M. D.’s Worth one D----M.

The passing bell with hollow toll Was in his thought--the dreary hole! Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll, And then a cough:-- “There’s something weighing on my soul I wish was off;

“All night it roves about my brains, All day it adds to all my pains, It is concerning my remains When I am dead:” Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canes Drew near his bed.

“Alas!” he sigh’d, “I’m sore afraid A dozen pangs my heart invade; But when I drove a certain trade In flesh and bone, There was a little bargain made About my own.”

Twelve suits of black began to close, Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose, Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows, At once drew round; Twelve noses turn’d against his nose, Twelve snubs profound.

“Ten guineas did not quite suffice, And so I sold my body twice; Twice did not do--I sold it thrice, Forgive my crimes! In short I have received its price A dozen times!”

Twelve brows got very grim and black, Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack, Twelve pair of hands for fierce attack Took up position, Ready to share the dying Jack By long division.

Twelve angry doctors wrangled so, That twelve had struck an hour ago, Before they had an eye to throw On the departed; Twelve heads turn’d round at once, and lo! Twelve doctors started.

Whether some comrade of the dead, Or Satan took it in his head To steal the corpse--the corpse had fled! ’Tis only written, That “_there was nothing in the bed, But twelve were bitten_!”

MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG.

A GOLDEN LEGEND.

HER PEDIGREE.

To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree To the very root of the family tree Were a task as rash as ridiculous: Through antedilvian mists as thick As London fog such a line to pick Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick,-- Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas.

It wouldn’t require much verbal strain To trace the Kil-man, perchance, to Cain, But, waiving all such digressions, Suffice it, according to family lore, A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore, Who was famed for his great possessions.

Tradition said he feather’d his nest Through an Agricultural Interest In the Golden Age of farming; When golden eggs were laid by the geese, And Colchian sheep wore a golden fleece, And golden pippins--the sterling kind Of Hesperus--now so hard to find-- Made Horticulture quite charming!

A Lord of Land, on his own estate, He lived at a very lively rate, But his income would bear carousing; Such acres he had of pasture and heath, With herbage so rich from the ore beneath, The very ewe’s and lambkin’s teeth Were turn’d into gold by browsing.

He gave, without any extra thrift, A flock of sheep for a birthday gift To each son of his loins, or daughter: And his debts--if debts he had--at will He liquidated by giving each bill A dip in Pactolian water.

’Twas said that even his pigs of lead, By crossing with some by Midas bred, Made a perfect mine of his piggery. And as for cattle, one yearling bull Was worth all Smithfield-market full Of the Golden Bulls of Pope Gregory.

The high-bred horses within his stud, Like human creatures of birth and blood, Had their Golden Cups and flagons: And as for the common husbandry nags, Their noses were tied in money-bags, When they stopp’d with the carts and waggons.

Moreover, he had a Golden Ass, Sometimes at stall, and sometimes at grass, That was worth his own weight in money-- And a golden hive, on a Golden Bank, Where golden bees, by alchemical prank, Gather’d gold instead of honey.

Gold! and gold! and gold without end! He had gold to lay by, and gold to spend, Gold to give, and gold to lend, And reversions of gold _in futuro_. In wealth the family revell’d and roll’d, Himself and wife and sons so bold;-- And his daughters sang to their harps of gold “O bella eta del’ oro!”

Such was the tale of the Kilmansegg Kin, In golden text on a vellum skin, Though certain people would wink and grin, And declare the whole story a parable-- That the Ancestor rich was one Jacob Ghrimes, Who held a long lease, in prosperous times, Of acres, pasture and arable.

That as money makes money, his golden bees Were the Five per Cents, or which you please When his cash was more than plenty-- That the golden cups were racing affairs; And his daughters, who sang Italian airs, Had their golden harps of Clementi.

That the Golden Ass, or Golden Bull, Was English John, with his pockets full, Then at war by land and water: While beef, and mutton, and other meat, Were almost as dear as money to eat, And Farmers reaped Golden Harvests of wheat At the Lord knows what per quarter!

HER BIRTH.

What different dooms our birthdays bring For instance, one little manikin thing Survives to wear many a wrinkle; While Death forbids another to wake, And a son that it took nine moons to make Expires without even a twinkle!

Into this world we come like ships, Launch’d from the docks, and stocks, and slips, For fortune fair or fatal; And one little craft is cast away In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay, While another rides safe at Port Natal.

What different lots our stars accord! This babe to be hail’d and woo’d as a Lord! And that to be shunn’d like a leper! One, to the world’s wine, honey, and corn, Another, like Colchester native, born To its vinegar, only, and pepper.

One is litter’d under a roof Neither wind nor waterproof-- That’s the prose of Love in a Cottage-- A puny, naked, shivering wretch, The whole of whose birthright would not fetch, Though Robins himself drew up the sketch, The bid of “a mess of pottage.”

Born of Fortunatus’s kin, Another comes tenderly ushered in To a prospect all bright and burnish’d: No tenant he for life’s back slums-- He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes To a lodging ready furnish’d.

And the other sex--the tender--the fair-- What wide reverses of fate are there! Whilst Margaret, charm’d by the Bulbul rare, In a garden of Gul reposes-- Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street Till--think of that, who find life so sweet!-- She hates the smell of roses!

Not so with the infant Kilmansegg! She was not born to steal or beg, Or gather cresses in ditches; To plait the straw, or bind the shoe, Or sit all day to hem and sew, As females must--and not a few-- To fill their insides with stitches!

She was not doom’d, for bread to eat, To be put to her hands as well as her feet-- To carry home linen from mangles-- Or heavy-hearted, and weary-limb’d, To dance on a rope in a jacket trimm’d With as many blows as spangles.

She was one of those who by Fortune’s boon Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon In her mouth, not a wooden ladle: To speak according to poet’s wont, Plutus as sponsor stood at her font, And Midas rock’d the cradle.

[Illustration: DUE AT MICHAELMAS.]

[Illustration: CRANE-IOLOGY.]

At her first _debut_ she found her head On a pillow of down, in a downy bed, With a damask canopy over. For although, by the vulgar popular saw, All mothers are said to be “in the straw,” Some children are born in clover.

Her very first draught of vital air, It was not the common chameleon fare Of plebeian lungs and noses,-- No--her earliest sniff Of this world was a whiff Of the genuine Otto of Roses!

When she saw the light, it was no mere ray Of that light so common--so everyday-- That the sun each morning launches-- But six wax tapers dazzled her eyes, From a thing--a gooseberry bush for size-- With a golden stem and branches.

She was born exactly at half-past two, As witnessed a time-piece in or-molu That stood on a marble table-- Showing at once the time of day, And a team of _Gildings_ running away As fast as they were able, With a golden God, with a golden Star, And a golden Spear, in a golden Car, According to Grecian fable.

Like other babes, at her birth she cried; Which made a sensation far and wide-- Ay, for twenty miles around her: For though to the ear ’twas nothing more Than an infant’s squall, it was really the roar Of a Fifty-thousand Pounder! It shook the next heir In his library chair, And made him cry, “Confound her!”

Of signs and omens there was no dearth, Any more than at Owen Glendower’s birth, Or the advent of other great people: Two bullocks dropp’d dead, As if knock’d on the head, And barrels of stout And ale ran about, And the village-bells such a peal rang out, That they crack’d the village-steeple.

In no time at all, like mushroom spawn, Tables sprang up all over the lawn; Not furnish’d scantly or shabbily, But on scale as vast As that huge repast, With its loads and cargoes Of drink and botargoes, At the birth of the Babe in Rabelais.

Hundreds of men were turn’d into beasts, Like the guests at Circe’s horrible feasts, By the magic of ale and cider: And each country lass, and each country lad, Began to caper and dance like mad, And ev’n some old ones appear’d to have had A bite from the Naples Spider.

Then as night came on, It had scared King John Who considered such signs not risible, To have seen the maroons, And the whirling moons, And the serpents of flame, And wheels of the same, That according to some were “whizzable.”

Oh, happy Hope of the Kilmanseggs! Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs, That her parents had such full pockets! For had she been born of Want and Thrift, For care and nursing all adrift, It’s ten to one she had had to make shift With rickets instead of rockets!

And how was the precious baby drest? In a robe of the East, with lace of the West, Like one of Crœsus’ issue-- Her best bibs were made Of rich gold brocade, And the others of silver tissue.

And when the Baby inclined to nap She was lull’d on a Gros de Naples lap, By a nurse in a modish Paris cap, Of notions so exalted, She drank nothing lower than Curaçoa, Maraschino, or pink Noyau, And on principle never malted.

From a golden boat, with a golden spoon, The babe was fed night, morning, and noon; And although the tale seems fabulous, ’Tis said her tops and bottoms were gilt, Like the oats in that Stable-yard Palace built For the Horse of Heliogabalus.

And when she took to squall and kick-- For pain will ring, and pins will prick, E’en the wealthiest nabob’s daughter-- They gave her no vulgar Dalby or gin, But a liquor with leaf of gold therein, Videlicet,--Dantzic Water.

In short, she was born, and bred, and nurst, And drest in the best from the very first, To please the genteelest censor-- And then, as soon as strength would allow Was vaccinated, as babes are now, With virus ta’en from the best-bred cow Of Lord Althorpe’s--now Earl Spencer.

HER CHRISTENING.

Though Shakespeare asks us, “What’s in a name?” (As if cognomens were much the same), There’s really a very great scope in it. A name?--why, wasn’t there Doctor Dodd, That servant at once of Mammon and God, Who found four thousand pounds and odd, A prison--a cart--and a rope in it?

A name?--if the party had a voice, What mortal would be a Bugg by choice? As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice? Or any such nauseous blazon? Not to mention many a vulgar name, That would make a door-plate blush for shame, If door-plates were not so brazen!

A name?--it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth-- As dames of a certain degree know. In spite of his Page’s hat and hose, His Page’s jacket, and buttons in rows, Bob only sounds like a page in prose Till turned into Rupertino.

Now to christen the infant Kilmansegg, For days and days it was quite a plague, To hunt the list in the Lexicon: And scores were tried, like coin, by the ring, Ere names were found just the proper thing For a minor rich as a Mexican.

Then cards were sent the presence to beg Of all the kin of Kilmansegg, White, yellow, and brown relations: Brothers, Wardens of City Halls, And Uncles--rich as three Golden Balls From taking pledges of nations.

Nephews, whom Fortune seem’d to bewitch, Rising in life like rockets-- Nieces, whose doweries knew no hitch-- Aunts, as certain of dying rich As candles in golden sockets-- Cousins German and Cousins’ sons, All thriving and opulent--some had tons Of Kentish hops in their pockets!

For money had stuck to the race through life (As it did to the bushel when cash so rife Posed Ali Baba’s brother’s wife)-- And down to the Cousins and Coz-lings, The fortunate brood of the Kilmanseggs, As if they had come out of golden eggs, Were all as wealthy as “Goslings.”

It would fill a Court Gazette to name What East and West End people came To the rite of Christianity: The lofty Lord, and the titled Dame, All di’monds, plumes, and urbanity: His Lordship the May’r with his golden chain, And two Gold Sticks, and the Sheriffs twain, Nine foreign Counts, and other great men With their orders and stars, to help “M. or N.” To renounce all pomp and vanity.

To paint the maternal Kilmansegg The pen of an Eastern Poet would beg, And need an elaborate sonnet; How she sparkled with gems whenever she stirr’d, And her head niddle-noddled at every word, And seem’d so happy, a Paradise Bird Had nidificated upon it.

And Sir Jacob the Father strutted and bow’d, And smiled to himself, and laugh’d aloud, To think of his heiress and daughter-- And then in his pockets he made a grope, And then, in the fulness of joy and hope, Seem’d washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.

He had roll’d in money like pigs in mud, Till it seem’d to have entered into his blood By some occult projection: And his cheeks instead of a healthy hue As yellow as any guinea grew, Making the common phrase seem true, About a rich complexion.

And now came the nurse, and during a pause, Her dead-leaf satin would fitly cause A very autumnal rustle-- So full of figure, so full of fuss, As she carried about the babe to buss, She seem’d to be nothing but bustle.

A wealthy Nabob was Godpapa, And an Indian Begum was Godmamma, Whose jewels a Queen might covet-- And the Priest was a Vicar, and Dean withal Of that Temple we see with a Golden Ball, And a Golden Cross above it.

The Font was a bowl of American gold, Won by Raleigh in days of old, In spite of Spanish bravado; And the Book of Pray’r was so overrun With gilt devices, it shone in the sun Like a copy--a presentation one-- Of Humboldt’s “El Dorado.”

Gold! and gold! and nothing but gold! The same auiferous shine behold Wherever the eye could settle! On the walls--the sideboard--the ceiling-sky-- On the gorgeous footmen standing by, In coats to delight a miner’s eye With seams of the precious metal.

Gold! and gold! and besides the gold, The very robe of the infant told A tale of wealth in every fold, It lapp’d her like a vapour! So fine! so thin! the mind at a loss Could compare it to nothing except a cross Of cobweb with bank-note paper.

Then her pearls--’twas a perfect sight, forsooth, To see them, like “the dew of her youth,” In such a plentiful sprinkle. Meanwhile, the Vicar read through the form, And gave her another, not overwarm, That made her little eyes twinkle.

Then the babe was cross’d and bless’d amain! But instead of the Kate, or Ann, or Jane, Which the humbler female endorses-- Instead of one name, as some people prefix, Kilmansegg went at the tails of six, Like a carriage of state with its horses.

Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs! The golden mugs and the golden jugs That lent fresh rays to the midges! The golden knives, and the golden spoons, The gems that sparkled like fairy boons, It was one of the Kilmansegg’s own saloons, But look’d like Rundell and Bridge’s!

Gold! and gold! the new and the old, The company ate and drank from gold, They revell’d, they sang, and were merry; And one of the Gold Sticks rose from his chair, And toasted “the Lass with the golden hair” In a bumper of Golden Sherry.

Gold! still gold! it rain’d on the nurse, Who--un-like Danäe--was none the worse! There was nothing but guineas glistening! Fifty were given to Doctor James, For calling the little Baby names, And for saying, Amen! The Clerk had ten, And that was the end of the Christening.

HER CHILDHOOD.

Our youth! our childhood! that spring of springs! ’Tis surely one of the blessedest things That nature ever invented! When the rich are wealthy beyond their wealth, And the poor are rich in spirits and health, And all with their lots contented!

There’s little Phelim, he sings like a thrush, In the selfsame pair of patchwork plush, With the selfsame empty pockets, That tempted his daddy so often to cut His throat, or jump in the water-butt-- But what cares Phelim? an empty nut Would sooner bring tears to their sockets.

Give him a collar without a skirt, (That’s the Irish linen for shirt) And a slice of bread with a taste of dirt, (That’s Poverty’s Irish butter), And what does he lack to make him blest? Some oyster-shells, or a sparrow’s nest, A candle-end, and a gutter.

But to leave the happy Phelim alone, Gnawing, perchance, a marrowless bone, For which no dog would quarrel-- Turn we to little Miss Kilmansegg Cutting her first little toothy-peg With a fifty-guinea coral-- A peg upon which About poor and rich Reflection might hang a moral.

Born in wealth, and wealthily nursed, Capp’d, papp’d, napp’d, and lapp’d from the first On the knees of Prodigality, Her childhood was one eternal round Of the game of going on Tickler’s ground Picking up gold--in reality.

With extempore cartes she never play’d, Or the odds and ends of a Tinker’s trade, Or little dirt pies and puddings made, Like children happy and squalid; The very puppet she had to pet, Like a bait for the “Nix my Dolly” set, Was a Dolly of gold--and solid!

Gold! and gold! ’twas the burden still! To gain the Heiress’s early goodwill There was much corruption and bribery-- The yearly cost of her golden toys Would have given half London’s Charity Boys And Charity Girls the annual joys Of a holiday dinner at Highbury.

Bon-bons she ate from the gilt _cornet_; And gilded queens on St. Bartlemy’s day; Till her fancy was tinged by her presents-- And first a Goldfinch excited her wish, Then a spherical bowl with its Golden fish, And then two Golden Pheasants.

Nay, once she squall’d and scream’d like wild-- And it shows how the bias we give to a child Is a thing most weighty and solemn:-- But whence was wonder or blame to spring If little Miss K.--after such a swing-- Made a dust for the flaming gilded thing On the top of the Fish Street column?

HER EDUCATION.

According to metaphysical creed, To the earliest books that children read For much good or much bad they are debtors-- But before with their A B C they start, There are things in morals, as well as art, That play a very important part-- “Impressions before the letters.”

Dame Education begins the pile, Mayhap in the graceful Corinthian style, But alas for the elevation! If the Lady’s maid or Gossip the Nurse With a load of rubbish, or something worse, Have made a rotten foundation.

Even thus with little Miss Kilmansegg, Before she learned her E for egg, Ere her Governess came, or her masters-- Teachers of quite a different kind Had “cramm’d” her beforehand, and put her mind In a go-cart on golden castors.

Long before her A B and C, They had taught her by heart her L. S. D. And as how she was born a great Heiress; And as sure as London is built of bricks, My Lord would ask her the day to fix, To ride in a fine gilt coach and six, Like Her Worship the Lady May’ress.

Instead of stories from Edgeworth’s page, The true golden lore for our golden age, Or lessons from Barbauld and Trimmer, Teaching the worth of Virtue and Health, All that she knew was the Virtue of Wealth, Provided by vulgar nursery stealth With a Book of Leaf Gold for a Primer.

The very metal of merit they told, And praised her for being as “good as gold!” Till she grew as a peacock haughty; Of money they talk’d the whole day round, And weigh’d desert, like grapes, by the pound, Till she had an idea from the very sound That people with nought were naughty.

They praised--poor children with nothing at all! Lord! how you twaddle and waddle and squall Like common-bred geese and ganders! What sad little bad little figures you make To the rich Miss K., whose plainest seed-cake Was stuff’d with corianders!

They praised her falls, as well as her walk, Flatterers made cream cheese of chalk, They praised--how they praised--her very small talk, As if it fell from a Solon; Or the girl who at each pretty phrase let drop A ruby comma, or pearl full-stop, Or an emerald semi-colon.

They praised her spirit, and now and then The Nurse brought her own little “nevy” Ben, To play with the future May’ress, And when he got raps, and taps, and slaps, Scratches, and pinches, snips, and snaps, As if from a Tigress, or Bearess, They told him how Lords would court that hand, And always gave him to understand While he rubb’d, poor soul, His carroty poll, That his hair had been pull’d by “a _Hairess_.”

Such were the lessons from maid and nurse, A Governess help’d to make still worse, Giving an appetite so perverse Fresh diet whereon to batten-- Beginning with A B C to hold Like a royal playbill printed in gold On a square of pearl-white satin.

The books to teach the verbs and nouns, And those about countries, cities, and towns, Instead of their sober drabs and browns, Were in crimson silk, with gilt edges;-- Her Butler, and Enfield, and Entick--in short Her “Early Lessons” of every sort, Look’d like Souvenirs, Keepsakes, and Pledges.

Old Johnson shone out in as fine array As he did one night when he went to the play; Chambaud like a beau of King Charles’s day-- Lindley Murray in like conditions-- Each weary, unwelcome, irksome task, Appear’d in a fancy dress and a mask;-- If you wish for similar copies, ask For Howell and James’s Editions.

Novels she read to amuse her mind, But always the affluent match-making kind That ends with Promessi Sposi, And a father-in-law so wealthy and grand, He could give cheque-mate to Coutts in the Strand; So, along with a ring and posy, He endows the Bride with Golconda off-hand, And gives the Groom Potosi.

Plays she perused--but she liked the best Those comedy gentlefolks always possess’d Of fortunes so truly romantic-- Of money so ready that right or wrong It always is ready to go for a song, Throwing it, going it, pitching it strong-- They ought to have purses as green and long As the cucumber call’d the Gigantic.

Then Eastern Tales she loved for the sake Of the Purse of Oriental make, And the thousand pieces they put in it-- But Pastoral scenes on her heart fell cold, For Nature with her had lost its hold, No field but the Field of the Cloth of Gold Would ever have caught her foot in it.

What more? She learnt to sing, and dance, To sit on a horse, although he should prance, And to speak a French not spoken in France Any more than at Babel’s building-- And she painted shells, and flowers, and Turks, But her great delight was in Fancy Works That are done with gold or gilding.

Gold! still gold!--the bright and the dead, With golden beads, and gold lace, and gold thread She work’d in gold, as if for her bread; The metal had so undermined her, Gold ran in her thoughts and fill’d her brain, She was golden-headed as Peter’s cane With which he walk’d behind her.

HER ACCIDENT.

The horse that carried Miss Kilmansegg, And a better never lifted leg, Was a very rich bay, call’d Banker-- A horse of a breed and a mettle so rare,-- By Bullion out of an Ingot mare,-- That for action, the best of figures, and air, It made many good judges hanker.

And when she took a ride in the Park, Equestrian Lord, or pedestrian Clerk, Was thrown in an amorous fever, To see the Heiress how well she sat, With her groom behind her, Bob or Nat, In green, half smother’d with gold, and a hat With more gold lace than beaver.

And then when Banker obtain’d a pat, To see how he arch’d his neck at that! He snorted with pride and pleasure! Like the Steed in the fable so lofty and grand, Who gave the poor Ass to understand, That _he_ didn’t carry a bag of sand, But a burden of golden treasure.

A load of treasure?--alas! alas! Had her horse but been fed upon English grass, And shelter’d in Yorkshire spinneys, Had he scour’d the sand with the Desert Ass, Or where the American whinnies-- But a hunter from Erin’s turf and gorse, A regular thorough-bred Irish horse, Why, he ran away, as a matter of course, With a girl worth her weight in guineas!

Mayhap ’tis the trick of such pampered nags,-- To shy at the sight of a beggar in rags, But away, like the bolt of a rabbit,-- Away went the horse in the madness of fright, And away went the horsewoman mocking the sight-- Was yonder blue flash a flash of blue light, Or only the skirt of her habit?

Away she flies, with the groom behind,-- It looks like a race of the Calmuck kind, When Hymen himself is the starter, And the Maid rides first in the four-footed strife, Riding, striding, as if for her life, While the Lover rides after to catch him a wife, Although it’s catching a Tartar.

But the Groom has lost his glittering hat! Though he does not sigh and pull up for that-- Alas! his horse is a tit for Tat To sell to a very low bidder-- His wind is ruin’d, his shoulder is sprung, Things, though a horse be handsome and young, A purchaser _will_ consider.

But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust, Oh, for a fall, if fall she must, On the gentle lap of Flora! But still, thank Heaven! she clings to her seat-- Away! away! she could ride a dead heat With the Dead who ride so fast and fleet, In the Ballad of Leonora!

Away she gallops,--it’s awful work! It’s faster than Turpin’s ride to York, On Bess that notable clipper! She has circled the Ring!--she crosses the Park! Mazeppa, although he was stripp’d so stark, Mazeppa couldn’t outstrip her!

The fields seem running away with the folks! The Elms are having a race for the Oaks At a pace that all Jockeys disparages! All, all is racing! the Serpentine Seems rushing past like the “arrowy Rhine,” The houses have got on a railway line, And are off like the first-class carriages!

She’ll lose her life! she is losing her breath! A cruel chase, she is chasing Death, As female shriekings forewarn her: And now--as gratis as blood of Guelph-- She clears that gate, which has clear’d itself Since then, at Hyde Park Corner!

Alas! for the hope of the Kilmanseggs! For her head, her brains, her body, and legs, Her life’s not worth a copper! Willy-nilly, In Piccadilly, A hundred hearts turn sick and chilly, A hundred voices cry, “Stop her!” And one old gentleman stares and stands, Shakes his head and lifts his hands, And says, “How very improper!”

On and on!--what a perilous run! The iron rails seem all mingling in one, To shut out the Green Park scenery! And now the Cellar its dangers reveals. She shudders--she shrieks--she’s doom’d, she feels, To be torn by powers of horses and wheels, Like a spinner by steam machinery!

Sick with horror she shuts her eyes, But the very stones seem uttering cries, As they did to that Persian daughter, When she climb’d up the steep vociferous hill, Her little silver flagon to fill With the magical Golden Water!

“Batter her! shatter her! Throw and scatter her!” Shouts each stony-hearted chatterer! “Dash at the heavy Dover! Spill her! kill her! tear and tatter her! Smash her! crash her!” (the stones didn’t flatter her!) “Kick her brains out! let her blood spatter her! Roll on her over and over!”

For so she gather’d the awful sense Of the street in its past unmacadamized tense, As the wild horse overran it,-- His four heels making the clatter of six, Like a Devil’s tattoo, play’d with iron sticks On a kettle-drum of granite!

On! still on! she’s dazzled with hints Of oranges, ribbons, and colour’d prints, A Kaleidoscope jumble of shapes and tints, And human faces all flashing, Bright and brief as the sparks from the flints, That the desperate hoof keeps dashing!

On and on! still frightfully fast! Dover-street, Bond-street, all are past! But--yes--no--yes!--they’re down at last! The Furies and Fates have found them! Down they go with sparkle and crash, Like a Bark that’s struck by the lightning flash-- There’s a shriek--and a sob-- And the dense dark mob Like a billow closes around them!

* * * * *

“She breathes!” “She don’t!” “She’ll recover!” “She won’t!” “She’s stirring! she’s living, by Nemesis!” Gold, still gold! on counter and shelf! Golden dishes as plenty as delf; Miss Kilmansegg’s coming again to herself On an opulent Goldsmith’s premises!

Gold! fine gold!--both yellow and red, Beaten, and molten--polish’d, and dead--

[Illustration: DEATH’S DOOR.]

[Illustration: BARRISTER ON CIRCUIT.]

To see the gold with profusion spread In all forms of its manufacture! But what avails gold to Miss Kilmansegg, When the femoral bone of her dexter leg Has met with a compound fracture?

Gold may soothe Adversity’s smart; Nay, help to bind up a broken heart; But to try it on any other part Were as certain a disappointment, As if one should rub the dish and plate, Taken out of a Staffordshire crate-- In the hope of a Golden Service of State-- With Singleton’s “Golden Ointment.”

HER PRECIOUS LEG.

“As the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined,” Is an adage often recall’d to mind, Referring to juvenile bias: And never so well is the verity seen, As when to the weak, warp’d side we lean, While Life’s tempests and hurricanes try us.

Even thus with Miss K. and her broken limb: By a very, very remarkable whim, She show’d her early tuition: While the buds of character came into blow With a certain tinge that served to show The nursery culture long ago, As the graft is known by fruition!

For the King’s Physician, who nursed the case, His verdict gave with an awful face, And three others concurr’d to egg it; That the Patient to give old Death the slip, Like the Pope, instead of a personal trip, Must send her Leg as a Legate.

The limb was doom’d--it couldn’t be saved! And like other people the patient behaved, Nay, bravely that cruel parting braved, Which makes some persons so falter, They rather would part, without a groan, With the flesh of their flesh, and bone of their bone, They obtain’d at St. George’s altar.

But when it came to fitting the stump With a proxy limb--then flatly and plump She spoke, in the spirit olden; She couldn’t--she shouldn’t--she wouldn’t have wood Nor a leg of cork, if she never stood, And she swore an oath, or something as good, The proxy limb should be golden!

A wooden leg! what, a sort of peg, For your common Jockeys and Jennies! No, no, her mother might worry and plague-- Weep, go down on her knees, and beg, But nothing would move Miss Kilmansegg! She could--she would have a Golden Leg, If it cost ten thousand guineas!

Wood indeed, in Forest or Park, With its sylvan honours and feudal bark, Is an aristocratic article: But split and sawn, and hack’d about town, Serving all needs of pauper or clown, Trod on! stagger’d on! Wood cut down Is vulgar--fibre and particle.

And Cork!--when the noble Cork Tree shades A lovely group of Castilian maids, ’Tis a thing for a song or sonnet!-- But cork, as it stops the bottle of gin, Or bungs the beer--the _small_ beer--in, It pierced her heart like a corking-pin, To think of standing upon it!

A Leg of Gold--solid gold throughout, Nothing else, whether slim or stout, Should ever support her, God willing! She must--she could--she would have her whim, Her father, she turn’d a deaf ear to him-- He might kill her--she didn’t mind killing! He was welcome to cut off her other limb-- He might cut her all off with a shilling!

All other promised gifts were in vain, Golden Girdle, or Golden Chain, She writhed with impatience more than pain, And utter’d “pshaws!” and “pishes!” But a Leg of Gold as she lay in bed, It danced before her--it ran in her head! It jump’d with her dearest wishes!

“Gold--gold--gold! Oh, let it be gold!” Asleep or awake that tale she told, And when she grew delirious; Till her parents resolved to grant her wish, If they melted down plate, and goblet, and dish, The case was getting so serious.

So a Leg was made in a comely mould, Of Gold, fine virgin glittering gold, As solid as man could made it-- Solid in foot, and calf, and shank, A prodigious sum of money it sank; In fact ’twas a Branch of the family Bank, And no easy matter to break it.

All sterling metal--not half-and-half, The Goldsmith’s mark was stamp’d on the calf-- ’Twas pure as from Mexican barter! And to make it more costly, just over the knee, Where another ligature used to be, Was a circle of jewels, worth shillings to see, A new-fangled Badge of the Garter!

’Twas a splendid, brilliant, beautiful Leg, Fit for the Court of Scander-Beg, That Precious Leg of Miss Kilmansegg! For, thanks to parental bounty, Secure from Mortification’s touch, She stood on a Member that cost as much As a Member for all the County!

HER FAME.

To gratify stern ambition’s whims, What hundreds and thousands of precious limbs On a field of battle we scatter! Sever’d by sword, or bullet, or saw, Off they go, all bleeding and raw,-- But the public seems to get the lock-jaw So little is said on the matter!

Legs, the tightest that ever were seen, The tightest, the lightest, that danced on the green, Cutting capers to sweet Kitty Clover; Shatter’d, scatter’d, cut, and bowl’d down, Off they go, worse off for renown, A line in the _Times_, or a talk about town, Than the leg that a fly runs over!

But the Precious Leg of Miss Kilmansegg, That gowden, goolden, golden leg, Was the theme of all conversation! Had it been a Pillar of Church and State, Or a prop to support the whole Dead Weight, It could not have furnish’d more debate To the heads and tails of the nation!

East and west, and north and south, Though useless for either hunger or drouth,-- The Leg was in everybody’s mouth, To use a poetical figure, Rumour, in taking her ravenous swim, Saw, and seized on the tempting limb, Like a shark on the leg of a nigger.

Wilful murder fell very dead; Debates in the House were hardly read; In vain the Police Reports were fed With Irish riots and _rumpuses_-- The Leg! the Leg! was the great event, Through every circle in life it went, Like the leg of a pair of compasses.

The last new Novel seem’d tame and flat, The Leg, a novelty newer than that, Had tripp’d up the heels of Fiction! It Burked the very essays of Burke, And, alas! how Wealth over Wit play’s the Turk! As a regular piece of goldsmith’s work, Got the better of Goldsmith’s diction.

“A leg of gold! what of solid gold!” Cried rich and poor, and young and old,-- And Master and Miss and Madam-- ’Twas the talk of ‘Change--the Alley--the Bank-- And with men of scientific rank, It made as much stir as the fossil shank Of a Lizard coeval with Adam!

Of course with Greenwich and Chelsea elves, Men who had lost a limb themselves, Its interest did not dwindle-- But Bill, and Ben, and Jack, and Tom Could hardly have spun more yarns therefrom If the leg had been a spindle.

Meanwhile the story went to and fro, Till, gathering like the ball of snow, By the time it got to Stratford-le-Bow, Through Exaggeration’s touches, The Heiress and Hope of the Kilmanseggs Was propp’d on _two_ fine Golden Legs, And a pair of Golden Crutches!

Never had a Leg so great a run! ’Twas the “go” and the “Kick” thrown into one! The mode--the new thing under the sun, The rage--the fancy--the passion! Bonnets were named, and hats were worn, _A la_ Golden Leg instead of Leghorn, And stockings and shoes, Of golden hues, Took the lead in the walks of fashion!

The Golden Leg had a vast career, It was sung and danced--and to show how near Low folly to lofty approaches, Down to society’s very dregs, The Belles of Wapping wore “Kilmanseggs,” And St. Giles’s Beaux sported Golden Legs In their pinchbeck pins and brooches!

HER FIRST STEP.

Supposing the Trunk and Limbs of Man Shared, on the allegorical plan, By the Passions that mark Humanity, Whichever might claim the head, or heart, The stomach, or any other part, The Legs would be seized by Vanity.

There’s Bardus, a six-foot column of fop, A lighthouse without any light atop, Whose height would attract beholders If he had not lost some inches clear By looking down at his kerseymere, Ogling the limbs he holds so dear, Till he got a stoop in his shoulders.

Talk of Art, of Science, or Books, And down go the everlasting looks, To his crural beauties so wedded! Try him, wherever you will, you find His mind in his legs, and his legs in his mind, All prongs and folly--in short a kind Of fork--that is fiddle-headed.

What wonder, then, if Miss Kilmansegg, With a splendid, brilliant, beautiful leg, Fit for the court of Scander-Beg, Disdain’d to hide it like Joan or Meg, In petticoats stuff’d or quilted? Not she! ’twas her convalescent whim To dazzle the world with her precious limb,-- Nay, to go a little high-kilted.

So cards were sent for that sort of mob Where Tartars and Africans hob-and-nob, And the Cherokee talks of his cab and cob To Polish or Lapland lovers-- Cards like that hieroglyphical call To a geographical Fancy Ball On the recent Post-Office covers.

For if Lion-hunters--and great ones too-- Would mob a savage from Latakoo, Or squeeze for a glimpse of Prince Lee Boo, That unfortunate Sandwich scion-- Hundreds of first-rate people, no doubt, Would gladly, madly, rush to a rout, That promised a Golden Lion!

HER FANCY BALL.

Of all the spirits of evil fame, That hurt the soul or injure the frame, And poison what’s honest and hearty, There’s none more needs a Matthew to preach A cooling antiphlogistic speech, To praise and enforce A temperate course, Than the Evil Spirit of Party.

Go to the House of Commons, or Lords, And they seem to be busy with simple words In their popular sense or pedantic-- But, alas! with their cheers, and sneers, and jeers, They’re really busy, whatever appears, Putting peas in each other’s ears, To drive their enemies frantic!

Thus Tories like to worry the Whigs, Who treat them in turn like Schwalbach pigs, Giving them lashes, thrashes, and digs, With their writhing and pain delighted-- But after all that’s said, and more, The malice and spite of Party are poor To the malice and spite of a party next door, To a party not invited.

On with the cap and out with the light, Weariness bids the world good night, At least for the usual season; But hark! a clatter of horses’ heels! And Sleep and Silence are broken on wheels, Like Wilful Murder and Treason!

Another crash--and the carriage goes-- Again poor Weariness seeks the repose That Nature demands, imperious; But Echo takes up the burden now, With a rattling chorus of row-de-dow-dow, Till Silence herself seems making a row, Like a Quaker gone delirious!

’Tis night--a winter night--and the stars Are shining like winkin’--Venus and Mars Are rolling along in their golden cars Through the sky’s serene expansion-- But vainly the stars dispense their rays, Venus and Mars are lost in the blaze Of the Kilmanseggs’ luminous mansion!

Up jumps Fear in a terrible fright! His bedchamber windows look so bright,-- With light all the Square is glutted! Up he jumps, like a sole from the pan, And a tremor sickens his inward man, For he feels as only a gentleman can, Who thinks he’s being “gutted.”

Again Fear settles, all snug and warm, But only to dream of a dreadful storm From Autumn’s sulphurous locker; But the only electrical body that falls, Wears a negative coat, and positive smalls, And draws the peal that so appals From the Kilmanseggs’ brazen knocker!

’Tis Curiosity’s Benefit night-- And perchance ’tis the English-Second-Sight, But whatever it be, so be it-- As the friends and guests of Miss Kilmansegg Crowd in to look at her Golden Leg, As many more Mob round the door, To see them going to see it!

In they go--in jackets, and cloaks, Plumes, and bonnets, turbans, and toques, As if to a Congress of Nations: Greeks and Malays, with daggers and dirks, Spaniards, Jews, Chinese, and Turks-- Some like original foreign works, But mostly like bad translations.

In they go, and to work like a pack, Juan, Moses, and Shacabac-- Tom, and Jerry, and Springheel’d Jack,-- For some of low Fancy are lovers-- Skirting, zigzagging, casting about, Here and there, and in and out, With a crush, and a rush, for a full-bodied rout In one of the stiffest of covers.

In they went, and hunted about, Open-mouth’d like chub and trout, And some with the upper lip thrust out, Like that fish for routing, a barbel-- While Sir Jacob stood to welcome the crowd, And rubb’d his hands, and smiled aloud, And bow’d, and bow’d, and bow’d, and bow’d, Like a man who is sawing marble.

For Princes were there, and Noble Peers; Dukes descended from Norman spears; Earls that dated from early years; And Lords in vast variety-- Besides the Gentry both new and old-- For people who stand on legs of gold, Are sure to stand well with society.

“But where--where--where?” with one accord Cried Moses and Mufti, Jack and my Lord, Wang-Fong and Il Bondocani-- When slow, and heavy, and dead as a dump, They heard a foot begin to stump, Thump! lump! Lump! thump! Like the Spectre in “Don Giovanni!”

And lo! the Heiress, Miss Kilmansegg, With her splendid, brilliant, beautiful leg, In the garb of a Goddess olden-- Like chaste Diana going to hunt, With a golden spear--which of course was blunt, And a tunic loop’d up to a gem in front, To show the Leg that was Golden!

Gold! still gold; her Crescent behold, That should be silver, but would be gold; And her robe’s auriferous spangles! Her golden stomacher--how she would melt! Her golden quiver, and golden belt, Where a golden bugle dangles!

And her jewell’d Garter! Oh, Sin, oh, Shame! Let Pride and Vanity bear the blame, That bring such blots on female fame! But to be a true recorder, Besides its thin transparent stuff, The tunic was loop’d quite high enough To give a glimpse of the Order!

But what have sin or shame to do With a Golden Leg--and a stout one too? Away with all Prudery’s panics! That the precious metal, by thick and thin, Will cover square acres of land or sin, Is a fact made plain Again and again, In Morals as well as Mechanics.

A few, indeed, of her proper sex, Who seem’d to feel her foot on their necks, And fear’d their charms would meet with checks From so rare and splendid a blazon-- A few cried “fie!--and “forward”--and “bold!” And said of the Leg it might be gold, But to them it look’d like brazen!

’Twas hard they hinted for flesh and blood, Virtue and Beauty, and all that’s good, To strike to mere dross their topgallants-- But what were Beauty, or Virtue, or Worth, Gentle manners, or gentle birth, Nay, what the most talented head on earth To a Leg worth fifty Talents!

But the men sang quite another hymn Of glory and praise to the precious Limb-- Age, sordid Age, admired the whim, And its indecorum pardon’d-- While half of the young--ay, more than half-- Bow’d down and worshipp’d the Golden Calf, Like the Jews when their hearts were harden’d.

A Golden Leg!--what fancies it fired! What golden wishes and hopes inspired! To give but a mere abridgment-- What a leg to leg-bail Embarrassment’s serf What a leg for a Leg to take on the turf! What a leg for a marching regiment!

A golden Leg!--whatever Love sings, ’Twas worth a bushel of “Plain Gold Rings” With which the Romantic wheedles. ’Twas worth all the legs in stockings and socks-- ’Twas a leg that might be put in the Stocks, N.B.--Not the parish beadle’s!

And Lady K. nid-nodded her head, Lapp’d in a turban fancy-bred, Just like a love-apple, huge and red, Some Mussul-womanish mystery; But whatever she meant To represent, She talk’d like the Muse of History.

She told how the filial leg was lost; And then how much the gold one cost, With its weight to a Trojan fraction: And how it took off, and how it put on; And call’d on Devil, Duke, and Don, Mahomet, Moses, and Prester John, To notice its beautiful action.

And then of the Leg she went in quest; And led it where the light was best; And made it lay itself up to rest In postures for painter’s studies. It cost more tricks and trouble by half, Than it takes to exhibit a six-legg’d Calf To a boothful of country Cuddies.

Nor yet did the Heiress herself omit The arts that help to make a hit, And preserve a prominent station, She talk’d and laugh’d far more than her share; And took a part in “Rich and Rare Were the gems she wore”--and the gems were there Like a Song with an Illustration.

She even stood up with a Count of France To dance--alas!--the measures we dance When Vanity plays the Piper! Vanity, Vanity, apt to betray, And lead all sorts of legs astray, Wood, or metal, or human clay,-- Since Satan first play’d the Viper!

But first she doff’d her hunting gear, And favour’d Tom Tug with her golden spear To row with down the river-- A Bonze had her golden bow to hold; A Hermit her belt and bugle of gold; And an Abbot her golden quiver.

And then a space was clear’d on the floor, And she walk’d the Minuet de la Cour, With all the pomp of a Pompadour, But although she began _andante_, Conceive the faces of all the Rout, When she finished off with a whirligig bout, And the Precious Leg stuck stiffly out Like the leg of a _Figuranté_.

So the courtly dance was goldenly done, And golden opinions, of course, it won From all different sorts of people-- Chiming, ding-dong, with flattering phrase, In one vociferous peal of praise, Like the peal that rings on Royal days From Loyalty’s parish-steeple.

And yet, had the leg been one of those That danced for bread in flesh-colour’d hose, With Rosina’s pastoral bevy, The jeers it had met,--the shouts! the scoff! The cutting advice to “take itself off,” For sounding but half so heavy.

Had it been a leg like those, perchance, That teach little girls and boys to dance, To set, poussette, recede, and advance, With the steps and figures most proper,-- Had it hopp’d for a weekly or quarterly sum, How little of praise or grist would have come To a mill with such a hopper!

But the Leg was none of those limbs forlorn-- Bartering capers and hops for corn-- That meet with public hisses and scorn, Or the morning journal denounces-- Had it pleased to caper from morn till dusk, There was all the music of “Money Musk” In its ponderous bangs and bounces.

But hark;--as slow as the strokes of a pump, Lump, thump! Thump, lump! As the Giant of Castle Otranto might stump, To a lower room from an upper-- Down she goes with a noisy dint, For taking the crimson turban’s hint, A noble Lord at the Head of the Mint Is leading the Leg to supper!

But the supper, alas! must rest untold, With its blaze of light and its glitter of gold, For to paint that scene of glamour, It would need the Great Enchanter’s charm Who waves over Palace, and Cot, and Farm, An arm like the Goldbeater’s Golden Arm That wields a Golden Hammer.

He--only He--could fitly state The Massive Service of Golden Plate, With the proper phrase and expansion-- The Rare Selection of Foreign Wines-- The Alps of Ice and Mountains of Pines, The punch in Oceans and sugary shrines, The Temple of Taste from Gunter’s Designs-- In short, all that Wealth with A Feast combines, In a Splendid Family Mansion.

Suffice if each mask’d outlandish guest Ate and drank of the very best, According to critical conners-- And then they pledged the Hostess and Host, But the Golden Leg was the standing toast, And as somebody swore, Walk’d off with more Than its share of the “Hips!” and honours!

“Miss Kilmansegg!-- Full glasses I beg!-- Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg!” And away went the bottle careering! Wine in bumpers! and shouts in peals! Till the clown didn’t know his head from his heels; The Mussulman’s eyes danced two-some reels, And the Quaker was hoarse with cheering!

HER DREAM.

Miss Kilmansegg took off her leg, And laid it down like a cribbage-peg, For the Rout was done and the riot: The Square was hush’d; not a sound was heard; The sky was gray, and no creature stirr’d, Except one little precocious bird, That chirp’d--and then was quiet.

So still without,--so still within;-- It had been a sin To drop a pin-- So intense is silence after a din, It seem’d like Death’s rehearsal! To stir the air no eddy came; And the taper burnt with as still a flame, As to flicker had been a burning shame, In a calm so universal.

The time for sleep had come at last; And there was the bed, so soft, so vast, Quite a field of Bedfordshire clover; Softer, cooler, and calmer, no doubt, From the piece of work just ravell’d out, For one of the pleasures of having a rout Is the pleasure of having it over.

No sordid pallet, or truckle mean, Of straw, and rug, and tatters unclean; But a splendid, gilded, carved machine, That was fit for a Royal Chamber. On the top was a gorgeous golden wreath; And the damask curtains hung beneath, Like clouds of crimson and amber;

Curtains, held up by two little plump things, With golden bodies and golden wings,-- Mere fins for such solidities-- Two Cupids, in short, Of the regular sort, But the housemaid call’d them “Cupidities.”

No patchwork quilt, all seams and scars, But velvet, powder’d with golden stars, A fit mantle for _Night_-Commanders! And the pillow, as white as snow undimm’d And as cool as the pool that the breeze has skimm’d, Was cased in the finest cambric, and trimm’d With the costliest lace of Flanders.

And the bed--of the Eider’s softest down, ’Twas a place to revel, to smother, to drown In a bliss inferr’d by the Poet; For if Ignorance be indeed a bliss, What blessed ignoaance equals this, To sleep--and not to know it?

Oh, bed! oh, bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head; But a place that to name would be ill-bred, To the head with a wakeful trouble-- ’Tis held by such a different lease! To one, a place of comfort and peace, All stuff’d with the down of stubble geese, To another with only the stubble!

To one, a perfect Halcyon nest, All calm, and balm and quiet, and rest, And soft as the fur of the cony-- To another, so restless for body and head, That the bed seems borrow’d from Nettlebed, And the pillow from Stratford the Stony!

To the happy, a first-class carriage of ease, To the Land of Nod, or where you please; But alas! for the watchers and weepers, Who turn, and turn, and turn again, But turn, and turn, and turn in vain, With an anxious brain, And thoughts in a train, That does not run upon _sleepers_!

Wide awake as the mousing owl, Night-hawk, or other nocturnal fowl,-- But more profitless vigils keeping,-- Wide awake in the dark they stare, Filling with phantoms the vacant air, As if that Crook-back’d Tyrant Care Had plotted to kill them sleeping.

And oh! when the blessed diurnal light Is quench’d by the providential night, To render our slumber more certain! Pity, pity the wretches that weep, For they must be wretched, who cannot sleep When God himself draws the curtain!

The careful Betty the pillow beats, And airs the blankets, and smooths the sheets, And gives the mattress a shaking-- But vainly Betty performs her part, If a ruffled head and a rumpled heart, As well as the couch, want making.

There’s Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves, Where other people would make preserves, He turns his fruits into pickles: Jealous, envious, and fretful by day, At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey, He lies like a hedgehog roll’d up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.

But a child--that bids the world good night, In downright earnest and cuts it quite-- A Cherub no Art can copy,-- ’Tis a perfect picture to see him lie As if he had supp’d on a dormouse pie, (An ancient classical dish, by the by) With a sauce of syrup of poppy.

Oh, bed! bed! bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head, Whether lofty or low its condition! But instead of putting our plagues on shelves, In our blankets how often we toss ourselves, Or are toss’d by such allegorical elves As Pride, Hate, Greed, and Ambition!

The independent Miss Kilmansegg Took off her independent Leg And laid it beneath her pillow, And then on the bed her frame she cast, The time for repose had come at last, But long, long, after the storm is past Rolls the turbid, turbulent billow.

No part she had in vulgar cares That belong to common household affairs-- Nocturnal annoyances such as theirs, Who lie with a shrewd surmising, That while they are couchant (a bitter cup!) Their bread and butter are getting up, And the coals, confound them, are rising.

No fear she had her sleep to postpone, Like the crippled Widow who weeps alone And cannot make a doze her own, For the dread that mayhap on the morrow, The true and Christian reading to baulk, A broker will take up her bed and walk By way of curing her sorrow.

No cause like these she had to bewail, But the breath of applause had blown a gale, And winds from that quarter seldom fail To cause some human commotion; But whenever such breezes coincide With the very spring-tide Of human pride, There’s no such swell on the ocean!

Peace, and ease, and slumber lost, She turn’d, and roll’d, and tumbled and toss’d With a tumult that would not settle: A common case, indeed, with such As have too little, or think too much, Of the precious and glittering metal.

Gold!--she saw at her golden foot The Peer whose tree had an olden root, The Proud, the Great, the Learned to boot, The handsome, the gay, and the witty-- The Man of Science--of Arms--of Art, The man who deals but at Pleasure’s mart, And the man who deals in the City.

Gold, still gold--and true to the mould! In the very scheme of her dream it told; For, by magical transmutation, From her Leg through her body it seem’d to go, Till, gold above, and gold below, She was gold, all gold, from her little gold toe To her organ of Veneration!

And still she retain’d through Fancy’s art, The Golden Bow and Golden Dart, With which she had play’d a Goddess’s part, In her recent glorification: And still, like one of the self-same brood, On a Plinth of the self-same metal she stood For the whole world’s adoration.

And hymns and incense around her roll’d, From Golden Harps and Censers of Gold,-- For Fancy in dreams is as uncontroll’d As a horse without a bridle: What wonder, then, from all checks exempt, If, inspired by the Golden Leg, she dreamt She was turn’d to a Golden Idol?

HER COURTSHIP.

When leaving Eden’s happy land The grieving Angel led by the hand Our banish’d Father and Mother, Forgotten amid their awful doom, The tears, the fears, and the future’s gloom, On each brow was a wreath of Paradise bloom, That our Parents had twined for each other.

It was only while sitting like figures of stone, For the grieving angel had skyward flown, As they sat, those Two in the world alone, With disconsolate hearts nigh cloven, That scenting the gust of happier hours, They look’d around for the precious flow’rs, And lo!--a last relic of Eden’s dear bow’rs-- The chaplet that Love had woven!

And still, when a pair of Lovers meet, There’s a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet, That savours still of that happy retreat Where Eve by Adam was courted: Whilst the joyous Thrush, and the gentle Dove, Woo’d their mates in the boughs above, And the Serpent, as yet, only sported.

Who hath not felt that breath in the air, A perfume and freshness strange and rare, A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere, When young hearts yearn together? All sweets below, and all sunny above, Oh! there’s nothing in life like making love, Save making hay in fine weather!

Who hath not found amongst his flow’rs A blossom too bright for this world of ours, Like a rose among snows of Sweden? But to turn again to Miss Kilmansegg, Where must Love have gone to beg, If such a thing as a Golden Leg Had put its foot in Eden!

And yet--to tell the rigid truth-- Her favour was sought by Age and Youth-- For the prey will find a prowler! She was follow’d, flatter’d, courted, address’d, Woo’d, and coo’d, and wheedled, and press’d, By suitors from North, South, East, and West, Like that Heiress, in song, Tibbie Fowler!

But, alas! alas! for the Woman’s fate, Who has from a mob to choose a mate! ’Tis a strange and painful mystery! But the more the eggs, the worse the hatch; The more the fish, the worse the catch; The more the sparks, the worse the match; Is a fact in Woman’s history.

Give her between a brace to pick, And mayhap, with luck to help the trick, She will take the Faustus, and leave the Old Nick-- But her future bliss to baffle, Amongst a score let her have a voice, And she’ll have as little cause to rejoice, As if she had won the “Man of her choice” In a matrimonial raffle!

Thus, even thus, with the Heiress and Hope, Fulfilling the adage of too much rope, With so ample a competition, She chose the least worthy of all the group, Just as the vulture makes a stoop, And singles out from the herd or troop The beast of the worst condition.

A Foreign Count--who came incog., Not under a cloud, but under a fog, In a Calais packet’s fore-cabin, To charm some lady British-born, With his eyes as black as the fruit of the thorn, And his hooky nose, and his beard half-shorn, Like a half-converted Rabbin.

And because the Sex confess a charm In the man who has slash’d a head or arm, Or has been a throat’s undoing, He was dress’d like one of the glorious trade, At least when Glory is off parade, With a stock, and a frock, well trimm’d with braid And frogs--that went a-wooing.

Moreover, as Counts are apt to do, On the left-hand side of his dark surtout, At one of those holes that buttons go through, (To be a precise recorder,) A ribbon he wore, or rather a scrap, About an inch of ribbon mayhap, That one of his rivals, whimsical chap, Described as his “Retail Order.”

And then--and much it help’d his chance-- He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance, Perform charades, and Proverbs of France-- Act the tender, and do the cruel; For amongst his other killing parts, He had broken a brace of female hearts, And murder’d three men in duel!

Savage at heart, and false of tongue, Subtle with age, and smooth to the young, Like a snake in his coiling and curling-- Such was the Count--to give him a niche-- Who came to court that Heiress rich, And knelt at her foot--one needn’t say which-- Besieging her castle of _Sterling_.

With pray’rs and vows he open’d his trench, And plied her with English, Spanish, and French, In phrases the most sentimental: And quoted poems in High and Low Dutch, With now and then an Italian touch, Till she yielded, without resisting much, To homage so continental.

And then--the sordid bargain to close-- With a miniature sketch of his hooky nose, And his dear dark eyes, as black as sloes, And his beard and whiskers as black as those, The lady’s consent he requited-- And instead of the lock that lovers beg, The count received from Miss Kilmansegg A model, in small, of her Precious leg-- And so the couple were plighted!

But, oh! the love that gold must crown! Better--better, the love of the clown, Who admires his lass in her Sunday gown, As if all the fairies had dress’d her! Whose brain to no crooked thought gives birth, Except that he never will part on earth With his true love’s crooked tester!

Alas! for the love that’s linked with gold! Better--better a thousand times told-- More honest, happy, and laudable, The downright loving of pretty Cis, Who wipes her lips, though there’s nothing amiss, And takes a kiss, and gives a kiss, In which her heart is audible!

Pretty Cis, so smiling and bright, Who loves--as she labours--with all her might, And without any sordid leaven! Who blushes as red as haws and hips, Down to her very finger-tips, For Roger’s blue ribbons--to her, like strips Cut out of the azure of Heaven!

HER MARRIAGE.

’Twas morn--a most auspicious one! From the Golden East, the Golden Sun Came forth his glorious race to run, Through clouds of most splendid tinges; Clouds that lately slept in shade, But now seem’d made Of gold brocade, With magnificent golden fringes.

Gold above, and gold below, The earth reflected the golden glow, From river, and hill, and valley Gilt by the golden light of morn, The Thames--it look’d like the Golden Horn, And the Barge, that carried coal or corn, Like Cleopatra’s Galley!

Bright as clusters of Golden-rod, Suburban poplars began to nod, With extempore splendour furnish’d; While London was bright with glittering clocks, Golden dragons, and Golden cocks, And above them all, The dome of St. Paul, With its Golden Cross and its Golden Ball, Shone out as if newly burnish’d!

And lo! for Golden Hours and Joys, Troops of glittering Golden Boys Danced along with a jocund noise, And their gilded emblems carried! In short, ’twas the year’s most Golden Day, By mortals call’d the First of May, When Miss Kilmansegg, Of the Golden Leg, With a Golden Ring was married!

And thousands of children, women, and men, Counted the clock from eight till ten, From St. James’s sonorous steeple; For next to that interesting job, The hanging of Jack, or Bill, or Bob, There’s nothing so draws a London mob As the noosing of very rich people.

And a treat it was for the mob to behold The Bridal Carriage that blazed with gold! And the Footman tall and the Coachman bold, In liveries so resplendent-- Coats you wonder’d to see in place, They seem’d so rich with golden lace, That they might have been independent.

Coats, that made those menials proud Gaze with scorn on the dingy crowd, From their gilded elevations: Not to forget that saucy lad (Ostentation’s favourite cad), The Page, who look’d so splendidly clad, Like a Page of the “Wealth of Nations.”

But the Coachman carried off the state, With what was a Lancashire body of late Turn’d into a Dresden Figure; With a bridal Nosegay of early bloom, About the size of a birchen broom, And so huge a White Favour, had Gog been Groom, He need not have worn a bigger.

And then to see the Groom! the Count! With Foreign Orders to such an amount, And whiskers so wild--nay, bestial; He seem’d to have borrow’d the shaggy hair As well as the Stars of the Polar Bear, To make him look celestial!

And then--Great Jove!--the struggle, the crush, The screams, the heaving, the awful rush, The swearing, the tearing, the fighting,-- The hats and bonnets smash’d like an egg-- To catch a glimpse of the Golden Leg, Which between the steps and Miss Kilmansegg Was fully display’d in alighting!

From the Golden Ankle up to the Knee There it was for the mob to see! A shocking act had it chanced to be A crooked leg or a skinny: But although a magnificent veil she wore, Such as never was seen before, In case of blushes, she blush’d no more Than George the First on a guinea!

Another step, and lo! she was launched! All in white, as Brides are _blanched_ With a wreath of most wonderful splendour-- Diamonds, and pearls, so rich in device, That, according to calculation nice, Her head was worth as royal a price, As the head of the Young Pretender.

Bravely she shone--and shone the more As she sail’d through the crowd of squalid and poor, Thief, beggar, and tatterdemalion-- Led by the Count, with his sloe-black eyes Bright with triumph, and some surprise, Like Anson on making sure of his prize The famous Mexican Galleon!

Anon came Lady K., with her face Quite made up to act with grace, But she cut the performance shorter; For instead of pacing stately and stiff, At the stare of the vulgar she took a miff, And ran, full speed, into Church, as if To get married before her daughter.

But Sir Jacob walk’d more slowly, and bow’d Right and left to the gaping crowd, Wherever a glance was seizable: For Sir Jacob thought he bow’d like a Guelph, And therefore bow’d to imp and elf, And would gladly have made a bow to himself, Had such a bow been feasible.

And last--and not the least of the sight, Six “Handsome Fortunes,” all in white, Came to help in the marriage rite,-- And rehearse their own hymneals; And then the bright procession to close, They were followed by just as many Beaux Quite fine enough for Ideals.

Glittering men, and splendid dames, Thus they enter’d the porch of St. James’, Pursued by a thunder of laughter; For the Beadle was forced to intervene, For Jim the Crow, and his Mayday Queen, With her gilded ladle, and Jack i’ the Green, Would fain have follow’d after!

Beadle-like he hush’d the shout; But the temple was full “inside and out,” And a buzz kept buzzing all round about Like bees when the day is sunny-- A buzz universal, that interfered With the right that ought to have been revered, As if the couple already were smear’d With Wedlock’s treacle and honey!

Yet Wedlock’s a very awful thing! ’Tis something like that feat in the ring, Which requires good nerve to do it-- When one of a “Grand Equestrian Troop” Makes a jump at a gilded hoop, Not certain at all Of what may befall After his getting through it!

But the count he felt the nervous work No more than any polygamous Turk, Or bold piratical skipper, Who, during his buccaneering search, Would as soon engage a hand in church As a hand on board his clipper!

And how did the Bride perform her part? Like any bride who is cold at heart, Mere snow with the ice’s glitter; What but a life of winter for her! Bright but chilly, alive without stir, So splendidly comfortless,--just like a Fir When the frost is severe and bitter.

Such were the future man and wife! Whose bale or bliss to the end of life A few short words were to settle-- “Wilt thou have this woman?” “I will”--and then, “Wilt thou have this man?” “I will,” and “Amen”-- And those Two were one Flesh, in the Angels’ ken, Except one Leg--that was metal.

Then the names were sign’d--and kiss’d the kiss: And the Bride, who came from her coach a Miss, As a Countess walk’d to her carriage-- Whilst Hymen preen’d his plumes like a dove, And Cupid flutter’d his wings above, In the shape of a fly--as little a Love As ever look’d in at a marriage!

Another crash--and away they dash’d, And the gilded carriage and footman flash’d From the eyes of the gaping people-- Who turn’d to gaze at the toe-and-heel Of the Golden Boys beginning a reel, To the merry sound of a wedding-peal From St. James’s musical steeple.

Those wedding-bells! those wedding-bells! How sweetly they sound in pastoral dells From a tow’r in an ivy-green jacket! But town-made joys how dearly they cost; And after all are tumbled and tost, Like a peal from a London steeple, and lost In town-made riot and racket.

The wedding-peal, how sweetly it peals With grass or heather beneath our heels,-- For bells are Music’s laughter! But a London peal, well mingled, be sure, With vulgar noises and voices impure,-- What a harsh and discordant overture To the Harmony meant to come after!

But hence with Discord--perchance, too soon To cloud the face of the honeymoon With a dismal occultation!-- Whatever Fate’s concerted trick, The Countess and Count, at the present nick, Have a chicken, and not a crow, to pick At a sumptuous Cold Collation.

A Breakfast--no unsubstantial mess, But one in the style of Good Queen Bess, Who,--hearty as hippocampus,-- Broke her fast with ale and beef, Instead of toast and the Chinese leaf, And--in lieu of anchovy--grampus.

A breakfast of fowl, and fish, and flesh, Whatever was sweet, or salt, or fresh; With wines the most rare and curious-- Wines, of the richest flavour and hue; With fruits from the worlds both Old and New; And fruits obtain’d before they were due At a discount most usurious.

For wealthy palates there be, that scout What is _in_ season, for what is _out_, And prefer all precocious savour: For instance, early green peas, of the sort That costs some four or five guineas a quart; Where the _Mint_ is the principal flavour.

And many a wealthy man was there, Such as the wealthy City could spare, To put in a portly appearance-- Men, whom their fathers had help’d to gild: And men, who had had their fortunes to build, And--much to their credit--had richly fill’d Their purses by _pursy-verance_.

Men, by popular rumour at least, Not the last to enjoy a feast! And truly they were not idle! Luckier far than the chestnut tits, Which, down at the door, stood champing their bits, At a different sort of bridle.

For the time was come--and the whisker’d Count Help’d his Bride in the carriage to mount, And fain would the Muse deny it, But the crowd, including two butchers in blue, (The regular killing Whitechapel hue,) Of her Precious Calf had as ample a view As if they had come to buy it!

Then away! away! with all the speed That golden spurs can give to the steed,-- Both Yellow Boys and Guineas, indeed, Concurr’d to urge the cattle-- Away they went, with favours white, Yellow jackets, and panels bright, And left the mob, like a mob at night, Agape at the sound of a rattle.

Away! away! they rattled and roll’d, The Count, and his Bride, and her Leg of Gold-- That faded charm to the charmer! Away, through old Brentford rang the din, Of wheels and heels, on their way to win That hill, named after one of her kin, The Hill of the Golden Farmer!

Gold, still gold--it flew like dust! It tipp’d the post-boy, and paid the trust; In each open palm it was freely thrust; There was nothing but giving and taking! And if gold could ensure the future hour, What hopes attended that Bride to her bow’r, But alas! even hearts with a four-horse pow’r Of opulence end in breaking!

HER HONEYMOON.

The moon--the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shady--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range Is the moon--so call’d--of honey!

To some a full-grown orb reveal’d, As big and as round as Norval’s shield, And as bright as a burner Bude-lighted; To others as dull, and dingy, and damp, As any oleaginous lamp, Of the regular old parochial stamp, In a London fog benighted.

To the loving, a bright and constant sphere, That makes earth’s commonest things appear All poetic, romantic, and tender: Hanging with jewels a cabbage-stump, And investing a common post, or a pump, A currant-bush or a gooseberry-clump, With a halo of dreamlike splendour.

A sphere such as shone from Italian skies, In Juliet’s dear, dark liquid eyes, Tipping trees, with its argent braveries-- And to couples not favour’d with Fortune’s boons One of the most delightful of moons, For it brightens their pewter platters and spoons Like a silver service of Savory’s!

For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear, And the meanest thing most precious and dear When the magic of love is present: Love, that lends a sweetness and grace, To the humblest spot and the plainest face-- That turns Wilderness Row into Paradise Place, And Garlic Hill to Mount Pleasant!

Love that sweetens sugarless tea, And makes contentment and joy agree With the coarsest boarding and bedding: Love, that no golden ties can attach, But nestles under the humblest thatch, And will fly away from an Emperor’s match To dance at a Penny Wedding!

Oh, happy, happy, thrice happy state, When such a bright Planet governs the fate Of a pair of united lovers! ’Tis theirs, in spite of the Serpent’s hiss, To enjoy the pure primeval kiss, With as much of the old original bliss As mortality ever recovers!

There’s strength in double joints, no doubt, In double X Ale, and Dublin Stout, That the single sorts know nothing about-- And the fist is strongest when doubled-- And double aqua-fortis of course, And double soda-water, perforce, Are the strongest that ever bubbled!

There’s double beauty whenever a Swan Swims on a Lake with a double thereon; And ask the gardener, Luke or John, Of the beauty of double-blowing-- A double dahlia delights the eye; And it’s far the loveliest sight in the sky When a double rainbow is glowing!

There’s warmth in a pair of double soles; As well as a double allowance of coals-- In a coat that is double-breasted-- In double windows and double doors; And a double U wind is blest by scores For its warmth to the tender-chested.

There’s a twofold sweetness in double pipes; And a double barrel and double snipes Give the sportsman a duplicate pleasure: There’s double safety in double locks; And double letters bring cash for the box; And all the world knows that double knocks Are gentility’s double measure.

There’s double sweetness in double rhymes, And a double at Whist and a double Times In profit are certainly double-- By doubling, the Hare contrives to escape; And all seamen delight in a doubled Cape, And a double-reef’d topsail in trouble.

There’s a double chuck at a double chin, And of course there’s a double pleasure therein, If the parties were brought to telling: And however our Dennises take offence, A double meaning shows double sense; And if proverbs tell truth, A double tooth Is Wisdom’s adopted dwelling!

But double wisdom, and pleasure, and sense, Beauty, respect, strength, comfort and thence Through whatever the list discovers, They are all in the double blessedness summ’d, Of what was formerly double-drumm’d, The Marriage of two true Lovers!

Now the Kilmansegg Moon, it must be told-- Though instead of silver it tipp’d with gold-- Shone rather wan, and distant, and cold, And before its days were at thirty, Such gloomy clouds began to collect, With an ominous ring of ill effect, As gave but too much cause to expect Such weather as seamen call dirty!

And yet the moon was the “Young May Moon,” And the scented hawthorn had blossom’d soon, And the thrush and the blackbird were singing-- The snow-white lambs were skipping in play, And the bee was humming a tune all day To flowers, as welcome as flowers in May, And the trout in the stream was springing!

But what were the hues of the blooming earth, Its scents--its sounds--or the music and mirth Of its furr’d or its feather’d creatures, To a Pair in the world’s last sordid stage, Who had never look’d into Nature’s page, And had strange ideas of a Golden Age, Without any Arcadian features?

And what were joys of the pastoral kind To a Bride--town-made--with a heart and a mind With simplicity ever at battle? A bride of an ostentatious race, Who, thrown in the Golden Farmer’s place, Would have trimm’d her shepherds with golden lace, And gilt the horns of her cattle.

She could not please the pigs with her whim, And the sheep wouldn’t cast their eyes at a limb For which she had been such a martyr: The deer in the park, and the colts at grass, And the cows unheeded let it pass; And the ass on the common was such an ass, That he wouldn’t have swapp’d The thistle he cropp’d For her Leg, including the Garter!

She hated lanes and she hated fields-- She hated all that the country yields-- And barely knew turnips from clover; She hated walking in any shape, And a country stile was an awkward scrape, Without the bribe of a mob to gape At the Leg in clambering over!

O blessed nature, “O rus! O rus!” Who cannot sigh for the country thus, Absorb’d in a worldly torpor-- Who does not yearn for its meadow-sweet breath, Untainted by care, and crime, and death, And to stand sometimes upon grass or heath-- That soul, spite of gold, is a pauper!

But to hail the pearly advent of morn, And relish the odour fresh from the thorn, She was far too pamper’d a madam, Or to joy in the daylight waxing strong, While, after ages of sorrow and wrong, The scorn of the proud, the misrule of the strong, And all the woes that to man belong, The Lark still carols the self-same song That he did to the uncurst Adam!

The Lark! she had given all Leipsic’s flocks For a Vauxhall tune in a musical box; And as for the birds in the thicket, Thrush or ousel in leafy niche, The linnet or finch, she was far too rich To care for a Morning Concert, to which She was welcome without any ticket.

Gold, still gold, her standard of old, All pastoral joys were tried by gold, Or by fancies golden and crural-- Till ere she had pass’d one week unblest, As her agricultural Uncle’s guest, Her mind was made up, and fully imprest, That felicity could not be rural!

And the Count?--to the snow-white lambs at play And all the scents and the sights of May, And the birds that warbled their passion, His ears and dark eyes, and decided nose, Were as deaf and as blind and as dull as those That overlooked the Bouquet de Rose, The Huille Antique, And Parfum Unique, In a Barber’s Temple of Fashion.

To tell, indeed, the true extent Of his rural bias so far it went As to covet estates in ring fences-- And for rural lore he had learn’d in town That the country was green, turn’d up with brown, And garnish’d with trees that a man might cut down Instead of his own expenses.

And yet had that fault been his only one, The Pair might have had few quarrels or none, For their tastes thus far were in common; But faults he had that a haughty bride With a Golden Leg could hardly abide-- Faults that would even have roused the pride Of a far less metalsome woman!

It was early days indeed for a wife, In the very spring of her married life, To be chill’d by its wintry weather-- But instead of sitting as Love-Birds do, On Hymen’s turtles that bill and coo-- Enjoying their “moon and honey for two” They were scarcely seen together!

In vain she sat with her Precious Leg A little exposed, _à la_ Kilmansegg, And roll’d her eyes in their sockets! He left her in spite of her tender regards, And those loving murmurs described by bards, For the rattling of dice and the shuffling of cards, And the poking of balls into pockets!

Moreover he loved the deepest stake And the heaviest bets the players would make; And he drank--the reverse of sparely,-- And he used strange curses that made her fret; And when he played with herself at piquet, She found, to her cost, For she always lost, That the Count did not count quite fairly.

And then came dark mistrust and doubt, Gather’d by worming his secrets out, And slips in his conversations-- Fears, which all her peace destroy’d, That his title was null--his coffers were void-- And his French Château was in Spain, or enjoy’d The most airy of situations.

But still his heart--if he had such a part-- She--only she--might possess his heart, And hold his affections in fetters-- Alas! that hope, like a crazy ship, Was forced its anchor and cable to slip When, seduced by her fears, she took a dip In his private papers and letters.

Letters that told of dangerous leagues; And notes that hinted as many intrigues As the Count’s in the “Barber of Seville”-- In short such mysteries came to light, That the Countess-Bride, on the thirtieth night, Woke and started up in affright, And kick’d and scream’d with all her might, And finally fainted away outright, For she dreamt she had married the Devil!

HER MISERY.

Who hath not met with home-made bread, A heavy compound of putty and lead-- And home-made wines that rack the head, And home-made liqueurs and waters? Home-made pop that will not foam, And home-made dishes that drive one from home, Not to name each mess, For the face or dress, Home-made by the homely daughters?

Home-made physic that sickens the sick; Thick for thin and thin for thick; In short each homogeneous trick For poisoning domesticity? And since our Parents, call’d the First, A little family squabble nurst, Of all our evils the worst of the worst Is home-made infelicity.

There’s a Golden Bird that claps its wings, And dances for joy on its perch, and sings With a Persian exultation: For the Sun is shining into the room, And brightens up the carpet-bloom, As if it were new, bran new, from the loom, Or the lone Nun’s fabrication.

And thence the glorious radiance flames On pictures in massy gilded frames-- Enshrining, however, no painted Dames, But portraits of colts and fillies-- Pictures hanging on walls, which shine, In spite of the bard’s familiar line, With clusters of “Gilded lilies.”

And still the flooding sunlight shares Its lustre with gilded sofas and chairs, That shine as if freshly burnish’d-- And gilded tables, with glittering stocks Of gilded china, and golden clocks, Toy, and trinket, and musical box, That Peace and Paris have furnish’d.

And lo! with the brightest gleam of all The glowing sunbeam is seen to fall On an object as rare as splendid-- The golden foot of the Golden Leg Of the Countess--once Miss Kilmansegg-- But there all sunshine is ended.

Her cheek is pale, and her eye is dim, And downward cast, yet not at the limb, Once the centre of all speculation; But downward drooping in comfort’s dearth, As gloomy thoughts are drawn to the earth-- Whence human sorrows derive their birth-- By a moral gravitation.

Her golden hair is out of its braids, And her sighs betray the gloomy shades That her evil planet revolves in-- And tears are falling that catch a gleam So bright as they drop in the sunny beam, That tears of _aqua regia_ they seem, The water that gold dissolves in;

Yet, not filial grief were shed Those tears for a mother’s insanity; Nor yet because her father was dead, For the bowing Sir Jacob had bow’d his head To Death--with his usual urbanity; The waters that down her visage rill’d Were drops of unrectified spirit distill’d From the limbeck of Pride and Vanity.

Tears that fell alone and uncheckt, Without relief, and without respect, Like the fabled pearls that the pigs neglect, When pigs have that opportunity-- And of all the griefs that mortals share, The one that seems the hardest to bear Is the grief without community.

How bless’d the heart that has a friend A sympathising ear to lend To troubles too great to smother! For as ale and porter, when flat, are restored Till a sparkling bubbling head they afford, So sorrow is cheer’d by being pour’d From one vessel into another.

But friend or gossip she had not one To hear the vile deeds that the Count had done, How night after night he rambled; And how she had learnt by sad degrees That he drank, and smoked, and worse than these, That he “swindled, intrigued, and gambled.”

How he kiss’d the maids, and sparr’d with John! And came to bed with his garments on; With other offences as heinous-- And brought _strange_ gentlemen home to dine, That he said were in the Fancy Line, And they fancied spirits instead of wine, And call’d her lap-dog “Wenus.”

Of “making a book” how he made a stir But never had written a line to her, Once his idol and Cara Sposa; And how he had storm’d, and treated her ill, Because she refused to go down to a mill, She didn’t know where, but remember’d still That the Miller’s name was Mendoza.

How often he waked her up at night, And oftener still by the morning light, Reeling home from his haunts unlawful; Singing songs that shouldn’t be sung, Except by beggars and thieves unhung-- Or volleying oaths that a foreign tongue Made still more horrid and awful!

How oft, instead of otto of rose, With vulgar smells he offended her nose, From gin, tobacco, and onion! And then how wildly he used to stare! And shake his fist at nothing, and swear,-- And pluck by the handful his shaggy hair, Till he look’d like a study of Giant Despair For a new Edition of Bunyan!

For dice will run the contrary way, As well is known to all who play, And cards will conspire as in treason; And what with keeping a hunting-box, Following fox-- Friends in flocks, Burgundies, Hocks, From London Docks; Stultz’s frocks, Manton and Nock’s Barrels and locks, Shooting blue rocks, Trainers and jocks, Buskins and socks, Pugilistical knocks, And fighting cocks, If he found himself short in funds and stocks These rhymes will furnish the reason!

His friends, indeed, were falling away-- Friends who insist on play or pay-- And he fear’d at no very distant day To be cut by Lord and by cadger, As one, who has gone, or is going, to smash, For his checks no longer drew the cash, Because, as his comrades explain’d in flash, “He had overdrawn his badger.”

Gold, gold--alas! for the gold Spent where souls are bought and sold, In Vice’s Walpurgis revel! Alas! for muffles, and bulldogs, and guns, The leg that walks, and the leg that runs,-- All real evils, though Fancy ones, When they lead to debt, dishonour, and duns, Nay, to death, and perchance the devil!

Alas! for the last of a Golden race! Had she cried her wrongs in the market-place, She had warrant for all her clamour-- For the worst of rogues, and brutes, and rakes, Was breaking her heart by constant aches, With as little remorse as the Pauper, who breaks A flint with a parish hammer!

HER LAST WILL.

Now the Precious Leg while cash was flush, Or the Count’s acceptance worth a rush, Had never excited dissension; But no sooner the stocks began to fall, Than, without any ossification at all, The limb became what people call A perfect bone of contention.

For alter’d days brought alter’d ways, And instead of the complimentary phrase, So current before her bridal-- The Countess heard, in language low, That her Precious Leg was precious slow, A good ‘un to look at but bad to go, And kept quite a sum lying idle.

That instead of playing musical airs, Like Colin’s foot in going up-stairs-- As the wife in the Scottish ballad declares-- It made an infernal stumping. Whereas a member of cork, or wood, Would be lighter and cheaper and quite as good, Without the unbearable thumping.

P’rhaps she thought it a decent thing To show her calf to cobbler and king, But nothing could be absurder-- While none but the crazy would advertise Their gold before their servants’ eyes, Who of course some night would make it a prize, By a Shocking and Barbarous Murder.

But spite of hint, and threat, and scoff, The Leg kept its situation. For legs are not to be taken off, By a verbal amputation. And mortals when they take a whim, The greater the folly the stiffer the limb That stand upon it or by it-- So the Countess, then Miss Kilmansegg, At her marriage refused to stir a peg, Till the Lawyers had fasten’d on her Leg As fast as the Law could tie it.

Firmly then--and more firmly yet-- With scorn for scorn, and with threat for threat, The Proud One confronted the Cruel: And loud and bitter the quarrel arose Fierce and merciless--one of those, With spoken daggers, and looks like blows, In all but the bloodshed a duel!

Rash, and wild, and wretched, and wrong, Were the works that came from Weak and Strong, Till madden’d for desperate matters, Fierce as tigress escaped from her den, She flew to her desk--’twas open’d--and then, In the time it takes to try a pen, Or the clerk to utter his slow Amen, Her Will was in fifty tatters!

But the Count, instead of curses wild, Only nodded his head and smiled, As if at the spleen of an angry child; But the calm was deceitful and sinister! A lull like the lull of the treacherous sea-- For Hate in that moment had sworn to be The Golden Leg’s sole Legatee, And that very night to administer!

HER DEATH.

’Tis a stern and startling thing to think How often mortality stands on the brink Of its grave without any misgiving; And yet in this slippery world of strife, In the stir of human bustle so rife, There are daily sounds to tell us that Life Is dying, and Death is living!

Ay, Beauty the Girl, and Love the Boy, Bright as they are with hope and joy, How their souls would sadden instanter, To remember that one of those wedding bells, Which ring so merrily through the dells, Is the same that knells Our last farewells, Only broken into a canter!

But breath and blood set doom at nought-- How little the wretched Countess thought, When at night she unloosed her sandal, That the Fates had woven her burial-cloth, And that Death, in the shape of a Death’s Head Moth, Was fluttering round her candle!

As she look’d at her clock of or-molu, For the hours she had gone so wearily through, At the end of a day of trial-- How little she saw in her pride of prime The dart of Death in the Hand of Time-- That hand which moved on the dial!

As she went with her taper up the stair, How little her swollen eye was aware That the Shadow which follow’d was double! Or when she closed her chamber door, It was shutting out, and for evermore, The world--and its worldly trouble.

Little she dreamt, as she laid aside Her jewels--after one glance of pride-- They were solemn bequests to Vanity-- Or when her robes she began to doff, That she stood so near to the putting off Of the flesh that clothes humanity.

And when she quench’d the taper’s light, How little she thought as the smoke took flight, That her day was done--and merged in a night Of dreams and duration uncertain-- Or along with her own, That a Hand of Bone Was closing mortality’s curtain!

But life is sweet, and mortality blind, And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kind In concealing the day of sorrow; And enough is the present tense of toil-- For this world is, to all, a stiffish soil-- And the mind flies back with a glad recoil From the debts not due till to-morrow.

Wherefore else does the Spirit fly And bid its daily cares good-bye, Along with its daily clothing? Just as the felon condemn’d to die-- With a very natural loathing-- Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes, From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes To a caper on sunny gleams and slopes, Instead of the dance upon nothing.

Thus, even thus, the Countess slept, While Death still nearer and nearer crept, Like the Thane who smote the sleeping-- But her mind was busy with early joys, Her golden treasures and golden toys: That flash’d a bright And golden light Under lids still red with weeping.

The golden doll that she used to hug! Her coral of gold, and the golden mug! Her godfather’s golden presents! The golden service she had at her meals, The golden watch, and chain, and seals, Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels, And her golden fishes and pheasants!

The golden guineas in silken purse-- And the Golden Legends she heard from her nurse Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage-- And London streets that were paved with gold-- And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old-- With each golden thing To the golden ring At her own auriferous Marriage?

And still the golden light of the sun Through her golden dreams appear’d to run, Though the night, that roared without, was one To terrify seamen or gipsies-- While the moon, as if in malicious mirth, Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth, As though she enjoy’d the tempest’s birth, In revenge of her old eclipses.

But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell, For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell That time had lately embitter’d-- The Count, as once at her foot he knelt-- That foot, which now he wanted to melt! But--hush!--’twas a stir at her pillow she felt-- And some object before her glitter’d.

’Twas the Golden Leg!--she knew its gleam! And up she started and tried to scream,-- But ev’n in the moment she started-- Down came the limb with a frightful smash, And lost, in the universal flash That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash, The Spark, call’d Vital, departed!

* * * * *

Gold, still gold! hard, hard yellow, and cold, For gold she had lived, and she died for gold-- By a golden weapon--not oaken; In the morning they found her all alone-- Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone-- But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone, And the “Golden Bowl was broken!”

Gold--still gold! it haunted her yet-- At the Golden Lion the Inquest met-- Its foreman a carver and gilder-- And the Jury debated from twelve till three What the Verdict ought to be, And they brought it in as Felo de Se, “Because her own Leg had kill’d her!”

HER MORAL.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold, Molten, graven, hammer’d and roll’d; Heavy to get, and light to hold; Hoarded, barter’d, bought, and sold, Stolen, borrow’d, squander’d, doled: Spurn’d by the young, but hugg’d by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould; Price of many a crime untold; Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Good or bad a thousand-fold! How widely its agencies vary-- To save--to ruin--to curse--to bless-- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp’d by the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.

JOHN TROT.

A BALLAD.

John Trot he was as tall a lad As York did ever rear-- As his dear Granny used to say, He’d make a grenadier.

A serjeant soon came down to York, With ribbons and a frill; My lads, said he, let broadcast be, And come away to drill.

[Illustration: HIGH AND LOW BORN.]

[Illustration: THE WIDOW’S MITE.]

But when he wanted John to ‘list, In war he saw no fun, Where what is call’d a raw recruit, Gets often over-done.

Let others carry guns, said he, And go to war’s alarms, But I have got a shoulder-knot Impos’d upon my arms.

For John he had a footman’s place To wait on Lady Wye-- She was a dumpy woman, tho’ Her family was high.

Now when two years had past away, Her Lord took very ill, And left her to her widowhood, Of course more dumpy still.

Said John, I am a proper man, And very tall to see; Who knows, but now her Lord is low, She may look up to me?

A cunning woman told me once, Such fortune would turn up; She was a kind of sorceress, But studied in a cup!

So he walk’d up to Lady Wye, And took her quite amazed,-- She thought, tho’ John was tall enough, He wanted to be raised.

But John--for why? she was a dame Of such a dwarfish sort-- Had only come to bid her make Her mourning very short.

Said he, your Lord is dead and cold, You only cry in vain; Not all the Cries of London now, Could call him back again!

You’ll soon have many a noble beau, To dry your noble tears-- But just consider this, that I Have follow’d you for years.

And tho’ you are above me far, What matters high degree, When you are only four feet nine And I am six foot three.

For tho’ you are of lofty race, And I’m a low-born elf; Yet none among your friends could say You matched beneath yourself.

Said she, such insolence as this Can be no common case; Though you are in my service, sir, Your love is out of place.

O Lady Wye! O Lady Wye! Consider what you do; How can you be so short with me, I am not so with you?

Then ringing for her serving men, They show’d him to the door: Said they, you turn out better now, Why didn’t you before?

They stripp’d his coat, and gave him kicks For all his wages due; And off, instead of green and gold, He went in black and blue.

No family would take him in, Because of this discharge; So he made up his mind to serve The country all at large.

Huzza! the Serjeant cried, and put The money in his hand, And with a shilling cut him off From his paternal land.