Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

"It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be."--_Old Ballad_.

A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land, Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, Where rolls between us the eternal sea, Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand,-- Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall; Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call; Across the wavy waste between us stretch'd, A friendly missive warns me of a stricture, Wherein my likeness you have darkly etch'd, And though I have not seen the shadow sketch'd, Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.

I guess the features:--in a line to paint Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint. Not one of those self-constituted saints, Quacks--not physicians--in the cure of souls, Censors who sniff out mortal taints, And call the devil over his own coals-- Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibb'd; Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, Commending sinners, not to ice thick-ribb'd, But endless flames, to scorch them up like flax-- Yet sure of heav'n themselves, as if they'd cribb'd Th' impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!

Of such a character no single trace Exists, I know, in my fictitious face; There wants a certain cast about the eye; A certain lifting of the nose's tip; A certain curling of the nether lip, In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky; In brief it is an aspect deleterious, A face decidedly not serious, A face profane, that would not do at all To make a face at Exeter Hall,-- That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, And laud each other face to face, Till ev'ry farthing-candle _ray_ Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace.

Well!--be the graceless lineaments confest! I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth; And dote upon a jest "Within the limits of becoming mirth";-- No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious-- Nor study in my sanctum supercilious To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull. I pray for grace--repent each sinful act-- Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible; And love my neighbor far too well, in fact, To call and twit him with a godly tract That's turn'd by application to a libel. My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, All creeds I view with toleration thorough, And have a horror of regarding heaven As anybody's rotten borough.

What else? no part I take in party fray, With troops from Billingsgate's slang-whanging tartars, I fear no Pope--and let great Ernest play At Fox and Goose with Foxs' Martyrs! I own I laugh at over-righteous men, I own I shake my sides at ranters, And treat sham-Abr'am saints with wicked banters, I even own, that there are times--but then It's when I've got my wine--I say d----canters!

I've no ambition to enact the spy On fellow souls, a Spiritual Pry-- 'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses, Who thrust them into matters none of theirs; And tho' no delicacy discomposes Your Saint, yet I consider faith and pray'rs Amongst the privatest of men's affairs.

I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.

On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk; Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk,-- For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat; 'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth, A man has got his belly full of meat Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!

Mere verbiage,--it is not worth a carrot! Why, Socrates--or Plato--where's the odds?-- Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!

A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is Not a whit better than a Mantis,-- An insect, of what clime I can't determine, That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence, By simple savages--thro' sheer pretence-- Is reckon'd quite a saint amongst the vermin. But where's the reverence, or where the _nous_, To ride on one's religion thro' the lobby, Whether a stalking-horse or hobby, To show its pious paces to "the house"?

I honestly confess that I would hinder The Scottish member's legislative rigs, That spiritual Pinder, Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, That must be lash'd by law, wherever found, And driv'n to church, as to the parish pound. I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that grovelling idea as one Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A charity-boy, who longs to be a beadle.

On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbor: One wishes worship freely giv'n to God, Another wants to make it statute-labor-- The broad distinction in a line to draw, As means to lead us to the skies above, You say--Sir Andrew and his love of law, And I--the Saviour with his law of love.

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?

I do confess that I abhor and shrink From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles's sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly-- My soul revolts at such a bare hypocrisy, And will not, dare not, fancy in accord The Lord of Hosts with an Exclusive Lord Of this world's aristocracy. It will not own a notion so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heav'n, whereas the poor and lowly Must work their passage, as they do in ships.

One place there is--beneath the burial sod, Where all mankind are equalized by death; Another place there is--the Fane of God, Where all are equal, who draw living breath;-- Juggle who will _elsewhere_ with his own soul, Playing the Judas with a temporal dole-- He who can come beneath that awful cope, In the dread presence of a Maker just, Who metes to ev'ry pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope-- He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbow'd by that pure spirit-level, And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,-- Might sit for Hell and represent the Devil!

Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, In your last Journey-Work, perchance you ravage, Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless savage; A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,-- A Scoffer, always on the grin, And sadly given to the mortal sin Of liking Maw-worms less than merry maggots!

The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan beasts; But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts," And I have been "where bells have knoll'd to church." Dear bells! how sweet the sounds of village bells When on the undulating air they swim! Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells! And trembling all about the breezy dells As flutter'd by the wings of Cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight th' ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love,-- With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon;-- O Pagans, Heathens, Infidels and Doubters! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?

A man may cry "Church! Church!" at ev'ry word, With no more piety than other people-- A daw's not reckon'd a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple. The Temple is a good, a holy place, But quacking only gives it an ill savor; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavor!

Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, Who, binding up his Bible with his Ledger, Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger, Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week, A saving bet against his sinful bias-- "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie--I cheat--do anything for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious?"

In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts. One Sunday morning--(at the day don't fret)-- In riding with a friend to Ponder's End Outside the stage, we happened to commend A certain mansion that we saw To Let. "Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple "You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it! 'Twas built by the same man as built yon chapel And master wanted once to buy it,-- But t'other driv the bargain much too hard-- He ax'd sure-_ly_ a sum purdigious! But being so particular religious, Why, _that_, you see, put master on his guard!" Church is "a little heav'n below, I have been there and still would go,"-- Yet I am none of those, who think it odd A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, And, passing by the customary hassock, Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue in formâ pauperis to God.

As for the rest,--intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Ev'n the poor Pagan's homage to the Sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurn'd some elements of Christian pray'r-- An aim, tho' erring, at a "world ayont," Acknowledgment of good--of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want-- Humility.

Such, unto Papists, Jews or turban'd Turks, Such is my spirit--(I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my _works!_

I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own commonplace-book in the other-- But you have been to Palestine--alas! Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, Resemble copper wire, or brass, Which gets the narrower by going farther! Worthless are all such Pilgrimages--very! If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The human heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulchre they ought to bury. A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak!

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renown'd for sanctity of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For--doing as the Romans do at Rome? With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?-- People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home, in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.

Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings. Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, _You_ might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo.

For me--thro' heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine,--I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travellers would blaze with here in France. Dolls I can see in virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixote at the puppet's play, If their "offence be rank," should mine be _rancor_? Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him two black eyes for being blind?

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a canker'd stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine? The images, 'tis true, are strangely dress'd, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason-- Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly _Catholic_, one common form, At which uncheck'd All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss, One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a pray'r upon the spot-- While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base The blue significant Forget-me-not? Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope Giving the eye much variegated scope;-- "Look round," it whisper'd, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But"--(how the simple legend pierced me thro'!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."

With sweet kind natures, as in honey'd cells, Religion lives, and feels herself at home; But only on a formal visit dwells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb. Shun pride, O Rae!--whatever sort beside You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride! A pride there is of rank--a pride of birth, A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, A London pride--in short, there be on earth A host of prides, some better and some worse; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.

To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard. Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail! As for the humble breed retain'd by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan-- He bows, he bridles, He wheels, he sidles, At last, with stately dodgings, in a corner He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!

"Look here," he cries (to give him words), "Thou feather'd clay--thou scum of birds!" Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes,-- "Look here, thou vile predestined sinner, Doom'd to be roasted for a dinner, Behold those lovely variegated dyes! These are the rainbow colors of the skies, That Heav'n has shed upon me _con amore_-- A Bird of Paradise?--a pretty story! _I_ am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! Look at my crown of glory! Thou dingy, dirty, drabbled, draggled jill!" And off goes Partlet, wriggling from a kick, With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!

That little simile exactly paints How sinners are despised by saints. By saints!--the Hypocrites that ope heav'n's door Obsequious to the sinful man of riches-- But put the wicked, naked, barelegg'd poor In parish stocks instead of breeches.

The Saints!--the Bigots that in public spout, Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian, And go like walking "Lucifers" about Mere living bundles of combustion.

The Saints!--the aping Fanatics that talk All cant and rant, and rhapsodies high-flown-- That bid you baulk A Sunday walk, And shun God's work as you should shun your own.

The Saints!--the Formalists, the extra pious, Who think the mortal husk can save the soul, By trundling with a mere mechanic bias, To church, just like a lignum-vitæ bowl!

The Saints!--the Pharisees, whose beadle stands Beside a stern coercive kirk. A piece of human mason-work, Calling all sermons contrabands, In that great Temple that's not made with hands!

Thrice blessed, rather, is the man, with whom The gracious prodigality of nature, The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom, The bounteous providence in ev'ry feature, Recall the good Creator to his creature, Making all earth a fane, all heav'n its dome! To _his_ tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The jubilate of the soaring lark Is chant of clerk; For choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet; The sod's a cushion for his pious want; And, consecrated by the heav'n within it, The sky-blue pool, a font. Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar; An organ breathes in every grove; And the full heart's a Psalter, Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love!

Sufficiently by stern necessitarians Poor Nature, with her face begrimed by dust, Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked; but must Religion have its own Utilitarians, Labell'd with evangelical phylacteries, To make the road to heav'n a railway trust, And churches--that's the naked fact--mere factories?

Oh! simply open wide the Temple door, And let the solemn, swelling, organ greet, With _Voluntaries_ meet, The willing advent of the rich and poor! And while to God the loud Hosannas soar, With rich vibrations from the vocal throng-- From quiet shades that to the woods belong, And brooks with music of their own, Voices may come to swell the choral song With notes of praise they learned in musings lone.

How strange it is while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The Saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor! Why shun, as worthless of affiliation, What men of all political persuasion Extol--and even use upon occasion-- That Christian principle, Conciliation? But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus:

One market morning, in my usual rambles, Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, I had to halt awhile, like other folks, To let a killing butcher coax A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter. A sturdy man he looke'd to fell an ox, Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak Of well-greased hair down either cheek, As if he dee-dash-dee'd some other flocks Beside those woolly-headed stubborn blocks That stood before him, in vexatious huddle-- Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers group'd, While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoop'd And meekly snuff'd, but did not taste the puddle.

Fierce bark'd the dog, and many a blow was dealt, That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt, Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it,-- And shunn'd the tainted door as if they smelt Onions, mint sauce, and lemon juice behind it. At last there came a pause of brutal force, The cur was silent, for his jaws were full Of tangled locks of tarry wool, The man had whoop'd and holloed till dead hoarse. The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by-- "Zounds!--my good fellow,--it quite makes me--why, It really--my dear fellow--do just try Conciliation!"

Stringing his nerves like flint, The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint,-- At least he seized upon the foremost wether,-- And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and crop Just _nolens volens_ thro' the open shop-- If tails come off he didn't care a feather,-- Then walking to the door and smiling grim, He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together-- "There!--I have _con_ciliated him!"

Again--good-humoredly to end our quarrel--
(Good humor should prevail!)
I'll fit you with a tale,
Whereto is tied a moral.

Once on a time a certain English lass Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Cough, hectic flushes, ev'ry evil sign, That, as their wont is at such desperate pass, The Doctors gave her over--to an ass.

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, Each morn the patient quaff'd a frothy bowl Of asinine new milk, Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal Which got proportionably spare and skinny-- Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann! She can't get over it! she never can!" When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case, There were but two grown donkeys in the place; And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, The other long ear'd creature was a male, Who never in his life had given a pail Of milk, or even chalk and water. No matter: at the usual hour of eight Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back,-- "Your sarvant, Miss",--a worry spring-like day,-- Bad time for hasses tho'! good lack! good lack! Jenny be dead, Miss,--but I've brought ye Jack, He doesn't give no milk--but he can bray.

So runs the story,
And, in vain self-glory,
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness--
But what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,
Without the milk of human kindness?

TO MY DAUGHTER[16]

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

[Footnote 16: Written at Ostend in September 1839.]

Dear Fanny! nine long years ago, While yet the morning sun was low, And rosy with the Eastern glow The landscape smiled-- Whilst lowed the newly-waken'd herds-- Sweet as the early song of birds, I heard those first, delightful words, "Thou hast a Child!"

Along with that uprising dew Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few, To hail a dawning quite as new To me, as Time: It was not sorrow--not annoy-- But like a happy maid, though coy, With grief-like welcome even Joy Forestalls its prime.

So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears, Not without smiles, nor yet from tears Too strictly kept: When first thy infant littleness I folded in my fond caress, The greatest proof of happiness Was this--I wept.

MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG.[17]

[Footnote 17: Originally published by instalments in Colburn's _New Monthly Magazine_ in 1840 and 1841, as one of a proposed series to be entitled "Rhymes for the Times."]

A GOLDEN LEGEND.

"What is here?
Gold! yellow, glittering, precious gold?"
_Timon of Athens_.

HER PEDIGREE.

I.

To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree To the very root of the family tree Were a task as rash as ridiculous: Through antediluvian 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.

II.

It wouldn't require much verbal strain To trace the Kill-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.

III.

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 Colehian sheep wore a golden fleece, And golden pippins--the sterling kind Of Hesperus--now so hard to find-- Made Horticulture quite charming!

IV.

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 pastures 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.

V.

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.

VI.

'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.

VII.

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 wagons.

VIII.

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.

IX.

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!"

X.

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.

XI.

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.

XII.

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!

XIII.

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!

XIV.

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.

XV.

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

XVI.

One is litter'd under a roof Neither wind nor water proof-- 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."

XVII.

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.

XVIII.

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!

XIX.

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!

XX.

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.

XXI.

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 rocked the cradle.

XXII.

At her first _début_ 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.

XXIII.

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!

XXIV.

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.

XXV.

She was born exactly at half-past two, As witness'd a timepiece in ormolu 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.

XXVI.

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!"

XXVII.

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.

XXVIII.

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.

XXIX.

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.

XXX.

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."

XXXI.

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!

XXXII.

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

XXXIII.

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.

XXXIV.

From a golden boat, with a golden spoon, The babe was fed night, morning, and noon; And altho' 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.

XXXV.

And when she took to squall and kick-- For pain will wring, 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.

XXXVI.

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.

XXXVII.

Though Shakspeare 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?

XXXVIII.

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!

XXXIX.

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 turn'd into Rupertino.

XL.

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.

XLI.

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.

XLII.

Nephews, whom Fortune seem'd to bewitch, Rising in life like rockets-- Nieces, whose dowries 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!

XLIII.

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."

XLIV.

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.

XLV.

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.

XLVI.

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.

XLVII.

He had roll'd in money like pigs in mud. Till it scem'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.

XLVIII.

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.

XLIX.

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.

L.

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 Dorada."

LI.

Gold! and gold! and nothing but gold! The same auriferous 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.

LII.

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 vapor! So fine! so thin! the mind at a loss Could compare it to nothing except a cross Of cobweb with bank-note paper.

LIII.

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.

LIV.

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.

LV.

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 looked like Rundell and Bridge's!

LVI.

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.

LVII.

Gold! still gold! it rained on the nurse,
Who--unlike 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.

LVIII.

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

LIX.

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.

LX.

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.

LXI.

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.

LXII.

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.

LXIII.

With extempore carts 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!

LXIV.

Gold! and gold! 'twas the burden still! To gain the Heiress's early good-will 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.

LXV.

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.

LXVI.

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.

LXVII.

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."

LXVIII.

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.

LXIX.

Even thus with little Miss Kilmansegg, Before she learnt 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 casters.

LXX.

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.

LXXI.

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.

LXXII.

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.

LXXIII.

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!

LXXIV.

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

LXXV.

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 has been pull'd by _a Hairess_.

LXXVI.

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

LXXVII.

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.

LXXVIII.

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.

LXXIX.

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.

LXXX.

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.

LXXXI.

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.

LXXXII.

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.

LXXXIII.

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 walked behind her.

HER ACCIDENT.

LXXXIV.

The horse that carried Miss Kilmansegg, And a better nether 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.

LXXXV.

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.

LXXXVI.

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.

LXXXVII.

A load of treasure?--alas! alas! Had her horse 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 thoroughbred Irish horse, Why, he ran away, as a matter of course, With a girl worth her weight in guineas!

LXXXVIII.

Mayhap 'tis the trick of such pamper'd 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?

LXXXIX.

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 fourfooted strife, Riding, striding, as if for her life, While the Lover rides after to catch him a wife, Although it's catching a Tartar.

XC.

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.

XCI.

But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust, Oh, for a fall, if 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!

XCII.

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!

XCIII.

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!

XCIV.

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!

XCV.

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!"

XCVI.

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!

XCVII.

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!

XCVIII.

"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!"

XCIX.

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!

C.

On! still on! she's dazzled with hints Of oranges, ribbons, and color'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!

CI.

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!

* * * * *

CII.

"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!

CIII.

Gold! fine gold!--both yellow and red, Beaten, and molten--polish'd, and dead-- 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 log Has met with a compound fracture?

CIV.

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."

CV.

"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.

CVI.

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!

CVII.

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.

CVIII.

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.

CIX.