Chapter VII: Front Matter (7)

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!

CX.

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!

CXI.

Wood indeed, in Forest or Park, With its sylvan honors 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!

CXII.

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!

CXIII.

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!

CXIV.

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!

CXV.

"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.

CXVI.

So a Leg was made in a comely mould, Of gold, fine virgin glittering gold, As solid as man could make 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.

CXVII.

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!

CXVIII.

'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.

CXIX.

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!

CXX.

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!

CXXI.

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 furnished more debate To the heads and tails of the nation!

CXXII.

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, Rumor, in taking her ravenous swim, Saw, and seized on the tempting limb, Like a shark on the leg of a nigger.

CXXIII.

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.

CXXIV.

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 plays the Turk! As a regular piece of goldsmith's work, Got the better of Goldsmith's diction.

CXXV.

"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!

CXXVI.

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.

CXXVII.

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!

CXXVIII.

Never had 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!

CXXIX.

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. Gile's Beaux sported Golden Legs In their pinchbeck pins and brooches!

HER FIRST STEP.

CXXX.

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.

CXXXI.

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.

CXXXII.

Talk of Art, of Science, or Books, And down go the everlasting looks, To his rural 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.

CXXXIII.

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.

CXXXIV.

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.

CXXXV.

For if Lion-hunters--and great ones too-- Would mob a savage from Latakoo, Or squeeze for a glimpse of Prince Le 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.

CXXXVI.

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 Mathew to preach
A cooling, antiphlogistic speech,
To praise and enforce
A temperate course,
Than the Evil Spirit of Party.

CXXXVII.

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!

CXXXVII.

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.

CXXXIX.

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!

CXL.

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!

CXLI.

'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!

CXLII.

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."

CXLIII.

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!

CXLIV.

'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!

CXLV.

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.

CXLVI.

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.

CXLVII.

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.

CXLVIII.

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.

CXLIX.

"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"!

CL.

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!

CLI.

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!

CLII.

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!

CLIII.

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.

CLIV.

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!

CLV.

'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!

CLVI.

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.

CLVII.

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!

CLVIII.

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!

CLIX.

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 talked like the Muse of History.

CLX.

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.

CLXI.

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.

CLXII.

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.

CLXIII.

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!

CLXIV.

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

CLXV.

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_.

CLXVI.

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.

CLXVII.

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

CLXVIII.

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!

CLXIX.

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 morning till dusk, There was all the music of "Money Musk" In its ponderous bangs and bounces.

CLXX.

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!

CLXXI.

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.

CLXXII.

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.

CLXXIII.

Suffice it 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 honors!

CLXXIV.

"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 from cheering!

HER DREAM.

CLXXV.

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.

CLXXVI.

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.

CLXXVII.

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.

CLXXVIII.

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;

CLXXIX.

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."

CLXXX.

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 skimmed, Was cased in the finest cambric, and trimm'd With the costliest lace of Flanders.

CLXXXI.

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 ignorance equals this, To sleep--and not to know it?

CLXXXII.

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!

CLXXXIII.

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!

CLXXXIV.

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!_

CLXXXV.

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 Crookback'd Tyrant Care Had plotted to kill them sleeping.

CLXXXVI.

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!

CLXXXVII.

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.

CLXXXVIII.

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.

CLXXXIX.

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 bye) With a sauce of syrup of poppy.

CXC.

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!

CXCI.

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.

CXCII.

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.

CXCIII.

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.

CXCIV.

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!

CXCV.

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.

CXCVI.

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.

CXCVII.

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!

CXCVIII.

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

CXCIX.

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.

CC.

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.

CCI.

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!

CCII.

And still, when a pair of Lovers meet, There's a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet, That savors 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.

CCIII.

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!

CCIV.

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!

CCV.

And yet--to tell the rigid truth-- Her favor 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!

CCVI.

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.

CCVII.

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!

CCVIII.

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.

CCIX.

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.

CCX.

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.

CCXI.

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, a whimsical chap, Described as his "Retail Order."

CCXII.

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!

CCXIII.

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 _Stirling_.

CCXIV.

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.

CCXV.

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!

CCXVI.

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!

CCXVII.

Alas! for the love that's link'd 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!

CCXVIII.

Pretty Cis, so smiling and bright, Who loves--as she labors--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.

CCXIX.

'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.

CCXX.

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!

CCXXI.

Bright as clusters of Golden-rod, Suburban poplars began to nod, With extempore splendor 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 burnished!

CCXXII.

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!

CCXXIII.

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.

CCXXIV.

And a treat it was for the mob to behold The Bridal Carriage that blazed with gold! And the Footmen 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.

CCXXV.

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 favorite cad); The Page, who look'd, so splendidly clad, Like a Page of the "Wealth of Nations."

CCXXVI.

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 Favor, had Gog been Groom He need not have worn a bigger.

CCXXVII.

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!

CCXXVIII.

And then--Great Jove!--the struggle, the crush, The screams, the heaving, the awful rush, The swearing, the tearing, and 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!

CCXXIX.

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!

CCXXX.

Another step, and lo! she was launched! All in white, as Brides are _blanched_, With a wreath of most wonderful splendor-- 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.

CCXXXI.

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!

CCXXXII.

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.

CCXXXIII.

But Sir Jacob walk'd more slowly, and bow'd Eight 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.

CCXXXIV.

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 hymeneals; And then the bright procession to close, They were followed by just as many Beaux Quite fine enough for Ideals.

CCXXXV.

Glittering men, and splendid dames, Thus they enter'd the porch of Saint 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!

CCXXXVI.

Beadle-like he hush'd the shouts; 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!

CCXXXVII.

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!

CCCXXXVIII.

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!

CCXXXIX.

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.

CCXL.

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.

CCXLI.

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!

CCXLII.

Another crash--and away they dash'd, And the gilded carriage and footmen 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.

CCXLIII.

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.

CCXLIV.

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,-- With a harsh and discordant overture To the Harmony meant to come after!

CCXLV.

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.

CCXLVI.

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.

CCXLVII.

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 flavor and hue; With fruits from the worlds both Old and New; And fruits obtain'd before they were due At a discount most usurious.

CCXLVIII.

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

CCXLIX.

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_.

CCL.

Men, by popular rumor 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.

CCLI.

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!

CCLII.

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 favors white, Yellow jackets, and panels bright, And left the mob, like a mob at night, Agape at the sound of a rattle.

CCLIII.

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!

CCLIV.

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.

CCLV.

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!

CCLVI.

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.

CCLVII.

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 splendor.

CCLVIII.

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 favor'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!

CCLIX.

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 Garlick Hill to Mount Pleasant!

CCLX.

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!

CCLXI.

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!

CCLXII.

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

CCLXIII.

There's double beauty whenever a Swan Swims on a Lake, with her 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!

CCLXIV.

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.

CCLXV.

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.

CCLXVI.

There's a 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.

CCLXVII.

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!

CCLXVIII.

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 doubled-drumm'd, The Marriage of two true Lovers!

CCLXIX.

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!

CCLXX.

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!

CCLXXI.

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?

CCLXXII.

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.

CCLXXIII.

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 swopp'd The thistle he cropp'd For her Leg, including the Garter!

CCLXXIV.

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!

CCLXXV.

O blessed nature, "O rus! O rus!" Who cannot sigh for the country thus, Absorb'd in a wordly 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!

CCLXXVI.

But to hail the pearly advent of morn, And relish the odor 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 selfsame song That he did to the uncurst Adam!

CCLXXVII.

The Lark! she had given all Leipzig'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.

CCLXXVIII.

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!

CCLXXIX.

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 overlook the Bouquet de Rose, The Huile Antique, The Parfum Unique, In a Barber's Temple of Fashion.

CCLXXX.

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.

CCLXXXI.

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!

CCLXXXII.

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!

CCLXXXIII.

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!

CCLXXXIV.

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 play'd with herself at piquet,
She found, to her cost,
For she always lost,
That the Count did not count quite fairly.

CCLXXXV.

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.

CCLXXXVI.

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.

CCLXXXVII.

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.

CCLXXXVIII.

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?

CCLXXXIX.

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.

CCXC.