Part 21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HER DREAM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HER COURTSHIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HER MARRIAGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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