by Thomas Hood
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.
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 Com
mons, 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,
