by Thomas Hood
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 stubbl
e!
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.
