Moral.

THE JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.

“I WISH YOU MAY GET IT.”

“A goodly gray! why, then, I say,That gray belongs to me!“Let me endorse again my horse,Delivered safe and sound;And gladly I will give the manA bottle and a pound!”The wine was drunk—the money paid,Though not without remorse,To pay another man so muchFor riding on his horse;—And let the chase again take placeFor many a long, long year—John Huggins will not ride againTo hunt the Epping Deer!

“A goodly gray! why, then, I say,That gray belongs to me!

“Let me endorse again my horse,Delivered safe and sound;And gladly I will give the manA bottle and a pound!”

The wine was drunk—the money paid,Though not without remorse,To pay another man so muchFor riding on his horse;—

And let the chase again take placeFor many a long, long year—John Huggins will not ride againTo hunt the Epping Deer!

Thus pleasure oft eludes our graspJust when we think to grip her:And hunting after Happiness,We only hunt the slipper.

’Tis very hard when men forsakeThis melancholy world, and makeA bed of turf, they cannot takeA quiet doze,But certain rogues will come and breakTheir “bone” repose.’Tis hard we can’t give up our breath,And to the earth our earth bequeath,Without Death-Fetches after death,Who thus exhume us;And snatch us from our homes beneath,And hearths posthumous.The tender lover comes to rearThe mournful urn, and shed his tear—Her glorious dust, he cries, is here!Alack! alack!The while his Sacharissa dearIs in a sack!’Tis hard one cannot lie amidThe mould, beneath a coffin-lid,But thus the Faculty will bidTheir rogues break through it,If they don’t want us there, why didThey send us to it?One of these sacrilegious knaves,Who crave as hungry vulture craves,Behaving as the ghoul behaves,‘Neath church-yard wall—Mayhap because he fed on graves,Was named Jack Hall.By day it was his trade to goTending the black coach to and fro;And sometimes at the door of woe,With emblems suitable,He stood with brother Mute, to showThat life is mutable.But long before they pass’d the ferry,The dead that he had help’d to bury,He sack’d—(he had a sack to carryThe bodies off in)In fact, he let them have a veryShort fit of coffin.Night after night, with crow and spade,He drove this dead but thriving trade,Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’dA single horsehair;On corses of all kinds he prey’d,A perfect corsair!At last—it may be, Death took spite,Or, jesting only, meant to fright—He sought for Jack night after nightThe churchyards round;And soon they met, the man and sprite,In Pancras’ ground.Jack, by the glimpses of the moon,Perceiv’d the bony knacker soon,An awful shape to meet at noonOf night and lonely;But Jack’s tough courage did but swoonA minute only.Anon he gave his spade a swingAloft, and kept it brandishing,Ready for what mishaps might springFrom this conjunction;Funking indeed was quite a thingBeside his function.“Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sandsRun out? the stoutest never standsA chance with me,—to my commandsThe strongest truckles;But I’m your friend—so let’s shake hands,I should say—knuckles.”Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightlyAnd meaning nothing but uprightly,Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly,His mull did proffer:But Death, who had no nose, politelyDeclin’d the offer.Then sitting down upon a bank,Leg over leg, shank over shank,Like friends for conversation frank,That had no check on:Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank,“You’re Death, I reckon.”The Jaw-bone grinn’d:—“I am that same,You’ve hit exactly on my name;In truth it has some little fameWhere burial sod is.”Quoth Jack (and wink’d), “of course ye cameHere after bodies.”Death grinn’d again and shook his head:—“I’ve little business with the dead;When they are fairly sent to bedI’ve done my turn:Whether or not the worms are fedIs your concern.“My errand here, in meeting you,Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’I’ve done what jobs I had—a fewAlong this way;If I can serve a crony too,I beg you’ll say.”Quoth Jack, “Your Honour’s very kind:And now I call the thing to mind,This parish very strict I find;But in the next ‘unThere lives a very well-inclinedOld sort of sexton.”Death took the hint, and gave a winkAs well as eyelet holes can blink;Then stretching out his arm to linkThe other’s arm,—“Suppose,” says he, “we have a drinkOf something warm.”Jack nothing loth, with friendly easeSpoke up at once:—“Why, what ye please,Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,A famous tap.”But this suggestion seem’d to teaseThe bony chap.“No, no—your mortal drinks are heady,And only make my hand unsteady;I do not even care for Deady,And loathe your rum;But I’ve some glorious brewage ready,My drink is—Mum!”And off they set, each right content—Who knows the dreary way they went?But Jack felt rather faint and spent,And out of breath;At last he saw, quite evident,The Door of Death.All other men had been unmann’dTo see a coffin on each hand,That served a skeleton to standBy way of sentry;In fact, Death has a very grandAnd awful entry.Throughout his dismal sign prevails,His name is writ in coffin nails;The mortal darts make area rails;A skull that mocketh,Grins on the gloomy gate, and quailsWhoever knocketh.And lo! on either side, ariseTwo monstrous pillars—bones of thighs;A monumental slab suppliesThe step of stone,Where waiting for his master liesA dog of bone.The dog leapt up, but gave no yell,The wire was pull’d, but woke no bell,The ghastly knocker rose and fell,But caused no riot;The ways of Death, we all know well,Are very quiet.Old Bones stept in; Jack stepp’d behind;Quoth Death, I really hope you’ll findThe entertainment to your mind,As I shall treat ye—A friend or two of goblin kind,I’ve asked to meet ye.And lo! a crowd of spectres tall,Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall,Were standing—every ghastly ball—An eager watcher.“My friend,” says Death—“friends, Mr. Hall,The body-snatcher.”Lord, what a tumult it produced,When Mr. Hall was introduced!Jack even, who had long been usedTo frightful things,Felt just as if his back was sluic’dWith freezing springs!Each goblin face began to makeSome horrid mouth—ape—gorgon—snake;And then a spectre-hag would shakeAn airy thigh-bone;And cried, (or seem’d to cry,) I’ll breakYour bone, with my bone!Some ground their teeth—some seem’d to spit—(Nothing, but nothing came of it,)A hundred awful brows were knitIn dreadful spite.Thought Jack—“I’m sure I’d better quitWithout good-night.”One skip and hop and he was clear,And running like a hunted deer,As fleet as people run by fearWell spurr’d and whipp’d,Death, ghosts, and all in that careerWere quite outstripp’d.But those who live by death must die;Jack’s soul at last prepared to fly;And when his latter end drew nigh,Oh! what a swarmOf doctors came,—but not to tryTo keep him warm.No ravens ever scented preySo early where a dead horse lay,Nor vulture sniff’d so far awayA last convulse:A dozen “guests” day after dayWere “at his pulse.”’Twas strange, altho’ they got no fees,How still they watch’d by twos and threes,But Jack a very little easeObtain’d from them;In fact he did not find M. D.’sWorth one D——M.The passing bell with hollow tollWas in his thought—the dreary hole!Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll,And then a cough:—“There’s something weighing on my soulI wish was off;“All night it roves about my brains,All day it adds to all my pains,It is concerning my remainsWhen I am dead:”Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canesDrew near his bed.“Alas!” he sigh’d, “I’m sore afraidA dozen pangs my heart invade;But when I drove a certain tradeIn flesh and bone,There was a little bargain madeAbout my own.”Twelve suits of black began to close,Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose,Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows,At once drew round;Twelve noses turn’d against his nose,Twelve snubs profound.“Ten guineas did not quite suffice,And so I sold my body twice;Twice did not do—I sold it thrice,Forgive my crimes!In short I have received its priceA dozen times!”Twelve brows got very grim and black,Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack,Twelve pair of hands for fierce attackTook up position,Ready to share the dying JackBy long division.Twelve angry doctors wrangled so,That twelve had struck an hour ago,Before they had an eye to throwOn the departed;Twelve heads turn’d round at once, and lo!Twelve doctors started.Whether some comrade of the dead,Or Satan took it in his headTo steal the corpse—the corpse had fled!’Tis only written,That “there was nothing in the bed,But twelve were bitten!”

’Tis very hard when men forsakeThis melancholy world, and makeA bed of turf, they cannot takeA quiet doze,But certain rogues will come and breakTheir “bone” repose.

’Tis hard we can’t give up our breath,And to the earth our earth bequeath,Without Death-Fetches after death,Who thus exhume us;And snatch us from our homes beneath,And hearths posthumous.

The tender lover comes to rearThe mournful urn, and shed his tear—Her glorious dust, he cries, is here!Alack! alack!The while his Sacharissa dearIs in a sack!

’Tis hard one cannot lie amidThe mould, beneath a coffin-lid,But thus the Faculty will bidTheir rogues break through it,If they don’t want us there, why didThey send us to it?

One of these sacrilegious knaves,Who crave as hungry vulture craves,Behaving as the ghoul behaves,‘Neath church-yard wall—Mayhap because he fed on graves,Was named Jack Hall.

By day it was his trade to goTending the black coach to and fro;And sometimes at the door of woe,With emblems suitable,He stood with brother Mute, to showThat life is mutable.

But long before they pass’d the ferry,The dead that he had help’d to bury,He sack’d—(he had a sack to carryThe bodies off in)In fact, he let them have a veryShort fit of coffin.

Night after night, with crow and spade,He drove this dead but thriving trade,Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’dA single horsehair;On corses of all kinds he prey’d,A perfect corsair!

At last—it may be, Death took spite,Or, jesting only, meant to fright—He sought for Jack night after nightThe churchyards round;And soon they met, the man and sprite,In Pancras’ ground.

Jack, by the glimpses of the moon,Perceiv’d the bony knacker soon,An awful shape to meet at noonOf night and lonely;But Jack’s tough courage did but swoonA minute only.

Anon he gave his spade a swingAloft, and kept it brandishing,Ready for what mishaps might springFrom this conjunction;Funking indeed was quite a thingBeside his function.

“Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sandsRun out? the stoutest never standsA chance with me,—to my commandsThe strongest truckles;But I’m your friend—so let’s shake hands,I should say—knuckles.”

Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightlyAnd meaning nothing but uprightly,Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly,His mull did proffer:But Death, who had no nose, politelyDeclin’d the offer.

Then sitting down upon a bank,Leg over leg, shank over shank,Like friends for conversation frank,That had no check on:Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank,“You’re Death, I reckon.”

The Jaw-bone grinn’d:—“I am that same,You’ve hit exactly on my name;In truth it has some little fameWhere burial sod is.”Quoth Jack (and wink’d), “of course ye cameHere after bodies.”

Death grinn’d again and shook his head:—“I’ve little business with the dead;When they are fairly sent to bedI’ve done my turn:Whether or not the worms are fedIs your concern.

“My errand here, in meeting you,Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’I’ve done what jobs I had—a fewAlong this way;If I can serve a crony too,I beg you’ll say.”

Quoth Jack, “Your Honour’s very kind:And now I call the thing to mind,This parish very strict I find;But in the next ‘unThere lives a very well-inclinedOld sort of sexton.”

Death took the hint, and gave a winkAs well as eyelet holes can blink;Then stretching out his arm to linkThe other’s arm,—“Suppose,” says he, “we have a drinkOf something warm.”

Jack nothing loth, with friendly easeSpoke up at once:—“Why, what ye please,Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,A famous tap.”But this suggestion seem’d to teaseThe bony chap.

“No, no—your mortal drinks are heady,And only make my hand unsteady;I do not even care for Deady,And loathe your rum;But I’ve some glorious brewage ready,My drink is—Mum!”

And off they set, each right content—Who knows the dreary way they went?But Jack felt rather faint and spent,And out of breath;At last he saw, quite evident,The Door of Death.

All other men had been unmann’dTo see a coffin on each hand,That served a skeleton to standBy way of sentry;In fact, Death has a very grandAnd awful entry.

Throughout his dismal sign prevails,His name is writ in coffin nails;The mortal darts make area rails;A skull that mocketh,Grins on the gloomy gate, and quailsWhoever knocketh.

And lo! on either side, ariseTwo monstrous pillars—bones of thighs;A monumental slab suppliesThe step of stone,Where waiting for his master liesA dog of bone.

The dog leapt up, but gave no yell,The wire was pull’d, but woke no bell,The ghastly knocker rose and fell,But caused no riot;The ways of Death, we all know well,Are very quiet.

Old Bones stept in; Jack stepp’d behind;Quoth Death, I really hope you’ll findThe entertainment to your mind,As I shall treat ye—A friend or two of goblin kind,I’ve asked to meet ye.

And lo! a crowd of spectres tall,Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall,Were standing—every ghastly ball—An eager watcher.“My friend,” says Death—“friends, Mr. Hall,The body-snatcher.”

Lord, what a tumult it produced,When Mr. Hall was introduced!Jack even, who had long been usedTo frightful things,Felt just as if his back was sluic’dWith freezing springs!

Each goblin face began to makeSome horrid mouth—ape—gorgon—snake;And then a spectre-hag would shakeAn airy thigh-bone;And cried, (or seem’d to cry,) I’ll breakYour bone, with my bone!

Some ground their teeth—some seem’d to spit—(Nothing, but nothing came of it,)A hundred awful brows were knitIn dreadful spite.Thought Jack—“I’m sure I’d better quitWithout good-night.”

One skip and hop and he was clear,And running like a hunted deer,As fleet as people run by fearWell spurr’d and whipp’d,Death, ghosts, and all in that careerWere quite outstripp’d.

But those who live by death must die;Jack’s soul at last prepared to fly;And when his latter end drew nigh,Oh! what a swarmOf doctors came,—but not to tryTo keep him warm.

No ravens ever scented preySo early where a dead horse lay,Nor vulture sniff’d so far awayA last convulse:A dozen “guests” day after dayWere “at his pulse.”

’Twas strange, altho’ they got no fees,How still they watch’d by twos and threes,But Jack a very little easeObtain’d from them;In fact he did not find M. D.’sWorth one D——M.

The passing bell with hollow tollWas in his thought—the dreary hole!Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll,And then a cough:—“There’s something weighing on my soulI wish was off;

“All night it roves about my brains,All day it adds to all my pains,It is concerning my remainsWhen I am dead:”Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canesDrew near his bed.

“Alas!” he sigh’d, “I’m sore afraidA dozen pangs my heart invade;But when I drove a certain tradeIn flesh and bone,There was a little bargain madeAbout my own.”

Twelve suits of black began to close,Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose,Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows,At once drew round;Twelve noses turn’d against his nose,Twelve snubs profound.

“Ten guineas did not quite suffice,And so I sold my body twice;Twice did not do—I sold it thrice,Forgive my crimes!In short I have received its priceA dozen times!”

Twelve brows got very grim and black,Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack,Twelve pair of hands for fierce attackTook up position,Ready to share the dying JackBy long division.

Twelve angry doctors wrangled so,That twelve had struck an hour ago,Before they had an eye to throwOn the departed;Twelve heads turn’d round at once, and lo!Twelve doctors started.

Whether some comrade of the dead,Or Satan took it in his headTo steal the corpse—the corpse had fled!’Tis only written,That “there was nothing in the bed,But twelve were bitten!”

TO trace the Kilmansegg pedigreeTo the very root of the family treeWere a task as rash as ridiculous:Through antedilvian mists as thickAs London fog such a line to pickWere enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick,—Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas.It wouldn’t require much verbal strainTo trace the Kil-man, perchance, to Cain,But, waiving all such digressions,Suffice it, according to family lore,A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore,Who was famed for his great possessions.Tradition said he feather’d his nestThrough an Agricultural InterestIn the Golden Age of farming;When golden eggs were laid by the geese,And Colchian sheep wore a golden fleece,And golden pippins—the sterling kindOf Hesperus—now so hard to find—Made Horticulture quite charming!A Lord of Land, on his own estate,He lived at a very lively rate,But his income would bear carousing;Such acres he had of pasture and heath,With herbage so rich from the ore beneath,The very ewe’s and lambkin’s teethWere turn’d into gold by browsing.He gave, without any extra thrift,A flock of sheep for a birthday giftTo each son of his loins, or daughter:And his debts—if debts he had—at willHe liquidated by giving each billA dip in Pactolian water.’Twas said that even his pigs of lead,By crossing with some by Midas bred,Made a perfect mine of his piggery.And as for cattle, one yearling bullWas worth all Smithfield-market fullOf the Golden Bulls of Pope Gregory.The high-bred horses within his stud,Like human creatures of birth and blood,Had their Golden Cups and flagons:And as for the common husbandry nags,Their noses were tied in money-bags,When they stopp’d with the carts and waggons.Moreover, he had a Golden Ass,Sometimes at stall, and sometimes at grass,That was worth his own weight in money—And a golden hive, on a Golden Bank,Where golden bees, by alchemical prank,Gather’d gold instead of honey.Gold! and gold! and gold without end!He had gold to lay by, and gold to spend,Gold to give, and gold to lend,And reversions of goldin futuro.In wealth the family revell’d and roll’d,Himself and wife and sons so bold;—And his daughters sang to their harps of gold“O bella eta del’ oro!”Such was the tale of the Kilmansegg Kin,In golden text on a vellum skin,Though certain people would wink and grin,And declare the whole story a parable—That the Ancestor rich was one Jacob Ghrimes,Who held a long lease, in prosperous times,Of acres, pasture and arable.That as money makes money, his golden beesWere the Five per Cents, or which you pleaseWhen his cash was more than plenty—That the golden cups were racing affairs;And his daughters, who sang Italian airs,Had their golden harps of Clementi.That the Golden Ass, or Golden Bull,Was English John, with his pockets full,Then at war by land and water:While beef, and mutton, and other meat,Were almost as dear as money to eat,And Farmers reaped Golden Harvests of wheatAt the Lord knows what per quarter!

It wouldn’t require much verbal strainTo trace the Kil-man, perchance, to Cain,But, waiving all such digressions,Suffice it, according to family lore,A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore,Who was famed for his great possessions.

Tradition said he feather’d his nestThrough an Agricultural InterestIn the Golden Age of farming;When golden eggs were laid by the geese,And Colchian sheep wore a golden fleece,And golden pippins—the sterling kindOf Hesperus—now so hard to find—Made Horticulture quite charming!

A Lord of Land, on his own estate,He lived at a very lively rate,But his income would bear carousing;Such acres he had of pasture and heath,With herbage so rich from the ore beneath,The very ewe’s and lambkin’s teethWere turn’d into gold by browsing.

He gave, without any extra thrift,A flock of sheep for a birthday giftTo each son of his loins, or daughter:And his debts—if debts he had—at willHe liquidated by giving each billA dip in Pactolian water.

’Twas said that even his pigs of lead,By crossing with some by Midas bred,Made a perfect mine of his piggery.And as for cattle, one yearling bullWas worth all Smithfield-market fullOf the Golden Bulls of Pope Gregory.

The high-bred horses within his stud,Like human creatures of birth and blood,Had their Golden Cups and flagons:And as for the common husbandry nags,Their noses were tied in money-bags,When they stopp’d with the carts and waggons.

Moreover, he had a Golden Ass,Sometimes at stall, and sometimes at grass,That was worth his own weight in money—And a golden hive, on a Golden Bank,Where golden bees, by alchemical prank,Gather’d gold instead of honey.

Gold! and gold! and gold without end!He had gold to lay by, and gold to spend,Gold to give, and gold to lend,And reversions of goldin futuro.In wealth the family revell’d and roll’d,Himself and wife and sons so bold;—And his daughters sang to their harps of gold“O bella eta del’ oro!”

Such was the tale of the Kilmansegg Kin,In golden text on a vellum skin,Though certain people would wink and grin,And declare the whole story a parable—That the Ancestor rich was one Jacob Ghrimes,Who held a long lease, in prosperous times,Of acres, pasture and arable.

That as money makes money, his golden beesWere the Five per Cents, or which you pleaseWhen his cash was more than plenty—That the golden cups were racing affairs;And his daughters, who sang Italian airs,Had their golden harps of Clementi.

That the Golden Ass, or Golden Bull,Was English John, with his pockets full,Then at war by land and water:While beef, and mutton, and other meat,Were almost as dear as money to eat,And Farmers reaped Golden Harvests of wheatAt the Lord knows what per quarter!

What different dooms our birthdays bringFor instance, one little manikin thingSurvives to wear many a wrinkle;While Death forbids another to wake,And a son that it took nine moons to makeExpires without even a twinkle!Into this world we come like ships,Launch’d from the docks, and stocks, and slips,For fortune fair or fatal;And one little craft is cast awayIn its very first trip in Babbicome Bay,While another rides safe at Port Natal.What different lots our stars accord!This babe to be hail’d and woo’d as a Lord!And that to be shunn’d like a leper!One, to the world’s wine, honey, and corn,Another, like Colchester native, bornTo its vinegar, only, and pepper.One is litter’d under a roofNeither wind nor waterproof—That’s the prose of Love in a Cottage—A puny, naked, shivering wretch,The whole of whose birthright would not fetch,Though Robins himself drew up the sketch,The bid of “a mess of pottage.”Born of Fortunatus’s kin,Another comes tenderly ushered inTo a prospect all bright and burnish’d:No tenant he for life’s back slums—He comes to the world, as a gentleman comesTo a lodging ready furnish’d.And the other sex—the tender—the fair—What wide reverses of fate are there!Whilst Margaret, charm’d by the Bulbul rare,In a garden of Gul reposes—Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to streetTill—think of that, who find life so sweet!—She hates the smell of roses!Not so with the infant Kilmansegg!She was not born to steal or beg,Or gather cresses in ditches;To plait the straw, or bind the shoe,Or sit all day to hem and sew,As females must—and not a few—To fill their insides with stitches!She was not doom’d, for bread to eat,To be put to her hands as well as her feet—To carry home linen from mangles—Or heavy-hearted, and weary-limb’d,To dance on a rope in a jacket trimm’dWith as many blows as spangles.She was one of those who by Fortune’s boonAre born, as they say, with a silver spoonIn her mouth, not a wooden ladle:To speak according to poet’s wont,Plutus as sponsor stood at her font,And Midas rock’d the cradle.

Into this world we come like ships,Launch’d from the docks, and stocks, and slips,For fortune fair or fatal;And one little craft is cast awayIn its very first trip in Babbicome Bay,While another rides safe at Port Natal.

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

One is litter’d under a roofNeither wind nor waterproof—That’s the prose of Love in a Cottage—A puny, naked, shivering wretch,The whole of whose birthright would not fetch,Though Robins himself drew up the sketch,The bid of “a mess of pottage.”

Born of Fortunatus’s kin,Another comes tenderly ushered inTo a prospect all bright and burnish’d:No tenant he for life’s back slums—He comes to the world, as a gentleman comesTo a lodging ready furnish’d.

And the other sex—the tender—the fair—What wide reverses of fate are there!Whilst Margaret, charm’d by the Bulbul rare,In a garden of Gul reposes—Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to streetTill—think of that, who find life so sweet!—She hates the smell of roses!

Not so with the infant Kilmansegg!She was not born to steal or beg,Or gather cresses in ditches;To plait the straw, or bind the shoe,Or sit all day to hem and sew,As females must—and not a few—To fill their insides with stitches!

She was not doom’d, for bread to eat,To be put to her hands as well as her feet—To carry home linen from mangles—Or heavy-hearted, and weary-limb’d,To dance on a rope in a jacket trimm’dWith as many blows as spangles.

She was one of those who by Fortune’s boonAre born, as they say, with a silver spoonIn her mouth, not a wooden ladle:To speak according to poet’s wont,Plutus as sponsor stood at her font,And Midas rock’d the cradle.

DUE AT MICHAELMAS.

CRANE-IOLOGY.

At her firstdebutshe found her headOn a pillow of down, in a downy bed,With a damask canopy over.For although, by the vulgar popular saw,All mothers are said to be “in the straw,”Some children are born in clover.Her very first draught of vital air,It was not the common chameleon fareOf plebeian lungs and noses,—No—her earliest sniffOf this world was a whiffOf the genuine Otto of Roses!When she saw the light, it was no mere rayOf that light so common—so everyday—That the sun each morning launches—But six wax tapers dazzled her eyes,From a thing—a gooseberry bush for size—With a golden stem and branches.She was born exactly at half-past two,As witnessed a time-piece in or-moluThat stood on a marble table—Showing at once the time of day,And a team ofGildingsrunning awayAs fast as they were able,With a golden God, with a golden Star,And a golden Spear, in a golden Car,According to Grecian fable.Like other babes, at her birth she cried;Which made a sensation far and wide—Ay, for twenty miles around her:For though to the ear ’twas nothing moreThan an infant’s squall, it was really the roarOf a Fifty-thousand Pounder!It shook the next heirIn his library chair,And made him cry, “Confound her!”Of signs and omens there was no dearth,Any more than at Owen Glendower’s birth,Or the advent of other great people:Two bullocks dropp’d dead,As if knock’d on the head,And barrels of stoutAnd ale ran about,And the village-bells such a peal rang out,That they crack’d the village-steeple.In no time at all, like mushroom spawn,Tables sprang up all over the lawn;Not furnish’d scantly or shabbily,But on scale as vastAs that huge repast,With its loads and cargoesOf drink and botargoes,At the birth of the Babe in Rabelais.Hundreds of men were turn’d into beasts,Like the guests at Circe’s horrible feasts,By the magic of ale and cider:And each country lass, and each country lad,Began to caper and dance like mad,And ev’n some old ones appear’d to have hadA bite from the Naples Spider.Then as night came on,It had scared King JohnWho considered such signs not risible,To have seen the maroons,And the whirling moons,And the serpents of flame,And wheels of the same,That according to some were “whizzable.”Oh, happy Hope of the Kilmanseggs!Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs,That her parents had such full pockets!For had she been born of Want and Thrift,For care and nursing all adrift,It’s ten to one she had had to make shiftWith rickets instead of rockets!And how was the precious baby drest?In a robe of the East, with lace of the West,Like one of Crœsus’ issue—Her best bibs were madeOf rich gold brocade,And the others of silver tissue.And when the Baby inclined to napShe was lull’d on a Gros de Naples lap,By a nurse in a modish Paris cap,Of notions so exalted,She drank nothing lower than Curaçoa,Maraschino, or pink Noyau,And on principle never malted.From a golden boat, with a golden spoon,The babe was fed night, morning, and noon;And although the tale seems fabulous,’Tis said her tops and bottoms were gilt,Like the oats in that Stable-yard Palace builtFor the Horse of Heliogabalus.And when she took to squall and kick—For pain will ring, and pins will prick,E’en the wealthiest nabob’s daughter—They gave her no vulgar Dalby or gin,But a liquor with leaf of gold therein,Videlicet,—Dantzic Water.In short, she was born, and bred, and nurst,And drest in the best from the very first,To please the genteelest censor—And then, as soon as strength would allowWas vaccinated, as babes are now,With virus ta’en from the best-bred cowOf Lord Althorpe’s—now Earl Spencer.

Her very first draught of vital air,It was not the common chameleon fareOf plebeian lungs and noses,—No—her earliest sniffOf this world was a whiffOf the genuine Otto of Roses!

When she saw the light, it was no mere rayOf that light so common—so everyday—That the sun each morning launches—But six wax tapers dazzled her eyes,From a thing—a gooseberry bush for size—With a golden stem and branches.

She was born exactly at half-past two,As witnessed a time-piece in or-moluThat stood on a marble table—Showing at once the time of day,And a team ofGildingsrunning awayAs fast as they were able,With a golden God, with a golden Star,And a golden Spear, in a golden Car,According to Grecian fable.

Like other babes, at her birth she cried;Which made a sensation far and wide—Ay, for twenty miles around her:For though to the ear ’twas nothing moreThan an infant’s squall, it was really the roarOf a Fifty-thousand Pounder!It shook the next heirIn his library chair,And made him cry, “Confound her!”

Of signs and omens there was no dearth,Any more than at Owen Glendower’s birth,Or the advent of other great people:Two bullocks dropp’d dead,As if knock’d on the head,And barrels of stoutAnd ale ran about,And the village-bells such a peal rang out,That they crack’d the village-steeple.

In no time at all, like mushroom spawn,Tables sprang up all over the lawn;Not furnish’d scantly or shabbily,But on scale as vastAs that huge repast,With its loads and cargoesOf drink and botargoes,At the birth of the Babe in Rabelais.

Hundreds of men were turn’d into beasts,Like the guests at Circe’s horrible feasts,By the magic of ale and cider:And each country lass, and each country lad,Began to caper and dance like mad,And ev’n some old ones appear’d to have hadA bite from the Naples Spider.

Then as night came on,It had scared King JohnWho considered such signs not risible,To have seen the maroons,And the whirling moons,And the serpents of flame,And wheels of the same,That according to some were “whizzable.”

Oh, happy Hope of the Kilmanseggs!Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs,That her parents had such full pockets!For had she been born of Want and Thrift,For care and nursing all adrift,It’s ten to one she had had to make shiftWith rickets instead of rockets!

And how was the precious baby drest?In a robe of the East, with lace of the West,Like one of Crœsus’ issue—Her best bibs were madeOf rich gold brocade,And the others of silver tissue.

And when the Baby inclined to napShe was lull’d on a Gros de Naples lap,By a nurse in a modish Paris cap,Of notions so exalted,She drank nothing lower than Curaçoa,Maraschino, or pink Noyau,And on principle never malted.

From a golden boat, with a golden spoon,The babe was fed night, morning, and noon;And although the tale seems fabulous,’Tis said her tops and bottoms were gilt,Like the oats in that Stable-yard Palace builtFor the Horse of Heliogabalus.

And when she took to squall and kick—For pain will ring, and pins will prick,E’en the wealthiest nabob’s daughter—They gave her no vulgar Dalby or gin,But a liquor with leaf of gold therein,Videlicet,—Dantzic Water.

In short, she was born, and bred, and nurst,And drest in the best from the very first,To please the genteelest censor—And then, as soon as strength would allowWas vaccinated, as babes are now,With virus ta’en from the best-bred cowOf Lord Althorpe’s—now Earl Spencer.

Though Shakespeare asks us, “What’s in a name?”(As if cognomens were much the same),There’s really a very great scope in it.A name?—why, wasn’t there Doctor Dodd,That servant at once of Mammon and God,Who found four thousand pounds and odd,A prison—a cart—and a rope in it?A name?—if the party had a voice,What mortal would be a Bugg by choice?As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice?Or any such nauseous blazon?Not to mention many a vulgar name,That would make a door-plate blush for shame,If door-plates were not so brazen!A name?—it has more than nominal worth,And belongs to good or bad luck at birth—As dames of a certain degree know.In spite of his Page’s hat and hose,His Page’s jacket, and buttons in rows,Bob only sounds like a page in proseTill turned into Rupertino.Now to christen the infant Kilmansegg,For days and days it was quite a plague,To hunt the list in the Lexicon:And scores were tried, like coin, by the ring,Ere names were found just the proper thingFor a minor rich as a Mexican.Then cards were sent the presence to begOf all the kin of Kilmansegg,White, yellow, and brown relations:Brothers, Wardens of City Halls,And Uncles—rich as three Golden BallsFrom taking pledges of nations.Nephews, whom Fortune seem’d to bewitch,Rising in life like rockets—Nieces, whose doweries knew no hitch—Aunts, as certain of dying richAs candles in golden sockets—Cousins German and Cousins’ sons,All thriving and opulent—some had tonsOf Kentish hops in their pockets!For money had stuck to the race through life(As it did to the bushel when cash so rifePosed Ali Baba’s brother’s wife)—And down to the Cousins and Coz-lings,The fortunate brood of the Kilmanseggs,As if they had come out of golden eggs,Were all as wealthy as “Goslings.”It would fill a Court Gazette to nameWhat East and West End people cameTo the rite of Christianity:The lofty Lord, and the titled Dame,All di’monds, plumes, and urbanity:His Lordship the May’r with his golden chain,And two Gold Sticks, and the Sheriffs twain,Nine foreign Counts, and other great menWith their orders and stars, to help “M. or N.”To renounce all pomp and vanity.To paint the maternal KilmanseggThe pen of an Eastern Poet would beg,And need an elaborate sonnet;How she sparkled with gems whenever she stirr’d,And her head niddle-noddled at every word,And seem’d so happy, a Paradise BirdHad nidificated upon it.And Sir Jacob the Father strutted and bow’d,And smiled to himself, and laugh’d aloud,To think of his heiress and daughter—And then in his pockets he made a grope,And then, in the fulness of joy and hope,Seem’d washing his hands with invisible soapIn imperceptible water.He had roll’d in money like pigs in mud,Till it seem’d to have entered into his bloodBy some occult projection:And his cheeks instead of a healthy hueAs yellow as any guinea grew,Making the common phrase seem true,About a rich complexion.And now came the nurse, and during a pause,Her dead-leaf satin would fitly causeA very autumnal rustle—So full of figure, so full of fuss,As she carried about the babe to buss,She seem’d to be nothing but bustle.A wealthy Nabob was Godpapa,And an Indian Begum was Godmamma,Whose jewels a Queen might covet—And the Priest was a Vicar, and Dean withalOf that Temple we see with a Golden Ball,And a Golden Cross above it.The Font was a bowl of American gold,Won by Raleigh in days of old,In spite of Spanish bravado;And the Book of Pray’r was so overrunWith gilt devices, it shone in the sunLike a copy—a presentation one—Of Humboldt’s “El Dorado.”Gold! and gold! and nothing but gold!The same auiferous shine beholdWherever the eye could settle!On the walls—the sideboard—the ceiling-sky—On the gorgeous footmen standing by,In coats to delight a miner’s eyeWith seams of the precious metal.Gold! and gold! and besides the gold,The very robe of the infant toldA tale of wealth in every fold,It lapp’d her like a vapour!So fine! so thin! the mind at a lossCould compare it to nothing except a crossOf cobweb with bank-note paper.Then her pearls—’twas a perfect sight, forsooth,To see them, like “the dew of her youth,”In such a plentiful sprinkle.Meanwhile, the Vicar read through the form,And gave her another, not overwarm,That made her little eyes twinkle.Then the babe was cross’d and bless’d amain!But instead of the Kate, or Ann, or Jane,Which the humbler female endorses—Instead of one name, as some people prefix,Kilmansegg went at the tails of six,Like a carriage of state with its horses.Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs!The golden mugs and the golden jugsThat lent fresh rays to the midges!The golden knives, and the golden spoons,The gems that sparkled like fairy boons,It was one of the Kilmansegg’s own saloons,But look’d like Rundell and Bridge’s!Gold! and gold! the new and the old,The company ate and drank from gold,They revell’d, they sang, and were merry;And one of the Gold Sticks rose from his chair,And toasted “the Lass with the golden hair”In a bumper of Golden Sherry.Gold! still gold! it rain’d on the nurse,Who—un-like Danäe—was none the worse!There was nothing but guineas glistening!Fifty were given to Doctor James,For calling the little Baby names,And for saying, Amen!The Clerk had ten,And that was the end of the Christening.

A name?—if the party had a voice,What mortal would be a Bugg by choice?As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice?Or any such nauseous blazon?Not to mention many a vulgar name,That would make a door-plate blush for shame,If door-plates were not so brazen!

A name?—it has more than nominal worth,And belongs to good or bad luck at birth—As dames of a certain degree know.In spite of his Page’s hat and hose,His Page’s jacket, and buttons in rows,Bob only sounds like a page in proseTill turned into Rupertino.

Now to christen the infant Kilmansegg,For days and days it was quite a plague,To hunt the list in the Lexicon:And scores were tried, like coin, by the ring,Ere names were found just the proper thingFor a minor rich as a Mexican.

Then cards were sent the presence to begOf all the kin of Kilmansegg,White, yellow, and brown relations:Brothers, Wardens of City Halls,And Uncles—rich as three Golden BallsFrom taking pledges of nations.

Nephews, whom Fortune seem’d to bewitch,Rising in life like rockets—Nieces, whose doweries knew no hitch—Aunts, as certain of dying richAs candles in golden sockets—Cousins German and Cousins’ sons,All thriving and opulent—some had tonsOf Kentish hops in their pockets!

For money had stuck to the race through life(As it did to the bushel when cash so rifePosed Ali Baba’s brother’s wife)—And down to the Cousins and Coz-lings,The fortunate brood of the Kilmanseggs,As if they had come out of golden eggs,Were all as wealthy as “Goslings.”

It would fill a Court Gazette to nameWhat East and West End people cameTo the rite of Christianity:The lofty Lord, and the titled Dame,All di’monds, plumes, and urbanity:His Lordship the May’r with his golden chain,And two Gold Sticks, and the Sheriffs twain,Nine foreign Counts, and other great menWith their orders and stars, to help “M. or N.”To renounce all pomp and vanity.

To paint the maternal KilmanseggThe pen of an Eastern Poet would beg,And need an elaborate sonnet;How she sparkled with gems whenever she stirr’d,And her head niddle-noddled at every word,And seem’d so happy, a Paradise BirdHad nidificated upon it.

And Sir Jacob the Father strutted and bow’d,And smiled to himself, and laugh’d aloud,To think of his heiress and daughter—And then in his pockets he made a grope,And then, in the fulness of joy and hope,Seem’d washing his hands with invisible soapIn imperceptible water.

He had roll’d in money like pigs in mud,Till it seem’d to have entered into his bloodBy some occult projection:And his cheeks instead of a healthy hueAs yellow as any guinea grew,Making the common phrase seem true,About a rich complexion.

And now came the nurse, and during a pause,Her dead-leaf satin would fitly causeA very autumnal rustle—So full of figure, so full of fuss,As she carried about the babe to buss,She seem’d to be nothing but bustle.

A wealthy Nabob was Godpapa,And an Indian Begum was Godmamma,Whose jewels a Queen might covet—And the Priest was a Vicar, and Dean withalOf that Temple we see with a Golden Ball,And a Golden Cross above it.

The Font was a bowl of American gold,Won by Raleigh in days of old,In spite of Spanish bravado;And the Book of Pray’r was so overrunWith gilt devices, it shone in the sunLike a copy—a presentation one—Of Humboldt’s “El Dorado.”

Gold! and gold! and nothing but gold!The same auiferous shine beholdWherever the eye could settle!On the walls—the sideboard—the ceiling-sky—On the gorgeous footmen standing by,In coats to delight a miner’s eyeWith seams of the precious metal.

Gold! and gold! and besides the gold,The very robe of the infant toldA tale of wealth in every fold,It lapp’d her like a vapour!So fine! so thin! the mind at a lossCould compare it to nothing except a crossOf cobweb with bank-note paper.

Then her pearls—’twas a perfect sight, forsooth,To see them, like “the dew of her youth,”In such a plentiful sprinkle.Meanwhile, the Vicar read through the form,And gave her another, not overwarm,That made her little eyes twinkle.

Then the babe was cross’d and bless’d amain!But instead of the Kate, or Ann, or Jane,Which the humbler female endorses—Instead of one name, as some people prefix,Kilmansegg went at the tails of six,Like a carriage of state with its horses.

Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs!The golden mugs and the golden jugsThat lent fresh rays to the midges!The golden knives, and the golden spoons,The gems that sparkled like fairy boons,It was one of the Kilmansegg’s own saloons,But look’d like Rundell and Bridge’s!

Gold! and gold! the new and the old,The company ate and drank from gold,They revell’d, they sang, and were merry;And one of the Gold Sticks rose from his chair,And toasted “the Lass with the golden hair”In a bumper of Golden Sherry.

Gold! still gold! it rain’d on the nurse,Who—un-like Danäe—was none the worse!There was nothing but guineas glistening!Fifty were given to Doctor James,For calling the little Baby names,And for saying, Amen!The Clerk had ten,And that was the end of the Christening.

Our youth! our childhood! that spring of springs!’Tis surely one of the blessedest thingsThat nature ever invented!When the rich are wealthy beyond their wealth,And the poor are rich in spirits and health,And all with their lots contented!There’s little Phelim, he sings like a thrush,In the selfsame pair of patchwork plush,With the selfsame empty pockets,That tempted his daddy so often to cutHis throat, or jump in the water-butt—But what cares Phelim? an empty nutWould sooner bring tears to their sockets.Give him a collar without a skirt,(That’s the Irish linen for shirt)And a slice of bread with a taste of dirt,(That’s Poverty’s Irish butter),And what does he lack to make him blest?Some oyster-shells, or a sparrow’s nest,A candle-end, and a gutter.But to leave the happy Phelim alone,Gnawing, perchance, a marrowless bone,For which no dog would quarrel—Turn we to little Miss KilmanseggCutting her first little toothy-pegWith a fifty-guinea coral—A peg upon whichAbout poor and richReflection might hang a moral.Born in wealth, and wealthily nursed,Capp’d, papp’d, napp’d, and lapp’d from the firstOn the knees of Prodigality,Her childhood was one eternal roundOf the game of going on Tickler’s groundPicking up gold—in reality.With extempore cartes she never play’d,Or the odds and ends of a Tinker’s trade,Or little dirt pies and puddings made,Like children happy and squalid;The very puppet she had to pet,Like a bait for the “Nix my Dolly” set,Was a Dolly of gold—and solid!Gold! and gold! ’twas the burden still!To gain the Heiress’s early goodwillThere was much corruption and bribery—The yearly cost of her golden toysWould have given half London’s Charity BoysAnd Charity Girls the annual joysOf a holiday dinner at Highbury.Bon-bons she ate from the giltcornet;And gilded queens on St. Bartlemy’s day;Till her fancy was tinged by her presents—And first a Goldfinch excited her wish,Then a spherical bowl with its Golden fish,And then two Golden Pheasants.Nay, once she squall’d and scream’d like wild—And it shows how the bias we give to a childIs a thing most weighty and solemn:—But whence was wonder or blame to springIf little Miss K.—after such a swing—Made a dust for the flaming gilded thingOn the top of the Fish Street column?

There’s little Phelim, he sings like a thrush,In the selfsame pair of patchwork plush,With the selfsame empty pockets,That tempted his daddy so often to cutHis throat, or jump in the water-butt—But what cares Phelim? an empty nutWould sooner bring tears to their sockets.

Give him a collar without a skirt,(That’s the Irish linen for shirt)And a slice of bread with a taste of dirt,(That’s Poverty’s Irish butter),And what does he lack to make him blest?Some oyster-shells, or a sparrow’s nest,A candle-end, and a gutter.

But to leave the happy Phelim alone,Gnawing, perchance, a marrowless bone,For which no dog would quarrel—Turn we to little Miss KilmanseggCutting her first little toothy-pegWith a fifty-guinea coral—A peg upon whichAbout poor and richReflection might hang a moral.

Born in wealth, and wealthily nursed,Capp’d, papp’d, napp’d, and lapp’d from the firstOn the knees of Prodigality,Her childhood was one eternal roundOf the game of going on Tickler’s groundPicking up gold—in reality.

With extempore cartes she never play’d,Or the odds and ends of a Tinker’s trade,Or little dirt pies and puddings made,Like children happy and squalid;The very puppet she had to pet,Like a bait for the “Nix my Dolly” set,Was a Dolly of gold—and solid!

Gold! and gold! ’twas the burden still!To gain the Heiress’s early goodwillThere was much corruption and bribery—The yearly cost of her golden toysWould have given half London’s Charity BoysAnd Charity Girls the annual joysOf a holiday dinner at Highbury.

Bon-bons she ate from the giltcornet;And gilded queens on St. Bartlemy’s day;Till her fancy was tinged by her presents—And first a Goldfinch excited her wish,Then a spherical bowl with its Golden fish,And then two Golden Pheasants.

Nay, once she squall’d and scream’d like wild—And it shows how the bias we give to a childIs a thing most weighty and solemn:—But whence was wonder or blame to springIf little Miss K.—after such a swing—Made a dust for the flaming gilded thingOn the top of the Fish Street column?

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