by Thomas Hood
With gilt devices, it shone in the sun
Like a copy — a presentation one —
Of Humboldt’s “El Dorada.”
LI.
Gold! and gold! and nothing but gold!
The same auriferous shine behold
Wherever 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 eye
With seams of the precious metal.
LII.
Gold! and gold! and besides the gold,
The very robe of the infant told
A tale of wealth in every fold,
It lapp’d her like a vapor!
So fine! so thin! the mind at a loss
Could compare it to nothing except a cross
Of cobweb with bank-note paper.
LIII.
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.
LIV.
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.
LV.
Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs!
The golden mugs and the golden jugs
That 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 looked like Rundell and Bridge’s!
LVI.
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.
LVII.
Gold! still gold! it rained on the nurse,
Who — unlike 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.
HER CHILDHOOD.
LVIII.
Our youth! our childhood! that spring of springs!
’Tis surely one of the blessedest things
That nature ever intended!
When the rich are wealthy beyond their wealth,
And the poor are rich in spirits and health,
And all with their lots contented!
LIX.
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 cut
His throat, or jump in the water-butt —
But what cares Phelim? an empty nut
Would sooner bring tears to their sockets.
LX.
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.
LXI.
But to leave the happy Phelim alone,
Gnawing, perchance, a marrowless bone,
For which no dog would quarrel —
Turn we to little Miss Kilmansegg,
Cutting her first little toothy-peg
With a fifty-guinea coral —
A peg upon which
About poor and rich
Reflection might hang a moral.
LXII.
Born in wealth, and wealthily nursed,
Capp’d, papp’d, napp’d, and lapp’d from the first
On the knees of Prodigality,
Her childhood was one eternal round
Of the game of going on Tickler’s ground
Picking up gold — in reality.
LXIII.
With extempore carts 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!
LXIV.
Gold! and gold! ’twas the burden still!
To gain the Heiress’s early good-will
There was much corruption and bribery —
The yearly cost of her golden toys
Would have given half London’s Charity Boys
And Charity Girls the annual joys
Of a holiday dinner at Highbury.
LXV.
Bon-bons she ate from the gilt cornet;
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.
LXVI.
Nay, once she squall’d and scream’d like wild —
And it shows how the bias we give to a child
Is a thing most weighty and solemn: —
But whence was wonder or blame to spring
If little Miss K., — after such a swing —
Made a dust for the flaming gilded thing
On the top of the Fish Street column?
HER EDUCATION.
LXVII.
According to metaphysical creed,
To the earliest books that children read
For much good or much bad they are debtors —
But before with their A B C they start,
There are things in morals, as well as art,
That play a very important part —
“Impressions before the letters.”
LXVIII.
Dame Education begins the pile,
Mayhap in the graceful Corinthian style,
But alas for the elevation!
If the Lady’s maid or Gossip the Nurse
With a load of rubbish, or something worse,
Have made a rotten foundation.
LXIX.
Even thus with little Miss Kilmansegg,
Before she learnt her E for egg,
Ere her Governess came, or her Masters —
Teachers of quite a different kind
Had “cramm’d” her beforehand, and put her mind
In a go-cart on golden casters.
LXX.
Long before her A B and C,
They had taught her by heart her L. S. D.
And as how she was born a great Heiress;
And as sure as London is built of bricks,
My Lord would ask her the day to fix,
To ride in a fine gilt coach and six,
Like Her Worship the Lady May’ress.
LXXI.
Instead of stories from Edgeworth’s page,
The true golden lore for our golden age,
Or lessons from Barbauld and Trimmer,
Teaching the worth of Virtue and Health,
All that she knew was the Virtue of Wealth,
Provided by vulgar nursery stealth
With a Book of Leaf Gold for a primer.
LXXII.
The very metal of
merit they told,
And praised her for being as “good as gold”!
Till she grew as a peacock haughty;
Of money they talk’d the whole day round,
And weigh’d desert, like grapes, by the pound,
Till she had an idea from the very sound
That people with nought were naughty.
LXXIII.
They praised — poor children with nothing at all!
Lord! how you twaddle and waddle and squall
Like common-bred geese and ganders!
What sad little bad little figures you make
To the rich Miss K., whose plainest seed-cake
Was stuff’d with corianders!
LXXIV.
They praised her falls, as well as her walk,
Flatterers make cream cheese of chalk,
They praised — how they praised — her very small talk,
As if it fell from the Solon;
Or the girl who at each pretty phrase let drop
A ruby comma, or pearl full-stop,
Or an emerald semi-colon.
LXXV.
They praised her spirit, and now and then
The Nurse brought her own little “nevy” Ben,
To play with the future May’ress,
And when he got raps, and taps, and slaps,
Scratches, and pinches, snips, and snaps,
As if from a Tigress or Bearess,
They told him how Lords would court that hand,
And always gave him to understand,
While he rubb’d, poor soul,
His carroty poll,
That his hair has been pull’d by a Hairess.
LXXVI.
Such were the lessons from maid and nurse,
A Governess help’d to make still worse,
Giving an appetite so perverse
Fresh diet whereon to batten —
Beginning with A B C to hold
Like a royal playbill printed in gold
On a square of pearl-white satin
LXXVII.
The books to teach the verbs and nouns,
And those about countries, cities, and towns,
Instead of their sober drabs and browns,
Were in crimson silk, with gilt edges; —
Her Butler, and Enfield, and Entick — in short
Her “Early Lessons” of every sort,
Look’d like Souvenirs, Keepsakes, and Pledges.
LXXVIII.
Old Johnson shone out in as fine array
As he did one night when he went to the play;
Chambaud like a beau of King Charles’s day —
Lindley Murray in like conditions —
Each weary, unwelcome, irksome task,
Appear’d in a fancy dress and a mask; —
If you wish for similar copies, ask
For Howell and James’s Editions.
LXXIX.
Novels she read to amuse her mind,
But always the affluent match-making kind
That ends with Promessi Sposi,
And a father-in-law so wealthy and grand,
He could give cheque-mate to Coutts in the Strand;
So, along with a ring and posy,
He endows the Bride with Golconda off hand,
And gives the Groom Potosi.
LXXX.
Plays she perused — but she liked the best
Those comedy gentlefolks always possess’d
Of fortunes so truly romantic —
Of money so ready that right or wrong
It always is ready to go for a song,
Throwing it, going it, pitching it strong —
They ought to have purses as green and long
As the cucumber call’d the Gigantic.
LXXXI.
Then Eastern Tales she loved for the sake
Of the Purse of Oriental make,
And the thousand pieces they put in it —
But Pastoral scenes on her heart fell cold,
For Nature with her had lost its hold,
No field but the Field of the Cloth of Gold
Would ever have caught her foot in it.
LXXXII.
What more? She learnt to sing, and dance,
To sit on a horse, although he should prance,
And to speak a French not spoken in France
Any more than at Babel’s building —
And she painted shells, and flowers, and Turks,
But her great delight was in Fancy Works
That are done with gold or gilding.
LXXXIII.
Gold! still gold! — the bright and the dead,
With golden beads, and gold lace, and gold thread
She work’d in gold, as if for her bread;
The metal had so undermined her,
Gold ran in her thoughts and fill’d her brain,
She was golden-headed as Peter’s cane
With which he walked behind her.
HER ACCIDENT.
LXXXIV.
The horse that carried Miss Kilmansegg,
And a better nether lifted leg,
Was a very rich bay, call’d Banker —
A horse of a breed and a mettle so rare, —
By Bullion out of an Ingot mare, —
That for action, the best of figures, and air,
It made many good judges hanker.
LXXXV.
And when she took a ride in the Park,
Equestrian Lord, or pedestrian Clerk,
Was thrown in an amorous fever,
To see the Heiress how well she sat,
With her groom behind her, Bob or Nat,
In green, half smother’d with gold, and a hat
With more gold lace than beaver.
LXXXVI.
And then when Banker obtain’d a pat,
To see how he arch’d his neck at that!
He snorted with pride and pleasure!
Like the Steed in the fable so lofty and grand,
Who gave the poor Ass to understand
That he didn’t carry a bag of sand,
But a burden of golden treasure.
LXXXVII.
A load of treasure? — alas! alas!
Had her horse been fed upon English grass,
And shelter’d in Yorkshire spinneys,
Had he scour’d the sand with the Desert Ass,
Or where the American whinnies —
But a hunter from Erin’s turf and gorse,
A regular thoroughbred Irish horse,
Why, he ran away, as a matter of course,
With a girl worth her weight in guineas!
LXXXVIII.
Mayhap ’tis the trick of such pamper’d nags
To shy at the sight of a beggar in rags, —
But away, like the bolt of a rabbit, —
Away went the horse in the madness of fright,
And away went the horsewoman mocking the sight —
Was yonder blue flash a flash of blue light,
Or only the skirt of her habit?
LXXXIX.
Away she flies, with the groom behind, —
It looks like a race of the Calmuck kind,
When Hymen himself is the starter,
And the Maid rides first in the fourfooted strife,
Riding, striding, as if for her life,
While the Lover rides after to catch him a wife,
Although it’s catching a Tartar.
XC.
But the Groom has lost his glittering hat!
Though he does not sigh and pull up for that —
Alas! his horse is a tit for Tat
To sell to a very low bidder —
His wind is ruin’d, his shoulder is sprung,
Things, though a horse be handsome and young,
A purchaser will consider.
XCI.
But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust,
Oh, for a fall, if she must,
On
the gentle lap of Flora!
But still, thank Heaven! she clings to her seat —
Away! away! she could ride a dead heat
With the Dead who ride so fast and fleet,
In the Ballad of Leonora!
XCII.
Away she gallops! — it’s awful work!
It’s faster than Turpin’s ride to York,
On Bess that notable clipper!
She has circled the Ring! — she crosses the Park!
Mazeppa, although he was stripp’d so stark,
Mazeppa couldn’t outstrip her!
XCIII.
The fields seem running away with the folks!
The Elms are having a race for the Oaks
At a pace that all Jockeys disparages!
All, all is racing! the Serpentine
Seems rushing past like the “arrowy Rhine,”
The houses have got on a railway line,
And are off like the first-class carriages!
XCIV.
She’ll lose her life! she is losing her breath!
A cruel chase, she is chasing Death,
As female shriekings forewarn her:
And now — as gratis as blood of Guelph —
She clears that gate, which has clear’d itself
Since then, at Hyde Park Corner!
XCV.
Alas! for the hope of the Kilmanseggs!
For her head, her brains, her body, and legs,
Her life’s not worth a copper!
Willy-nilly,
In Piccadilly,
A hundred hearts turn sick and chilly,
A hundred voices cry, “Stop her!”
And one old gentleman stares and stands,
Shakes his head and lifts his hands,