They praised-how they praised-her very small talk,
As if it fell from a Solon;
Or the girl who at each pretty phrase let drop
A ruby comma, or pearl full-stop,
Or an emerald semi-colon.
They praised her spirit, and now and then,
The Nurse brought her own little "
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 had been pull'd by
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.
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.
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—
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.
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 called the Gigantic.
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.
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.
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 walk'd behind her.
The horse that carried Miss Kilmansegg,
And a better never lifted leg,
Was a very rich bay, called 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.
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.
And then when Banker obtain'd a pat,
To see how he arched 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.
A load of treasure ?-alas! alas!
Had her horse been fed upon English grass,
And sheltered 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 thorough-bred Irish horse,
Why, he ran away, as a matter of course,
With a girl worth her weight in guineas!
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?
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.
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.
But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust,
Oh, for a fall, if fall she must,
On the gentle lap of Flora!
But still, thank Heaven! she clings to her sea'
Away! away! she could ride a dead heat
With the dead who ride so fast and fleet,
In the Ballad of Leonora !
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!
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!
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!
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,
And says, "How very improper!"
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!
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