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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 Commons, 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!