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 man
 A bottle and a pound!”
The wine was drunk—the money paid,
 Though not without remorse,
 To pay another man so much
 For riding on his horse;—
And let the chase again take place
 For many a long, long year—
 John Huggins will not ride again
 To hunt the Epping Deer!

Moral.

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

JACK HALL.

’Tis very hard when men forsake
 This melancholy world, and make
 A bed of turf, they cannot take
 A quiet doze,
 But certain rogues will come and break
 Their “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 rear
 The mournful urn, and shed his tear—
 Her glorious dust, he cries, is here!
 Alack! alack!
 The while his Sacharissa dear
 Is in a sack!
’Tis hard one cannot lie amid
 The mould, beneath a coffin-lid,
 But thus the Faculty will bid
 Their rogues break through it,
 If they don’t want us there, why did
 They 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 go
 Tending the black coach to and fro;
 And sometimes at the door of woe,
 With emblems suitable,
 He stood with brother Mute, to show
 That 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 carry
 The bodies off in)
 In fact, he let them have a very
 Short fit of coffin.
Night after night, with crow and spade,
 He drove this dead but thriving trade,
 Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’d
 A 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 night
 The 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 noon
 Of night and lonely;
 But Jack’s tough courage did but swoon
 A minute only.
Anon he gave his spade a swing
 Aloft, and kept it brandishing,
 Ready for what mishaps might spring
 From this conjunction;
 Funking indeed was quite a thing
 Beside his function.
“Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sands
 Run out? the stoutest never stands
 A chance with me,—to my commands
 The strongest truckles;
 But I’m your friend—so let’s shake hands,
 I should say—knuckles.”
Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightly
 And meaning nothing but uprightly,
 Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly,
 His mull did proffer:
 But Death, who had no nose, politely
 Declin’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 fame
 Where burial sod is.”
 Quoth Jack (and wink’d), “of course ye came
 Here after bodies.”
Death grinn’d again and shook his head:—
 “I’ve little business with the dead;
 When they are fairly sent to bed
 I’ve done my turn:
 Whether or not the worms are fed
 Is your concern.
“My errand here, in meeting you,
 Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’
 I’ve done what jobs I had—a few
 Along 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 ‘un
 There lives a very well-inclined
 Old sort of sexton.”
Death took the hint, and gave a wink
 As well as eyelet holes can blink;
 Then stretching out his arm to link
 The other’s arm,—
 “Suppose,” says he, “we have a drink
 Of something warm.”
Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease
 Spoke up at once:—“Why, what ye please,
 Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,
 A famous tap.”
 But this suggestion seem’d to tease
 The 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’d
 To see a coffin on each hand,
 That served a skeleton to stand
 By way of sentry;
 In fact, Death has a very grand
 And 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 quails
 Whoever knocketh.
And lo! on either side, arise
 Two monstrous pillars—bones of thighs;
 A monumental slab supplies
 The step of stone,
 Where waiting for his master lies
 A 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 find
 The 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 used
 To frightful things,
 Felt just as if his back was sluic’d
 With freezing springs!
Each goblin face began to make
 Some horrid mouth—ape—gorgon—snake;
 And then a spectre-hag would shake
 An airy thigh-bone;
 And cried, (or seem’d to cry,) I’ll break
 Your bone, with my bone!
Some ground their teeth—some seem’d to spit—
 (Nothing, but nothing came of it,)
 A hundred awful brows were knit
 In dreadful spite.
 Thought Jack—“I’m sure I’d better quit
 Without good-night.”
One skip and hop and he was clear,
 And running like a hunted deer,
 As fleet as people run by fear
 Well spurr’d and whipp’d,
 Death, ghosts, and all in that career
 Were 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 swarm
 Of doctors came,—but not to try
 To keep him warm.
No ravens ever scented prey
 So early where a dead horse lay,
 Nor vulture sniff’d so far away
 A last convulse:
 A dozen “guests” day after day
 Were “at his pulse.”
’Twas strange, altho’ they got no fees,
 How still they watch’d by twos and threes,
 But Jack a very little ease
 Obtain’d from them;
 In fact he did not find M. D.’s
 Worth one D——M.
The passing bell with hollow toll
 Was in his thought—the dreary hole!
 Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll,
 And then a cough:—
 “There’s something weighing on my soul
 I wish was off;
“All night it roves about my brains,
 All day it adds to all my pains,
 It is concerning my remains
 When I am dead:”
 Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canes
 Drew near his bed.
“Alas!” he sigh’d, “I’m sore afraid
 A dozen pangs my heart invade;
 But when I drove a certain trade
 In flesh and bone,
 There was a little bargain made
 About 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 price
 A dozen times!”
Twelve brows got very grim and black,
 Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack,
 Twelve pair of hands for fierce attack
 Took up position,
 Ready to share the dying Jack
 By long division.
Twelve angry doctors wrangled so,
 That twelve had struck an hour ago,
 Before they had an eye to throw
 On 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 head
 To steal the corpse—the corpse had fled!
 ’Tis only written,
 That “there was nothing in the bed,
 But twelve were bitten!”

MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG.

A GOLDEN LEGEND.

Her Pedigree.

TO trace the Kilmansegg pedigree
 To the very root of the family tree
 Were a task as rash as ridiculous:
 Through antedilvian mists as thick
 As London fog such a line to pick
 Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick,—
 Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas.
It wouldn’t require much verbal strain
 To 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 nest
 Through an Agricultural Interest
 In 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 kind
 Of 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 teeth
 Were turn’d into gold by browsing.
He gave, without any extra thrift,
 A flock of sheep for a birthday gift
 To each son of his loins, or daughter:
 And his debts—if debts he had—at will
 He liquidated by giving each bill
 A 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 bull
 Was worth all Smithfield-market full
 Of 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 gold in 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 bees
 Were the Five per Cents, or which you please
 When 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 wheat
 At the Lord knows what per quarter!

Her Birth.

What different dooms our birthdays bring
 For instance, one little manikin thing
 Survives to wear many a wrinkle;
 While Death forbids another to wake,
 And a son that it took nine moons to make
 Expires 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 away
 In 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, born
 To its vinegar, only, and pepper.
One is litter’d under a roof
 Neither 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 in
 To a prospect all bright and burnish’d:
 No tenant he for life’s back slums—
 He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes
 To 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 street
 Till—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’d
 With as many blows as spangles.
She was one of those who by Fortune’s boon
 Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon
 In 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 first debut she found her head
 On 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 fare
 Of plebeian lungs and noses,—
 No—her earliest sniff
 Of this world was a whiff
 Of the genuine Otto of Roses!
When she saw the light, it was no mere ray
 Of 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-molu
 That stood on a marble table—
 Showing at once the time of day,
 And a team of Gildings running away
 As 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 more
 Than an infant’s squall, it was really the roar
 Of a Fifty-thousand Pounder!
 It shook the next heir
 In 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 stout
 And 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 vast
 As that huge repast,
 With its loads and cargoes
 Of 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 had
 A bite from the Naples Spider.
Then as night came on,
 It had scared King John
 Who 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 shift
 With 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 made
 Of rich gold brocade,
 And the others of silver tissue.
And when the Baby inclined to nap
 She 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 built
 For 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 allow
 Was vaccinated, as babes are now,
 With virus ta’en from the best-bred cow
 Of Lord Althorpe’s—now Earl Spencer.

Her Christening.

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 prose
 Till 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 thing
 For a minor rich as a Mexican.
Then cards were sent the presence to beg
 Of all the kin of Kilmansegg,
 White, yellow, and brown relations:
 Brothers, Wardens of City Halls,
 And Uncles—rich as three Golden Balls
 From 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 rich
 As candles in golden sockets—
 Cousins German and Cousins’ sons,
 All thriving and opulent—some had tons
 Of Kentish hops in their pockets!
For money had stuck to the race through life
 (As it did to the bushel when cash so rife
 Posed 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 name
 What East and West End people came
 To 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 men
 With their orders and stars, to help “M. or N.”
 To renounce all pomp and vanity.
To paint the maternal Kilmansegg
 The 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 Bird
 Had 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 soap
 In imperceptible water.
He had roll’d in money like pigs in mud,
 Till it seem’d to have entered into his blood
 By some occult projection:
 And his cheeks instead of a healthy hue
 As 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 cause
 A 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 withal
 Of 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 overrun
 With gilt devices, it shone in the sun
 Like a copy—a presentation one—
 Of Humboldt’s “El Dorado.”
Gold! and gold! and nothing but gold!
 The same auiferous 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.
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 vapour!
 So fine! so thin! the mind at a loss
 Could compare it to nothing except a cross
 Of 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 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 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.

Her Childhood.

Our youth! our childhood! that spring of springs!
 ’Tis surely one of the blessedest things
 That 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 cut
 His throat, or jump in the water-butt—
 But what cares Phelim? an empty nut
 Would 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 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.
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.
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 goodwill
 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.
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.
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.