HER ACCIDENT.

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. 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 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 did n'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 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! 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 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! 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 could n'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! Sick with horror she shuts her eyes, But the very stones seem uttering cries,

As they did to that Persian daughter, When she climb'd up the steep vociferous hill, Her little silver flagon to fill With the magical Golden Water!

“Batter her! shatter her! Throw and scatter her!” Shouts each stony-hearted chatterer! “Dash at the heavy Dover!

Spill her! kill her! tear and tatter her! Smash her! crash her!” ( the stones did n't flatter her! ) “Kick her brains out! let her blood spatter her! Roll on her over and over!”

For so she gather'd the awful sense Of the street in its past unmacadamized tense, As the wild horse overran it,— His four heels making the clatter of six,

Like a Devil's tattoo, play'd with iron sticks On a kettle-drum of granite! On! still on! she's dazzled with hints Of oranges, ribbons, and color'd prints,

A Kaleidoscope jumble of shapes and tints, And human faces all flashing, Bright and brief as the sparks from the flints, That the desperate hoof keeps dashing!

On and on! still frightfully fast! Dover Street, Bond Street, all are past! But — yes — no — yes!— they're down at last! The Furies and Fates have found them!

Down they go with sparkle and crash, Like a Bark that's struck by the lightning flash — There's a shriek — and a sob — And the dense dark mob

Like a billow closes around them! “She breathes!” “She do n't!” “She'll recover!”

“She wo n't!” “She's stirring! she's living, by Nemesis!” Gold, still gold! on counter and shelf! Golden dishes as plenty as delf;

Miss Kilmansegg's coming again to herself On an opulent Goldsmith's premises! Gold! fine gold!— both yellow and red, Beaten, and molten — polish'd, and dead —

To see the gold with profusion spread In all forms of its manufacture! But what avails gold to Miss Kilmansegg, When the femoral bone of her dexter log

Has met with a compound fracture? Gold may soothe Adversity's smart; Nay, help to bind up a broken heart; But to try it on any other part

Were as certain a disappointment, As if one should rub the dish and plate, Taken out of a Staffordshire crate — In the hope of a Golden Service of State —

With Singleton's “Golden Ointment.” “As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined,” Is an adage often recall'd to mind, Referring to juvenile bias:

And never so well is the verity seen, As when to the weak, warp'd side we lean, While Life's tempests and hurricanes try us. Even thus with Miss K. and her broken limb:

By a very, very remarkable whim, She show'd her early tuition: While the buds of character came into blow With a certain tinge that served to show

The nursery culture long ago, As the graft is known by fruition! For the King's Physician, who nursed the case, His verdict gave with an awful face,

And three others concurr'd to egg it; That the Patient to give old Death the slip, Like the Pope, instead of a personal trip, Must send her Leg as a Legate.

The limb was doom'd — it could n't be saved! And like other people the patient behaved, Nay, bravely that cruel parting braved, Which makes some persons so falter,

They rather would part, without a groan, With the flesh of their flesh, and bone of their bone, They obtain'd at St. George's altar. But when it came to fitting the stump

With a proxy limb — then flatly and plump She spoke, in the spirit olden; She could n't — she should n't — she would n't have wood! Nor a leg of cork, if she never stood,

And she swore an oath, or something as good, The proxy limb should be golden! A wooden leg! what, a sort of peg, For your common Jockeys and Jennies!

No, no, her mother might worry and plague — Weep, go down on her knees, and beg, But nothing would move Miss Kilmansegg! She could — she would have a Golden Leg,

If it cost ten thousand guineas! Wood indeed, in Forest or Park, With its sylvan honors and feudal bark, Is an aristocratic article:

But split and sawn, and hack'd about town, Serving all needs of pauper or clown, Trod on! stagger'd on! Wood cut down Is vulgar — fibre and particle!

And Cork!— when the noble Cork Tree shades A lovely group of Castilian maids, ‘ Tis a thing for a song or sonnet!— But cork, as it stops the bottle of gin,

Or bungs the beer — the small beer — in, It pierced her heart like a corking-pin, To think of standing upon it! A Leg of Gold — solid gold throughout,

Nothing else, whether slim or stout, Should ever support her, God willing! She must — she could — she would have her whim, Her father, she turn'd a deaf ear to him —

He might kill her — she did n't mind killing! He was welcome to cut off her other limb — He might cut her all off with a shilling! All other promised gifts were in vain.

Golden Girdle, or Golden Chain, She writhed with impatience more than pain, And utter'd “pshaws!” and “pishes!” But a Leg of Gold as she lay in bed,

It danced before her — it ran in her head! It jump'd with her dearest wishes! “Gold — gold — gold! Oh, let it be gold!” Asleep or awake that tale she told,

And when she grew delirious: Till her parents resolved to grant her wish, If they melted down plate, and goblet, and dish, The case was getting so serious.

So a Leg was made in a comely mould, Of gold, fine virgin glittering gold, As solid as man could make it — Solid in foot, and calf, and shank,

A prodigious sum of money it sank; In fact‘ twas a Branch of the family Bank, And no easy matter to break it. All sterling metal — not half-and-half,

The Goldsmith's mark was stamp'd on the calf — ‘ Twas pure as from Mexican barter! And to make it more costly, just over the knee, Where another ligature used to be,

Was a circle of jewels, worth shillings to see, A new-fangled Badge of the Garter! ‘ Twas a splendid, brilliant, beautiful Leg, Fit for the Court of Scander-Beg,

That Precious Leg of Miss Kilmansegg! For, thanks to parental bounty, Secure from Mortification's touch, She stood on a Member that cost as much

As a Member for all the County! To gratify stern ambition's whims, What hundreds and thousands of precious limbs On a field of battle we scatter!

Sever'd by sword, or bullet, or saw, Off they go, all bleeding and raw,— But the public seems to get the lock-jaw, So little is said on the matter!

Legs, the tightest that ever were seen, The tightest, the lightest, that danced on the green, Cutting capers to sweet Kitty Clover; Shatter'd, scatter'd, cut, and bowl'd down,

Off they go, worse off for renown, A line in the Times, or a talk about town, Than the leg that a fly runs over! But the Precious Leg of Miss Kilmansegg,

That gowden, goolden, golden leg, Was the theme of all conversation! Had it been a Pillar of Church and State, Or a prop to support the whole Dead Weight,

It could not have furnished more debate To the heads and tails of the nation! East and west, and north and south, Though useless for either hunger or drouth,—

The Leg was in everybody's mouth, To use a poetical figure, Rumor, in taking her ravenous swim, Saw, and seized on the tempting limb,

Like a shark on the leg of a nigger. Wilful murder fell very dead; Debates in the House were hardly read; In vain the Police Reports were fed

With Irish riots and rumpuses — The Leg! the Leg! was the great event, Through every circle in life it went, Like the leg of a pair of compasses.

The last new Novel seem'd tame and flat, The Leg, a novelty newer than that, Had tripp'd up the heels of Fiction! It Burked the very essays of Burke,

And, alas! how Wealth over Wit plays the Turk! As a regular piece of goldsmith's work, Got the better of Goldsmith's diction. “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! 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.

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! 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!

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! 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. 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.

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. 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. 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. 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! 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. 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!

Thus Tories like to worry the Whigs, Who treat them in turn like Schwalbach pigs, Giving them lashes, thrashes, and digs, With their writhing and pain delighted —

But after all that's said, and more, The malice and spite of Party are poor To the malice and spite of a party next door, To a party not invited.

On with the cap and out with the light, Weariness bids the world good night, At least for the usual season; But hark! a clatter of horses’ heels;

And Sleep and Silence are broken on wheels, Like Wilful Murder and Treason! Another crash — and the carriage goes — Again poor Weariness seeks the repose

That Nature demands, imperious; But Echo takes up the burden now, With a rattling chorus of row-de-dow-dow, Till Silence herself seems making a row,

Like a Quaker gone delirious! ‘ Tis night — a winter night — and the stars Are shining like winkin’ — Venus and Mars Are rolling along in their golden cars

Through the sky's serene expansion — But vainly the stars dispense their rays, Venus and Mars are lost in the blaze Of the Kilmanseggs’ luminous mansion!

Up jumps Fear in a terrible fright! His bedchamber windows look so bright,— With light all the Square is glutted! Up he jumps, like a sole from the pan,

And a tremor sickens his inward man, For he feels as only a gentleman can, Who thinks he's being “gutted.” Again Fear settles, all snug and warm;

But only to dream of a dreadful storm From Autumn's sulphurous locker; But the only electrical body that falls Wears a negative coat, and positive smalls,

And draws the peal that so appals From the Kilmanseggs’ brazen knocker! ‘ Tis Curiosity's Benefit night — And perchance‘ tis the English Second-Sight,

But whatever it be, so be it — As the friends and guests of Miss Kilmansegg Crowd in to look at her Golden Leg, As many more

Mob round the door, To see them going to see it! In they go — in jackets and cloaks, Plumes and bonnets, turbans and toques,

As if to a Congress of Nations: Greeks and Malays, with daggers and dirks, Spaniards, Jews, Chinese, and Turks — Some like original foreign works,

But mostly like bad translations. In they go, and to work like a pack, Juan, Moses, and Shacabac, Tom, and Jerry and Springheel'd Jack,—

For some of low Fancy are lovers — Skirting, zigzagging, casting about, Here and there, and in and out, With a crush, and a rush, for a full-bodied rout

In one of the stiffest of covers. In they went, and hunted about, Open-mouth'd like chub and trout, And some with the upper lip thrust out,

Like that fish for routing, a barbel — While Sir Jacob stood to welcome the crowd, And rubb'd his hands, and smiled aloud, And bow'd, and bow'd, and bow'd, and bow'd,

Like a man who is sawing marble. For Princes were there, and Noble Peers; Dukes descended from Norman spears; Earls that dated from early years;

And lords in vast variety — Besides the Gentry both new and old — For people who stand on legs of gold Are sure to stand well with society.

“But where — where — where?” with one accord, Cried Moses and Mufti, Jack and my Lord, Wang-Fong and Il Bondocani — When slow, and heavy, and dead as a dump,

They heard a foot begin to stump, Thump! lump! Lump! thump! Like the Spectre in “Don Giovanni”!

And lo! the Heiress, Miss Kilmansegg, With her splendid, brilliant, beautiful leg, In the garb of a Goddess olden — Like chaste Diana going to hunt,

With a golden spear — which of course was blunt, And a tunic loop'd up to a gem in front, To show the Leg that was Golden! Gold! still gold; her Crescent behold,

That should be silver, but would be gold; And her robe's auriferous spangles! Her golden stomacher — how she would melt! Her golden quiver, and golden belt,

Where a golden bugle dangles! And her jewell'd Garter! Oh Sin, oh Shame! Let Pride and Vanity bear the blame, That bring such blots on female fame!

But to be a true recorder, Besides its thin transparent stuff, The tunic was loop'd quite high enough To give a glimpse of the Order!

But what have sin or shame to do With a Golden Leg — and a stout one too? Away with all Prudery's panics! That the precious metal, by thick and thin,

Will cover square acres of land or sin, Is a fact made plain Again and again, In Morals as well as Mechanics.

A few, indeed, of her proper sex, Who seem'd to feel her foot on their necks, And fear'd their charms would meet with checks From so rare and splendid a blazon —

A few cried “fie!” — and “forward” — and “bold!” And said of the Leg it might be gold, But to them it look'd like brazen! ‘ Twas hard they hinted for flesh and blood,

Virtue and Beauty, and all that's good, To strike to mere dross their topgallants — But what were Beauty, or Virtue, or Worth, Gentle manners, or gentle birth,

Nay, what the most talented head on earth To a Leg worth fifty Talents! But the men sang quite another hymn Of glory and praise to the precious Limb —

Age, sordid Age, admired the whim And its indecorum pardon'd — While half of the young — ay, more than half — Bow'd down and worshipp'd the Golden Calf,

Like the Jews when their hearts were harden'd. A Golden Leg!— what fancies it fired! What golden wishes and hopes inspired! To give but a mere abridgment —

What a leg to leg-bail Embarrassment's serf! What a leg for a Leg to take on the turf! What a leg for a marching regiment! A Golden Leg!— whatever Love sings,

‘ Twas worth a bushel of “Plain Gold Rings” With which the Romantic wheedles. ‘ Twas worth all the legs in stockings and socks — ‘ Twas a leg that might be put in the Stocks,

N. B.— Not the parish beadle's! And Lady K. nid-nodded her head, Lapp'd in a turban fancy-bred, Just like a love-apple huge and red,

Some Mussul-womanish mystery; But whatever she meant To represent, She talked like the Muse of History.

She told how the filial leg was lost; And then how much the gold one cost; With its weight to a Trojan fraction: And how it took off, and how it put on;

And call'd on Devil, Duke, and Don, Mahomet, Moses, and Prester John, To notice its beautiful action. And then of the Leg she went in quest;

And led it where the light was best; And made it lay itself up to rest In postures for painter's studies: It cost more tricks and trouble by half,

Than it takes to exhibit a six-legg'd Calf To a boothful of country Cuddies. Nor yet did the Heiress herself omit The arts that help to make a hit,

And preserve a prominent station. She talk'd and laugh'd far more than her share; And took a part in “Rich and Rare Were the gems she wore” — and the gems were there,

Like a Song with an Illustration. She even stood up with a Count of France To dance — alas! the measures we dance When Vanity plays the piper!

Vanity, Vanity, apt to betray, And lead all sorts of legs astray, Wood, or metal, or human clay,— Since Satan first play'd the Viper!

But first she doff'd her hunting gear, And favor'd Tom Tug with her golden spear To row with down the river — A Bonz had her golden bow to hold;

A Hermit her belt and bugle of gold; And an Abbot her golden quiver. And then a space was clear'd on the floor, And she walk'd the Minuet de la Cour,

With all the pomp of a Pompadour, But although she began andante, Conceive the faces of all the Rout, When she finished off with a whirligig bout,

And the Precious Leg stuck stiffly out Like the leg of a Figuranté. So the courtly dance was goldenly done, And golden opinions, of course, it won

From all different sorts of people — Chiming, ding-dong, with flattering phrase, In one vociferous peal of praise, Like the peal that rings on Royal days

From Loyalty's parish steeple. And yet, had the leg been one of those That danced for bread in flesh-color'd hose, With Rosina's pastora bevy,

The jeers it had met,— the shouts! the scoff! The cutting advice to “take itself off” For sounding but half so heavy. Had it been a leg like those, perchance,

That teach little girls and boys to dance, To set, poussette, recede, and advance, With the steps and figures most proper,— Had it hopp'd for a weekly or quarterly sum,

How little of praise or grist would have come To a mill with such a hopper! But the Leg was none of those limbs forlorn — Bartering capers and hops for corn —

That meet with public hisses and scorn, Or the morning journal denounces — Had it pleased to caper from morning till dusk, There was all the music of “Money Musk”

In its ponderous bangs and bounces. But hark;— as slow as the strokes of a pump, Lump, thump! Thump, lump!

As the Giant of Castle Otranto might stump, To a lower room from an upper — Down she goes with a noisy dint, For, taking the crimson turban's hint,

A noble Lord at the Head of the Mint Is leading the Leg to supper! But the supper, alas! must rest untold, With its blaze of light and its glitter of gold,

For to paint that scene of glamour, It would need the Great Enchanter's charm, Who waves over Palace, and Cot, and Farm, An arm like the Goldbeater's Golden Arm

That wields a Golden Hammer. Suffice it each mask'd outlandish guest Ate and drank of the very best, According to critical conners —

And then they pledged the Hostess and Host, But the Golden Leg was the standing toast, And as somebody swore, Walk'd off with more

Than its share of the “Hips!” and honors! “Miss Kilmansegg!— Full-glasses I beg!— Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg!”

And away went the bottle careering! Wine in bumpers! and shouts in peals! Till the Clown did n't know his head from his heels, The Mussulman's eyes danced two-some reels,

And the Quaker was hoarse from cheering!