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-nodded at every word,
And seem'd so happy, a Paradise Bird
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 enter'd 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,
An Indian Begum was Godmama,
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 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.
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 humble female endorsesInstead 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 looked 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-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!
And that was the end of the Christening.
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise
Narcissus-like I hung!
When great Rembrandt but little seem'd,
And such old masters all were deem'd
As nothing to the young!
Some scratchy strokes-abrupt and few,
So easily and swift I drew,
Suffic'd for my design;
My sketchy, superficial hand,
Drew solids at a dash-and spann'd
A surface with a line.
Not long my eye was thus content,
But grew more critical-my bent
Essay'd a higher walk;
I copied leaden eyes in lead-
Rheumatic hands in white and red,
And gouty feet-in chalk.
Anon my studious art for days
Kept making faces-happy phrase,
For faces such as mine!
Accomplish'd in the details then
I left the minor parts of men
And drew the form divine.
Old Gods and Heroes-Trojan-Greek
Figures-long after the antique,
Great Ajax justly fear'd;
Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
Bird-nesters to his beard.
A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,
A Pallas, that outstared her owl,
A Vulcan-very lame;
A Dian stuck about with stars,
With my right hand I murder'd Mars
(One Williams did the same.)
But tired of this dry work at last
Crayon and chalk aside I cast,
And gave my brush a drink!
Dipping-as when a painter dips
In gloom of earthquake and eclipse '-
That is in Indian ink.
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