"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 flash of her habit?
"Away she flies, and the groom behind"—
encountering all the perils of London streets, till the inevitable catastrophe takes place:
"On and on! still frightfully fast!
Dover Street, Bond Street, all are past!
But—yes—no—yes!—they're down at last!
* * * * *
The heiress recovers; but, alas! in her fall she broke her leg, and as "the limb was doomed it couldn't be saved." A substitute must be found. Of what, then, shall the "proxy limb" be made?
"She couldn't—she shouldn't—she wouldn'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!
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."
The golden leg became the talk of the town, kicking away all other attractions. The new novel, the new murder, even "wild Irish riots and rum-pusses," were neglected; in fact, "the leg was in everybody's mouth," and a grand fancy ball was given at the Kilmansegg mansion to celebrate the heiress's recovery, as well as to exhibit the golden leg. All the world and his wife worship at the golden shrine:
"In they go—in jackets, and cloaks,
Plumes and bonnets, turbans and tokes,
As if to a congress of nations:
Greeks and Malays, with daggers and dirks,
Spaniards and Jews, Chinese and Turks—
Some like original foreign works,
But mostly like bad translations.