The Proud Miss MacBride: A Legend of Gotham

O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride,
The very personification of pride,
As she minced along in fashion's tide,
Adown Broadway — on the proper side —
When the golden sun was setting;
There was pride in the head she carried so high,
Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye,
And a world of pride in the very sigh
That her stately bosom was fretting:
A sigh that a pair of elegant feet,
Sandal'd in satin, should kiss the street —
The very same that the vulgar greet
In common leather not over "neat" —
For such is the common booting;
(And Christian tears may well be shed,
That even among our gentlemen-bred,
The glorious Day of Morocco is dead,
And Day and Martin are raigning instead,
On a much inferior footing !)
O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride,
Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride,
And proud of fifty matters beside —
That would n't have borne dissection;
Proud of her wit, and proud of her waik,
Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk,
Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk,"
On a very slight inspection! —
Proud abroad, and proud at home,
Proud wherever she chanced to come —
When she was glad, and when she was glum
Proud as the head of a Saracen
Over the door of a tippling-shop! —
Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop,
"Proud as a boy with a bran-new top,"
Proud beyond comparison!
It seems a singular thing to say,
But her very senses led her astray
Respecting all humility;
In sooth, her dull, auricular drum
Could find in humble only a "hum,"
And heard no sound of "gentle" come,
In talking about gentility.
What lowly meant she did n't know,
For she always avoided "everything low,"
With care the most punctilious;
And, queerer still, the audible sound
Of "super-silly" she never had found
In the adjective supercilious!
The meaning of mtzk she never knew,
But imagined the phrase had something to do
With "Moses," a peddling German Jew,
Who, like all hawkers, the country through,
Was "a person of no position;"
And it seem'd to her exceedingly plain,
If the word was really known to pertain
To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane
To a lady of high condition!
Even her graces — not her grace —
For that was in the "vocative case" —
Chill'd with the touch of her icy face,
Sat very stiffly upon her!
She never confess'd a favour aloud,
Like one of the simple, common crowd —
But coldly smiled, and faintly bow'd,
As who should say, "You do me proud,
And do yourself an honour!"
And yet the pride of Miss MacBribe,
Although it had fifty hobbies to ride,
Had really no foundation;
But like the fabrics that gossips devise —
Those single stories that often arise
And grow till they reach a four-story size —
Was merely a fancy creation!
'Tis a -curious fact as ever was known.
In human nature, but often shown
Alike in castle and cottage,
That pride, like pigs of a certain breed,
Will manage to live and thrive on "feed"
As poor as a pauper's pottage!
That her wit should never have made her vain,
Was — like her face — sufficiently plain;
And, as to her musical powers,
Although she sang until she was hoarse,
And issued notes with a banker's force,
They were just such notes as we never endorse
For any acquaintance of ours!
Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high —
For Miss MacBribe first opened her eye
Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky;
But pride is a curious passion —
And in talking about her wealth and worth,
She always forgot to mention her birth
To people of rank and fashion!
Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth,
Among our "fierce democracie!"
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers —
Not even a couple of rotten peers —
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!
English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they .vanish
In one conglomeration;
So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed,
No heraldry-HARTET will ever succeed
In finding the circulation!
Depend upon it, my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can't ascend,
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it wax'd at the farther end,
By some plebeian vocation;
Or, worse than that, your boasted line
May end in a Ioup of stronger twine,
That plagued some worthy relation!
But Miss MacBribe had something beside
Her lofty birth to nourish her pride —
For rich was the old paternal MacBribe,
According to public rumour;
And he lived "up town," in a splendid square,
And kept his daughter on dainty fare,
And gave her gems that were rich and rare,
And the finest rings and things to wear,
And feathers enough to plume her.
An honest mechanic was John MacBribe,
As ever an honest calling plied,
Or graced an honest ditty;
For John had work'd in his early day,
In "pots and pearls," the legends say —
And kept a shop with a rich array
Of things in the soap and candle way,
In the lower part of the city!
No "rara avis" was honest John —
(That's the Latin for "sable-swan") —
Though in one of his fancy flashes,
A wicked wag, who meant to deride,
Call'd honest John "Old Phoenix MacBribe,"
"Because he rose from his ashes!"
Little by little he grew to be rich,
By saving of candle-ends and "sich,"
Till he reach'd at last an opulent niche —
No very uncommon affair;
For history quite confirms the law
Express'd in the ancient Scottish saw —
A Micelle may come to be may'r'
Alack for many ambitious beaux!
She hung their hopes upon her nose —
(The figure is quite Horatian !)
Until, from habit, the member grew
As very a hook as ever eye knew,
To the commonest observation.
A thriving tailor begg'd her hand,
But she gave "the fellow" to understand
By a violent manual action,
She perfectly scorn'd the best of his clan,
And reckon'd the ninth of any man
An exceedingly vulgar fraction!
Another, whose sign was a golden boot,
Was mortified with a bootless suit,
In a way that was quite appalling;
For, though a regular sutor by trade,
He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid,
Who cut him off with a saw — and bade
"The cobbler keep to his calling!'
(The muse must let a secret out:
There isn't the faintest shadow of doubt
That folks who oftenest sneer and flout
At "the dirty, low mechanicals,"
Are they whose sires, by pounding their knees,
Or coiling their legs, or trades like these —
Contrived to win their children ease
From poverty's galling manacles.)
A rich tobacconist comes and sues,
And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse
A man of his wealth and liberal views,
Began, at once, with "If you choose —
And could you really love him — "
But the lady spoil'd his speech in a huff,
With an answer rough and ready enough,
To let him know she was up to snuff,
And altogether above him!
A young attorney, of winning grace,
Was scarce allow'd to "open his face,"
Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case
With true judicial celerity;
For the lawyer was poor, and "seedy" to boot,
And to say the lady discarded his suit,
Is merely a double verity!
The last of those who came to court,
Was a lively beau, of the dapper sort,
"Without any visible means of support,"
A crime by no means flagrant
In one who wears an elegant coat,
But the very point on which they vote
A ragged fellow "a vagrant!"
A courtly fellow was dapper Jim,
Sleek and supple, and tall and trim,
And smooth of tongue as neat of limb;
And maugre his meagre pocket,
You'd say from the glittering tales he told,
That Jim had slept in a cradle of gold,
With Fortujvatus to rock it!
Now dapper Jim his courtship plied
(I wish the fact could be denied)
With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride,
And really "nothing shorter!"
For he said to himself, in his greedy lust,
"Whenever he dies — as die he must —
And yields to Heaven his vital trust,
He's very sure to ' come down with his dust,'
In behalf of his only daughter."
And the very magnificent Miss MacBride,
Half in love, and half in pride,
Quite graciously relented;
And, tossing her head, and turning her back,
No token of proper pride to lack —
To be a Bride, without the "Mac,"
With much disdain, consented!
Alas! that people who've got their box
Of cash beneath the best of locks,
Secure from all financial shocks,
Should stock their fancy with fancy stocks,
And madly rush upon Wall-street rocks,
Without the least apology!
Alas! that people whose money-affairs
Are sound, beyond all need of repairs,
Should ever tempt the bulls and bears
Of Mammon's fierce zoology!
Old John MacBuihe, one fatal day,
Became the unresisting prey
Of Fortune's undertakers;
And staking all on a single die,
His founder'd bark went high and dry
Among the brokers and breakers!
At his trade again, in the very shop
Where, years before, he let it drop,
He follows his ancient calling —
Cheerily, too, in poverty's spite,
And sleeping quite as sound at night,
As when, at fortune's giddy height,
He used to wake with a dizzy fright
From a dismal dream of falling.
But alas for the haughty Miss MacBribe,
'T was such a shock to her precious pride!
She could n't recover, although she tried
Her jaded spirits to rally;
'Twas a dreadful change in human affairs,
From a Place "up town," to a nook "up stairs,"
From an avenue down to an alley! —
'Twas little condolence she had, God wot —
From her "troops of friends," who had n't forgot
The airs she used to borrow;
They had civil phrases enough, but yet
'T was plain to see that their "deepest regret"
Was a different thing from sorrow!
They own'd it could n't have well been worse
To go from a full to an empty purse:
To expect a "reversion," and get a reverse,
Was truly a dismal feature;
But it wasn't strange — -they whisper'd — at all!
That the summer of pride should have its fall
Was quite according to Nature!
And one of those chaps who make a pun,
As if it were quite legitimate fun
To be blazing away at every one
With a regular, double-loaded gun —
Remark'd that moral transgression
Always brings retributive stings
To candle-makers as well as kings:
For "making light of cereous things"
Was a very wick-ed profession!
And vulgar people — the saucy churls —
Inquired about "the price of pearls,"
And mock'd at her situation:
"She wasn't ruin'd — they ventured to hope —
Because she was poor, she need n't mope;
Few people were better off for soap,
And that was a consolation!"
And to make her cup of wo run over,
Her elegant, ardent plighted lover
Was the very first to forsake her;
"He quite regretted the step, 'twas true —
The lady had pride enough; for two,'
But that alone would never do
To quiet the butcher and baker!"
And now the unhappy Miss MacBride —
The merest ghost of her early pride —
Bewails her lonely position;
Cramp'd in the very narrowest niche,
Above the poor, and below the rich —
Was ever a worse condition?

Moral

Because you flourish in worldly affairs,
Don't be haughty, and put on airs,
With insolent pride of station!
Don't be proud, and turn up your nose
At poorer people in plainer clo'es,
But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose,
That wealth 's a bubble that comes — and goes!
And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows,
Is subject to irritation!