It has a jocund sound,
That gleeful Marriage chime,
As from the old and ivied tower,
It peals, at the early Matin hour,
Its merry, merry round;
And the Spring is in its prime,
And the Song-bird, on the spray,
Trills from his throat, in varied note,
An emulative lay—
It has a joyous sound!!
And the Vicar is there with his wig and his book,
And the Clerk with his grave, quasi-sanctified look,
And there stand the Village maids all with their posies,
Their lilies, and daffy-down-dillies, and roses,
Dight in white, A comely sight,
Fringing the path to the left and the right;
—From our nursery days we all of us know
Ne'er doth "Our Ladye's garden grow"
So fair for a "Grand Horticultural Show"
As when border'd with "pretty maids all on a row."
And the urchins are there, escap'd from the rule
Of that "Limbo of Infants," the National School,
Whooping, and bawling, And squalling, and calling,
And crawling, and creeping, And jumping, and leaping,
Bo-peeping 'midst "many a mouldering heap" in
Whose bosom their own "rude forefathers" are sleeping;
—Young rascals!—instead of lamenting and weeping,
Laughing and gay, A gorge deployée—
Only now and then pausing—and checking their play,
To "wonder what 'tis makes the gentlefolks stay,"
Ah, well-a-day! Little deem they,
Poor ignorant dears! the bells, ringing away,
Are anything else Than mere parish bells,
Or that each of them, should we go into its history,
Is but a "Symbol" of some deeper mystery—
That the clappers and ropes Are mere practical tropes
Of "trumpets" and "tongues," and of "preachers," and popes,
Unless Clement the fourth's worthy Chaplin, Durand, err,
See the "Rationale" of that goosey-gander.
Gently! gently, Miss Muse!
Mind your P's and your Q's!
Don't be malapert—laugh, Miss, but never abuse!
Calling names, whether done to attack or to back a schism,
Is, Miss, believe me, a great piece of Jack-ass-ism,
And as, on the whole, You're a good-natured soul,
You must never enact such a pitiful rôle.
No, no, Miss, pull up, and go back to your boys
In the churchyard, who're making this hubbub and noise—
But hush! there's an end to their romping and mumming,
For voices are heard—here's the company coming!
And see!—the avenue gates unfold,
And forth they pace, that bridal train,
The grave, the gay, the young, the old,
They cross the green and grassy lane,
Bridesman, Bridesmaid, Bridegroom, Bride,
Two by two, and side by side,
Uncles, and aunts, friends tried and prov'd,
And cousins, a great many times removed.
A fairer or a gentler She,
A lovelier Maid, in her degree,
Man's eye might never hope to see,
Than darling, bonnie Maud Ingoldsby,
The flow'r of that goodly company;
While whispering low, with bated voice,
Close by her side, her heart's dear choice,
Walks Fredville's hope, young Valentine Boys.
—But where, oh where,— Is Ingoldsby's heir?
Little Jack Ingoldsby?—where, oh where?
Why, he's here,—and he's there, And he's every where—
He's there, and he's here; In the front—in the rear,—
Now this side, now that side,—now far, and now near—
The Puck of the party, the darling "pet" boy,
Full of mischief, and fun, and good humour and joy;
With his laughing blue eye, and his cheek like a rose,
And his long curly locks, and his little snub nose;
In his tunic, and trousers, and cap—there he goes!
Now pinching the bridesmen,—now teasing his sister,
And telling the bridesmaids how "Valentine kiss'd her;"
The torment, the plague, the delight of them all,
See he's into the churchyard!—he's over the wall—
Gambolling, frolicking, capering away,
He's the first in the church, be the second who may!
'Tis o'er;—the holy rite is done,
The rite that "incorporates two in one,"
—And now for the feasting, and frolic, and fun!
Spare we to tell of the smiling and sighing,
The shaking of hands, the embracing, and crying,
The "toot—toot—toot" Of the tabour and flute,
Of the white wigg'd Vicar's prolonged salute,
Or of how the blithe "College Youths"—rather old stagers,
Accustom'd, for years, to pull bell ropes for wagers—
Rang, faster than ever, their "triple-bob-mayors;"
(So loud as to charm ye, At once and alarm ye;
—"Symbolic," of course, of that rank in the army.)
Spare we to tell of the fees and the dues
To the "little old woman that open'd the pews,"
Of the largesse bestow'd on the Sexton and Clerk,
Of the four-year-old sheep roasted whole in the park,
Of the laughing and joking, The quaffing and smoking,
And chaffing, and broaching—that is to say, poking
A hole in a mighty magnificent tub
Of what men, in our hemisphere, term "Humming Bub,"
But which Gods,—who, it seems, use a different lingo
From Mortals,—are wont to denominate "Stingo."
Spare we to tell of the Horse-collar grinning;
The Cheese! the reward of the ugly one winning;
Of the young ladies racing for Dutch body-linen,—
—The soapy-tailed Sow,—a rich prize when you've caught her,—
Of little boys bobbing for pippins in water;
The smacks and the whacks, And the jumpers in sacks,
These down on their noses and those on their backs;—
Nor skills it to speak of those darling old ditties,
Sung rarely in hamlets now—never in cities,
The "King and the Miller," the "Bold Robin Hood,"
"Chevy Chase," "Gilderoy," and the "Babes in the Wood!"
—You'll say that my taste Is sadly misplaced,
But I can't help confessing these simple old tunes
The "Auld Robin Grays," and the "Aileen Aroons,"
The "Gramachree Mollys," and "Sweet Bonny Doons,"
Are dearer to me, In a tenfold degree,
Than a fine fantasia from over the sea;
And, for sweetness, compared with a Beethoven fugue, are
As "best-refined loaf" to the coarsest "brown sugar;"[66]
—Alack, for the Bard's want of science! to which he owes
All this misliking of foreign capricios!—
Not that he'd say One word, by the way,
To disparage our new Idol, Monsieur Duprez—
But he grudges, he owns, his departed half guinea,
Each Saturday night when, devoured by chagrin, he
Sits listening to singers whose names end in ini.
But enough of the rustics—let's leave them pursuing
Their out-of-door gambols, and just take a view in
The inside the Hall, and see what they are doing;
And first there's the Squire, The hale, hearty Sire
Of the Bride,—with his coat-tails subducted and higher,
A thought, than they're commonly wont to aspire;
His back and his buckskins exposed to the fire;—
—Bright, bright are his buttons,—and bright is the hue
Of his squarely-cut coat of fine Saxony blue;
And bright the shalloon of his little quilled queue;
—White, white as "Young England's," the dimity vest
Which descends like an avalanche o'er his broad breast,
Till its further progression is put in arrest
By the portly projection that springs from his chest,
Overhanging the garment—that can't be exprest;
—White, white are his locks,—which, had Nature fair play,
Had appeared a clear brown, slightly sprinkled with grey;
But they're white as the peaks of Plinlimmon to-day,
Or Ben Nevis, his pate is si bien poudré!
Bright, bright are the boots that envelope his heels,
—Bright, bright is the gold chain suspending his seals,
And still brighter yet may the gazer descry
The Tear-drop that spangles the fond Father's eye
As it lights on the Bride— His belov'd One—the pride
And delight of his heart,—sever'd now from his side;—
But brighter than all, Arresting its fall,
Is the smile, that rebukes it for spangling at all,
—A clear case, in short, of what old Poets tell, as
Blind Homer for instance, εν δαχρυσι γελαϛ.
Then, there are the Bride and the Bridegroom, withdrawn
To the deep Gothic window that looks on the lawn,
Ensconced on a squab of maroon-coloured leather,
And talking—and thinking, no doubt—of the weather.
But here comes the party—Room! room for the guests!
In their Pompadour coats, and laced ruffles, and vests,
—First, Sir Charles Grandison, Baronet, and his Son,
Charles,—the Mamma does not venture to "show"—
—Miss Byron, you know, She was call'd long ago—
For that Lady, 'twas said, had been playing the d—l,
Last season, in town, with her old beau, Squire Greville,
Which very much shock'd, and chagrin'd, as may well be
Supposed, "Doctor Bartlett," and "Good Uncle Selby."
—Sir Charles, of course, could not give Greville his gruel, in
Order to prove his abhorrence of duelling,
Nor try for, deterr'd by the serious expense, a
Complete separation a thoro et mensâ,
So he "kept a calm sough," and, when asked to a party,
A dance, or a dinner, or tea and ecarté,
He went with his son, and said, looking demurely,
He'd "left her at home, as she found herself poorly."
Two Foreigners near, "Of distinction," appear;
A pair more illustrious you ne'er heard of, or saw,
Count Ferdinand Fathom,—Count Thaddeus of Warsaw,
All cover'd with glitt'ring bijouterie and hair—Poles,
Whom Lord Dudley Stuart calls "Patriot,"—Hook "Bare Poles;"
Such rings, and such brooches, such studs, and such pins.
'Twere hard to say which Were more gorgeous and rich,
Or more truly Mosaic, their chains or their chins!
Next Sir Roger de Coverley,—Mr. Will Ramble,
With Dame Lismahago, (née Tabitha Bramble),—
Mr. Random and Spouse,—Mrs. Pamela Booby,
(Whose nose was acquiring a tinge of the ruby,
And "people did say"—but no matter for that, ...
Folks were not then enlighten'd by good Father Mat.)—
—Three friends from "the Colonies" near them were seen,
The great Massachusetts man, General Muff Green,—
Mr. Jonathan W. Doubikins,—men
"Influential some"—and their "smart" Uncle Ben;—
Rev. Abraham Adams (preferr'd to a stall),—
—Mr. Jones and his Lady, from Allworthy Hall;
—Our friend Tom, by the way, Had turn'd out rather gay
For a married man—certainly "people did say,"
He was shrewdly suspected of using his wife ill,
And being as sly as his half-brother Blifil.—
(Miss Seagrim, 'tis well known, was now in high feather,
And "people did say" they'd been seen out together,—
A fact, the "Boy Jones," who, in our days, with malice
Aforethought, so often got into the Palace,
Would seem to confirm, as, 'tis whispered he owns, he's
The son of a natural son of Tom Jones's.)
Lady Bellaston, (mem. she had not been invited!)
Sir Peregrine Pickle, now recently knighted,—
All joyous, all happy, all looking delighted!
—It would bore you to death should I pause to describe,
Or enumerate, half of the elegant tribe
Who filled the back ground, And among whom were found
The elite of the old County families round,
Such as Honeywood, Oxenden, Knatchbull, and Norton,
Matthew Robinson,[67] too, with his beard from Monk's Horton,
The Faggs, and Finch-Hattons, Tokes, Derings, and Deedses,
And Fairfax, (who then called the castle of Leeds his;)
Esquires, Knights, and Lords, In bag-wigs and swords;
And the troops, and the groups Of fine Ladies in hoops;
The pompoons, the toupées, and the diamonds and feathers,
The flowered-silk sacques
Which they wore on their backs,—
—How?—sacques and pompoons, with the Squire's boots and leathers?—
Stay! stay!—I suspect, Here's a trifling neglect
On your part, Madame Muse—though you're commonly accurate
As to costume, as brown Quaker, or black Curate,
For once, I confess, Here you're out as to dress;—
You've been fairly caught napping, which gives me distress,
For I can't but acknowledge it is not the thing,
Sir Roger de Coverley's laced suit to bring
Into contact with square-cut coats,—such as George Byng,
And poor dear Sir Francis appeared in, last spring.—
So, having for once been compelled to acknowledge, I
've made a small hole in our mutual chronology,
Canter on, Miss, without further apology,—
Only don't make Such another mistake,
Or you'll get in a scrape, of which I shall partake;—
Enough!—you are sorry for what you have done,
So dry your eyes, Miss, blow your nose, and go on!
Well—the party are met, all radiant and gay,
And how ev'ry person is dress'd—we won't say;
Suffice it, they all come glad homage to pay
To our dear "bonnie Maud," on her own wedding-day,
To dance at her bridal, and help "throw the stocking,"
—A practice that's now discontinued as shocking.
There's a breakfast, they know— There always is so
On occasions like these, wheresoever you go.
Of course there are "lots" of beef, potted and hung,
Prawns, lobsters, cold fowl, and cold ham, and cold tongue,
Hot tea, and hot coffee, hot rolls, and hot toast,
Cold pigeon-pie (rook?), and cold boil'd and cold roast,
Scotch marmalade, jellies, cold creams, colder ices—
Blancmange, which young Ladies say, so very nice is,—
Rock-melons in thick, Pines in much thinner slices,—
Char, potted with clarified butter and spices,
Renewing an appetite long past its crisis—
Refined barley-sugar, in various devices,
Such as bridges, and baskets, and temples, and grottoes—
And nasty French lucifer snappers with mottoes.
—In short, all those gimcracks together were met
Which people of fashion tell Gunter to get
When they give a grand déjeûner à la fourchette—
(A phrase which, though French, in our language still lingers,
Intending a breakfast with forks and not fingers.)
And see! what a mountainous bridecake!—a thing
By itself—with small pieces to pass through the ring!
Now as to the wines!—"Ay, the Wine?" cries the Squire,
Letting fall both his coat-tails,—which nearly take fire,—
Rubbing his hands, He calls out, as he stands,
To the serving-men waiting "his Honour's" commands,
"The wine!—to be sure—here you, Harry—Bob—Dick—
The wine, don't you hear?—bring us lights—come, be quick!—
And a crow-bar to knock down the mortar and brick—
Say what they may, 'Fore George, we'll make way
Into old Roger Ingoldsby's cellar to-day;
And let loose his captives, imprison'd so long,
His flasks, and his casks, that he bricked up so strong!"—
—"Oh dear! oh dear! Squire Ingoldsby, bethink you what you do!"
Exclaims old Mrs. Botherby,[68]—she is in such a stew!—
"Oh dear! oh dear! what do I hear?—full oft you've heard me tell
Of the curse 'Wild Roger' left upon whoe'er should break his cell!
"Full five-and-twenty years are gone since Roger went away,
As I bethink me, too, it was upon this very day!
And I was then a comely dame, and you, a springald gay,
Were up and down to London town, at opera, ball, and play;
Your locks were nut-brown then, Squire—you grow a little grey!—
'Wild Roger,' so we call'd him then, your Grandsire's youngest son,
He was in truth A wayward youth,
We fear'd him, every one.
In ev'ry thing he had his will, he would be stayed by none,
And when he did a naughty thing, he laugh'd and call'd it fun!
—One day his father chid him sore—I know not what he'd done,
But he scorn'd reproof; And from this roof
Away that night he run!
"Seven years were gone and over—'Wild Roger' came again,
He spoke of forays and of frays upon the Spanish Main;
And he had store of gold galore, and silks, and satins fine,
And flasks and casks of Malvoisie, and precious Gascon wine!
Rich booties he had brought, he said, across the western wave,
And came, in penitence and shame, now of his Sire to crave
Forgiveness and a welcome home—his Sire was in his grave!
"Your Father was a kindly man—he played a brother's part,
He press'd his brother to his breast—he had a kindly heart,
Fain would he have him tarry here, their common hearth to share,
But Roger was the same man still,—he scorn'd his brother's pray'r!
He call'd his crew,—away he flew, and on those foreign shores
Got kill'd in some outlandish place—they call it the Eyesores;[69]
But ere he went, And quitted Kent,
—I well recall the day,—
His flasks and casks of Gascon wine he safely 'stow'd away;'
Within the cellar's deepest nook, he safely stow'd them all,
And Mason Jones brought bricks and stones, and they built up the wall.
"Oh! then it was a fearful thing to hear 'Wild Roger's' ban!
Good gracious me! I never heard the like from mortal man;
'Here's that,' quoth he, 'shall serve me well when I return at last,
A batter'd hulk, to quaff and laugh at toils and dangers past;
Accurst be he, whoe'er he be, lays hand on gear of mine,
Till I come back again from sea, to broach my Gascon wine!'
And more he said, which filled with dread all those who listen'd there;
In sooth my very blood ran cold, it lifted up my hair
With very fear, to stand and hear 'Wild Roger' curse and swear!!
He saw my fright, as well he might, but still he made his game,
He called me 'Mother Bounce-about,' my Gracious, what a name!
Nay more, 'an old'—some 'boat-woman,'—I may not say for shame!—
Then, gentle Master, pause awhile, give heed to what I tell,
Nor break, on such a day as this, 'Wild Roger's' secret cell!"
"Pooh! pooh!" quoth the Squire,
As he mov'd from the fire,
And bade the old Housekeeper quickly retire,
"Pooh!—never tell me! Nonsense—fiddle-de-dee!
What?—wait Uncle Roger's return back from sea?—
Why he may, as you say, Have been somewhat too gay,
And, no doubt, was a broth of a boy in his way;
But what's that to us, now, at this time of day?
What if some quarrel With Dering or Darrell—
—I hardly know which, but I think it was Dering,—