CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
I.
Hail, happy morn! Aurora ope’d the gate;
And made a passage for heav’n’s potentate—
The harbinger of joy, in grand estate;
Who for awhile appear’d inclined to halt—
To see if any, but found not a fault:
His beams had beckon’d forth the spotless bride;
Her virgin nightcap she had thrust aside.
God only saw her as she doff’d her gown:
No human eye beheld her kneeling down:
None, but the Almighty, heard her fervent pray’rs:
No earthly being could see her faithful tears.
(Enough! enough!—come, check thy heaving breast:
Sigh not, fond maiden,—lovers have no rest
Ere they have some one to share half their fate;
And thou art chosen for that happy state.)
Courage commanded her—“rise, gentle maid!”
Her heart felt lighter, and her tears were stay’d.
* * * * *
Virtue’s reward:—say, Jove, what is the prize?—
What canst thou give? what can ye realise
Sufficiently in value for this maid,—
Whose tongue ne’er yet had even utterèd
One vulgar sentence, one blasphemous word,—
Who never lov’d before she lov’d her lord?
II.
Half-after-eight,[247] clad in a rich pale green,[248]
And looking like a lovely fairy-queen,
(If such a creature e’er on earth was seen,)
Jane came down stairs; there, waiting at the foot,
Her lover greeted her with this salute—
He sanctified her with a bridegroom’s kiss;
The bride return’d it,—thus a twofold bliss.
A hasty breakfast they in peace partook,
And subsequently scann’d the godly-book;
A sacred feeling fill’d each anxious breast:
Then, for awhile, they parted to get drest.[249]
Punctual, at ten—George Hollybrand came in.
(Methinks how proud Jane’s father must have been
On that bright morning, to behold his own * * *
Oh! think not that many a tear had stol’n
Down o’er his fiftied cheeks, ere he had ta’en
His early meal, a-thinking of dear Jane?)
Toogood, (dear creature, busy as a bee,
For one so old,—yea, nimble as a flea,)
Seem’d now as though her life was e’en at stake,
Adjusting flowers around the bridal-cake;
A massive silver stand supports it up;
Beside it, stood an ancient golden cup,—
Engrav’d with Bacchus, riding on a ram,—
In which a thousand purple streams had swam.
(O goblet, could’st thou tell but half the mirth
Which thou alone hast witnessed on earth!
Ah! could’st thou tell whose lips have kiss’d thy rim,
When festive-wine had fill’d thee to the brim!
No, no, thou canst not; but thou art here still,
As ever ready for thy sumptuous fill:
To-day, in thy proud bosom there will shine
Repeated bumpers of the rarest wine;
To-day, thy lordly owner will pass round
The festive board, thy majesty profound;
Thy sides shall quiver with harmonious sound.)
[247] O’clock.
[248] A green dress.
[249] To put on the wedding-garments.
III.
Time flies apace; the marriage-scene begins:
Sir Humphrey, and his two grand-daughters, (twins,)
Two fair-hair’d damsels, draped in richest blond,—
Of whom, Sir Humphrey was extremely fond,—
Had just arriv’d. (It should, just here, be said
That Lady Brown was now an invalid;
And, consequently, she could not be there;
But sent her blessings to the happy pair.)
Loud rang the old-hall bell, announcing plain—
Some gentle-folk, an entrance sought to gain:
At once Lord Mountjoy, (smiles upon his face,)
Sped forth to greet them; with admiring grace,
And noble bearing, Arnold usher’d in
The wedding guests unto his own dear queen.
Jane had been seated, but she now was ris’n,
And look’d an angel just escaped from heav’n:
Her dark brown tresses form’d her diadem;
Her eyes surpass’d in radiancy, the gem
Which shone upon her bosom. (O! ye gods,
And queenly nymphs, who dwell in sylvan woods—
If such there are—come hither, if so bold
To hazard such a step, for here behold!
Not Venus, nor one vassal of the sky,
With all their graces, can in form outvie
Jane Hollybrand. Nor can that mighty Jove,
Who reigns by courtesy in realms above,—
Whom all the suns, and moons, of heav’n adore,—
Whose charms subdued the heathen hordes of war,—
Can find a virgin equal to compare!)
IV.
Precisely as the clock dealt out eleven,
And all the hosts assembled—who were bidden—
Had ’fresh’d their bodies and each loving-soul,
They wend their way into the entrance-hall;
Thence to the front, where the first coach doth stand,
Awaiting famed Sir Humphrey, Jane, and Hollybrand:
When they were seated and prepared to start,
The second coach draws up, which (quite as smart)
Receives Lord Arnold Mountjoy, and beside
Those pretty twins,[250]—attendants on the Bride:
The third, and last, contain’d Sir Edward Knox,
His wife, and daughter, in rare silken-frocks
With whom, dear Mistress Toogood found a seat,
And thus the bridal-party is complete.
An instant more they’re on the happy road
To seal the contract in the house of God,
Where crowd the villagers,—some ’round the porch,
And some within the flint-embedded[251] church,
Where they, expectant, ’wait the hour to see
The heroine of the day’s festivity.
[250] Sir Humphrey’s two daughters.
[251] The exterior masonry.
V.
The merry charmers, with their brazen tongues,
Make efforts to chime forth their favourite songs,—
Till the bold ringers are inform’d—that now
They must await until the nuptial vow
Is sanction’d by the law. Now every eye
Is bent towards the road, where they espy
Sir Humphrey’s carriage coming up the “green;”
And hail the occupants, who are therein:
Then, close behind, another coach appears;
The villagers send forth unbounded cheers;—
They doff their neckerchiefs, and aught beside
Spontaneously to greet the beauteous Bride:
Sir Edward follows, with two handsome “greys,”
Outvieing in stature old Sir Humphrey’s “bays.”
VI.
The sacred pile is reach’d; its chancel trod;
Around the altar, all in sight of God
Are reverently kneeling * * * Then they rise,
And one, there is, had need to wipe her eyes;—
This is that gentle one, who’s made a wife;—
Now Lady Mountjoy, for her mortal life!
* * * * *
The ceremony’s o’er; the bells peal out;
The villagers, again, raise high a shout.
Beneath a tree ’n the centre of the “green,”
A fiddle, flute, and a bass-violin,
Surrounded by a motley group, are playing
That well-adapted tune—“Haste to the wedding.”
Lord Arnold beckon’d to the “master man;”[252]
Whose hurry overturn’d the liquor-can!
His great misfortune soon is set aright,
By something pleasing to the fiddler’s sight;
For which he bowed: but, quickly turning ’round,
He tripp’d, and, falling sideways on the ground,
Smash’d in the “belly” of his instrument;
The wondering crowd burst out in merriment:
Himself, unhurt, beheld the mischief done,
And swore, with vengeance, on the “evil-one.”
(This self-conceited Jullien of the band,
Remember’d long the name of Hollybrand.)
[252] The leader of the band.
VII.
Now, undesirous to prolong the tale—
By repetition what at Ruttendell
Was being enacted to commemorate
Th’ event, I’ll beg the reader back to Rollingate;
There, ’neath the portico, sweet flowers were laid
Promiscuously, to bear the lightsome tread
Of that pure virgin’s unstain’d wax-like form,
As yet a stranger to the inherent storm.
Lord Arnold had decreed that, on this day,
His labourers, servants, and his tenantry,
Should be partakers of the marriage-feast;
So ’round the stately doorway, there each guest,
(Of course—not one, but wore their very best,)
Full fifty, stood in regular marshall’d keep,
Cheering, most lustily, her ladyship,
As she alighted from the stately chaise,
And, like a fairy, trod the crimson baize,—
Which, on the doorsteps, had been placed with care
In the hour’s absence of the nuptial pair.
VIII.
The banquet-board is spread in bounteous style,
And every face around it bears a smile;
With fruit and flowers the hall is well perfumed;
The bridal-cake’s dealt out; the goblet’s toomed,
And all is harmony: joy’s dominant:
Within, the very walls seem resonant—
As with the echoings of gay scenes of yore,
But none had ever equall’d this before.
From noon, until the solemn midnight-hour,
Heaven vouchsafed one unabated show’r
Of mirthfulness, of prudent revelry,
Of one enchanting scene of gaiety;
Such as will be historical.
IX.
Then gracious Somnus, with his nightly spell,
(Beneath whose mystic beams great monarchs bend,)
Proclaim’d—the festival was at an end:
The good old god, who ever-timely wise,
Trod on the tender covering of their eyes;
And bade them pay due homage unto night:
But there was one, (the god dimm’d not his sight,)
Whose breast was blazing with that nuptial flame,
Which strives to ancestralize a family name;
His sweet companion, buckling for the deed,
Encourag’d him t’advance: her love obey’d:
Fair Bapta,[253] charitably, drew her veil,
And bade the loving warriors doff their mail,—
’Twas done!—they waver’d, for the shock was great,
The conflict ceas’d. Concordia,[254] reign’d in state.
* * * * *
And when another summer-time had flown,
(For God had bless’d the mould wherein ’twas sown,)
The gladsome father, named his own, his own....
* * * * *
“Virtue rewarded:”—be ye all discreet;
For love, without discretion, courts defeat.
[253] Bapta, the goddess of shame.
[254] Concordia, the goddess of peace.
