The church clock chimed the quarter past three, as the carriages of Major Snapwell and Mr. Seymour, and those of their guests, drawn by highly decorated horses, entered the village; the peasants immediately drew back, so as to form an avenue through which the party might pass, while shouts of gladness rent the air. Each horseman had provided a large bough of oak or elm, so that the cavalcade in motion appeared like a moving grove, and reminded Mrs. Seymour of the advance of “Birnam Wood to Dunsinane.” The carriages, preceded by a band of music, occupied the van of the procession; then came about fifty village maidens, each carrying in her hand a basket of flowers; next followed the horsemen; and the procession was closed by a dense group of peasants, who had come from all the country round. The vicar appeared on horseback, bustling in all directions, now conversing with the major, now with Mr. Seymour; at one time moderating the pace of the horsemen, and at another, keeping back the pedestrians, whose eagerness to push forward created an inconvenient crowd in the foremost ranks. Mr. Twaddleton held in his right hand a wand decorated with ivy leaves, and which resembled in appearance the thyrsus of Bacchus, except that the cone on its summit had been replaced by a bunch of roses. This was a classical conceit; and he fully explained to the major the reason of his having adopted such a device for his wand of office.
“The rose,” said he, “was dedicated by Cupid to Harpocrates, the god of silence, to engage him to conceal the secrets of Venus; hence has this flower ever since been considered as the symbol of silence; for which reason it was customary to hang a rose over the banqueting-table, to signify that what was there spoken should be kept private, or ‘under the rose;’ whence, also, to present, or hold up, this flower to any person in discourse served, instead of an admonition, to intimate that it was time for such person to hold his peace. In like manner,” continued the antiquary, “you will observe that, by virtue of my wand, I shall impress the obligation of silence upon the crowd, and easily calm any undue clamour that may arise.”
The cavalcade had advanced little more than half a mile, when the major suggested the propriety of halting, until his nephew and niece should arrive; to this proposition the vicar readily acceded, and accordingly issued the necessary orders.
They had not, however, remained stationary above five minutes, when a carriage and four were seen at the brow of the hill, advancing in full speed. A general and simultaneous shout burst from the crowd; upon which the vicar raised his wand, and all was hushed. How far such an effect might be attributed to the influence of his wand, we shall leave the sagacious reader to determine; but the party smiled at so striking an instance of classical credulity; and Mr. Twaddleton, highly gratified by his triumph, rode forward to the chariot, which was not more than two hundred yards distant. It contained Mr. and Mrs. Beacham, whom the vicar no sooner perceived, than he again raised his wand, and again witnessed the influence of its spell. The chariot instantly stopped, and, in the next moment, Mr. Twaddleton was seen in earnest conversation with the travellers. He informed them that the group they saw was a cavalcade of villagers, who had been awaiting their arrival on the road, in order to escort them in rural triumph to Osterley Park. He then presented Mr. Beacham with a bag of nuts, “that the bridegroom,” as he said, “might be enabled to comply with the ancient Roman custom[[70]] of throwing nuts amongst the boys to be scrambled for;--sparge, marite, nuces, as Virgil has it;--da nuces pueris, as Catullus sings.” Mr. Beacham held the vicar in too much respect to laugh at his eccentricities, and he therefore accepted the bag, with a determination to gratify his wishes in so harmless a whim.
Jerry Styles was now directed to forward the two messengers to Osterley Park; and he accordingly opened a basket, from which flew two carrier pigeons, who immediately soared into the air, and having attained their greatest altitude, and remained apparently stationary for a few seconds, darted off in the direction of Osterley Park; every eye was steadfastly fixed upon the bird [sic]; and a murmur of satisfaction and wonder ran through the ranks, as the sagacious animals lessened in the distance.[(52)]
The musicians struck up a grand march;--the whole cavalcade was in motion. Mr. Beacham’s chariot having been drawn on one side of the road, the carriages and horsemen proceeded to take their stations in the rear; the company in the former kissing their hands, and waving their handkerchiefs, while the latter lowered their branches, and cheered, as they passed.
The damsels, in advance of Mr. Beacham’s carriage, opened their baskets, and strewed the road with flowers as they moved forward.
“Hark!” exclaimed the major: “the pigeons have arrived at the park, and my orders have been faithfully obeyed: they are firing a salute.”
“And it has been heard at the village,” said the vicar; “for the bells have just commenced their peal of welcome.” But we are exhausting the patience of our readers with the details of a ceremony, in which it is very probable they may feel but little interest; although we freely confess that, to ourselves, few pageants have such attractive charms as those innocent and simple manifestations of genuine feeling which are to be met with in rural life, where the heart has not yet been chilled by that benumbing influence of what has been termed “the progress of civilisation;” and which has exchanged the free and warm impulses of our nature for cold and studied forms, or for an artful display of factitious sentiment.
During the progress of the procession through the village, Mr. Beacham had not been unmindful of the vicar’s request; he poured a shower of nuts amongst the boys, which occasioned much frolic, and good-humoured contention; while the peasants caught and cracked them, without any suspicion of the Roman custom they were assisting to perpetuate.