“Well, well,” said Webster, with a laugh, “come along. Are you ready, Grinder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, lock the office-door, and don’t forget to take out the key.”
So saying, the old gentleman took Harry’s arm, and, accompanied by Grinder and Captain Boyns senior, hurried to the train; was whirled in due course to Covelly, and shortly after found himself seated at a wedding-breakfast, along with our hero Harry Boyns, and our heroine Annie Webster, who was costumed as a bride, and looked inexpressibly bewitching. Besides these there were present excellent Mrs Boyns—happily no longer a widow!—and Grinder, whose susceptible nature rendered it difficult for him to refrain from shedding tears; and a bevy of bride’s-maids, so beautiful and sweet that it seemed quite preposterous to suppose that they could remain another day in the estate of spinsterhood. Mr Joseph Dowler was also there, self-important as ever, and ready for action at a moment’s notice; besides a number of friends of the bride and bridegroom, among whom was a pert young gentleman, friend of Mr Dowler, and a Mr Crashington, friend of Mr Webster,—an earnest, enthusiastic old gentleman, who held the opinion that most things in the world were wrong, and who wondered incessantly “why in the world people would not set to work at once to put them all right!” Niven, the old nurse, was there too, of course all excitement and tears, and so was Bob Gaston, whose appearance was powerfully suggestive of the individual styled in the ballad, “the jolly young waterman.”
Now, it would take a whole volume, good reader, to give you the details of all that was said and done by that wedding-party before that breakfast was over. But it is not necessary that we should go into full details. You know quite well, that when the health of the happy couple was drunk, Annie blushed and looked down, and Harry tried to look at ease, but failed to do so, in consequence of the speech which had cost him such agonising thought the night before, which he had prepared with such extreme care, which contained such an inconceivable amount of sentimental nonsense, which he fortunately forgot every word of at the critical moment of delivery, and, instead thereof, delivered a few short, earnest, stammering sentences, which were full of bad grammar and blunders, but which, nevertheless, admirably conveyed the true, manly sentiments of his heart. You also know, doubtless, that the groom’s-man rose to propose the health of the bride’s-maids, but you cannot be supposed to know that Dowler rose at the same time, having been told by his pert young friend that he was expected to perform that duty in consequence of the groom’s-man being “unaccustomed to public speaking!” Dowler, although not easily put down, was, after some trouble, convinced that he had made a mistake, and sat down without making an apology, and with a mental resolve to strike in at the first favourable opportunity.
When these and various other toasts had been drunk and replied to, the health of Mr Crashington, as a very old friend of the bride’s family, was proposed. Hereupon Crashington started to his feet. Dowler, who was slightly deaf, and had only caught something about “old friend of the family,” also started up, and announced to the company that that was the happiest moment of his life; an announcement which the company received with an explosion of laughter so loud and long that the two “old friends of the family” stood gazing in speechless amazement at the company, and at each other for three or four minutes. At last silence was obtained, and Dowler exclaimed, “Sir,” to which Crashington replied, “Sir,” and several of the company cried, laughingly, “Sit down, Dowler.”
It is certain that Dowler would not have obeyed the order, had not his pert young friend caught him by the coat-tails and pulled him down with such violence that he sat still astonished!
Then Crashington, ignoring him altogether, turned to Mr Webster, and said vehemently—
“Sir, and Ladies and Gentlemen, if this is not the happiest moment of my life, it is at least the proudest. I am proud to be recognised as an old friend of the family to which our beautiful bride belongs; proud to see my dear Annie wedded to a man who, besides possessing many great and good qualities of mind, has shown himself pre-eminently capable of cherishing and protecting his wife, by the frequency and success with which he has risked his own life to save the lives of others. But, Ladies and Gentlemen, things more serious than proposing toasts and paying compliments are before us to-day. I regard this as a lifeboat wedding, if I may be allowed the expression. In early life the blooming bride of to-day was saved by a lifeboat, and the brave man who steered that boat, and dived into the sea to rescue the child, now sits on my left hand. Again, years after, a lifeboat saved, not only the bride, but her father and her father’s ship; which last, although comparatively insignificant, was, nevertheless, the means of preventing the fortunes of the family from being utterly wrecked, and the man who steered the boat on that occasion, as you all know, was the bridegroom? But—to turn from the particular to the general question—I am sure, Ladies and Gentlemen, that you will bear with me while I descant for a little on the wrong that is done to society by the present state of our laws in reference to the saving of life from shipwreck. Despite the activity of our noble Lifeboat Institution; despite the efficiency of her splendid boats, and the courage of those who man them; despite the vigour and zeal of our coastguardmen, whose working of the rocket apparatus cannot be too highly praised; despite all this, I say, hundreds of lives are lost annually on our coasts which might be saved; and I feel assured that if the British public will continue their earnest support to our great National Institution, this death-roll must continue to be diminished. My friends sometimes tell me that I am a visionary—that many of my opinions are ridiculous. Is it ridiculous that I should regard the annual loss of nearly 600 lives, and above two millions of money, as being worthy of the serious attention of every friend of his country?
“Excuse me if I refrain from inflicting on you my own opinions, and, instead, quote those of a correspondent of the Times...”