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!