It's a very fine thing, and delightful to see Inclination and duty unite and agree, Because it's a case That so rarely takes place; In the instance before us, then, Alured Denne Might well be esteem'd the most lucky of men, Inasmuch as hard by, Indeed so very nigh, That her chimneys, from his, you might almost descry, Dwelt a Lady at whom he'd long cast a sheep's eye, One whose character scandal itself could defy, While her charms and accomplishments rank'd very high, And who would not deny A propitious reply, But reflect back his blushes, and give sigh for sigh. (A line that's not mine, but Tom Moore's, by-the-bye.)
There was many a gay and trim bachelor near, Who felt sick at heart when the news met his ear, That fair Edith Ingoldsby, she whom they all The "Rosebud of Tappington" ceased not to call, Was going to say, "Honour, love, and obey" So Sir Alured Denne, Knight, of Bonnington Hall, That all other suitors were left in the lurch, And the parties had even been "out-asked" in church, For every one says, In those primitive days, And I must own I think it redounds to their praise, None dream'd of transferring a daughter or niece As a bride, by an "unstamp'd agreement," or lease, 'Fore a Register's Clerk, or a Justice of Peace, While young ladies had fain Single women remain, And unwedded maids to the last "crack of doom" stick, Ere marry, by taking a jump o'er a broomstick.
So our bride and bridegroom agreed to appear At holy St. Romwold's, a Priory near, Which a long while before, I can't say in what year, Their forebears had join'd with the neighbours to rear, And endow'd, some with bucks, some with beef, some with beer, To comfort the friars, and make them good cheer. Adorning the building, With carving and gilding, And stone altars, fix'd to the chantries and fill'd in; (Papistic in substance and form, and on this count With Judge Herbert Jenner Fust justly at discount. See Cambridge Societas Camdeniensis V. Faulkner, tert. prim. Januarii mensis, With "Judgment reversed, costs of suit, and expenses;") All raised to St. Romwold, with some reason, styled By Duke Humphrey's confessor,[70] "a Wonderful Child," For ne'er yet was Saint, except him, upon earth Who made "his profession of faith" at his birth, And when scarce a foot high, or six inches in girth, Converted his "Ma," and contrived to amend a Sad hole in the creed of his grandsire, King Penda.
Of course to the shrine Of so young a divine Flow'd much holy water, and some little wine, And when any young folks did to marriage incline, The good friars were much in request, and not one Was more "sought unto" than the Sub-prior, Mess John; To him, there and then, Sir Alured Denne Wrote a three-corner'd note with a small crow-quill pen, To say what he wanted, and fix "the time when," And, as it's well known that your people of quality Pique themselves justly on strict punctuality, Just as the clock struck the hour he'd nam'd in it, The whole bridal party rode up to the minute.
Now whether it was that some rapturous dream, Comprehending "fat pullets and clouted cream," Had borne the good man, in his vision of bliss, Far off to some happier region than this— Or whether his beads, 'gainst the fingers rebelling, Took longer than usual that morning in telling; Or whether, his conscience with knotted cord purging, Mess John was indulging himself with a scourging, In penance for killing some score of the fleas, Which, infesting his hair-shirt, deprived him of ease, Or whether a barrel of Faversham oysters, Brought in, on the evening before, to the cloisters, Produced indigestion, Continues a question, The particular cause is not worth a debate; For my purpose it's clearly sufficient to state That whatever the reason, his rev'rence was late, And Sir Alured Denne, Not the meekest of men, Began banning away at a deuce of a rate.
Now here, though I do it with infinite pain, Gentle reader, I find I must pause to explain That there was—what, I own, I grieve to make known— On the worthy Knight's character one single stain, But for which, all his friends had borne witness, I'm sure, He had been sans reproche, as he still was sans peur. The fact is, that many distinguish'd commanders "Swore terribly (teste T. Shandy) in Flanders." Now into these parts our Knight chancing to go, countries Named from this sad, vulgar custom, "The Low Countries," Though on common occasions as courteous as daring, Had pick'd up this shocking bad habit of swearing. And if anything vex'd him, or matters went wrong, Was given to what low folks call "Coming it strong." Good, bad, or indifferent then, young or old, He'd consign them, when once in a humour to scold, To a place where they certainly would not take cold. —Now if there are those, and I've some in my eye, Who'd esteem this a crime of no very deep dye, Let them read on—they'll find their mistake by and bye.
Near or far, Few people there are But have heard, read, or sung about Young Lochinvar, How in Netherby Chapel, "at morning tide," The Priest and the Bridegroom stood waiting the Bride; How they waited, "but ne'er A Bride was there." Still I don't find, on reading the ballad with care, The bereaved Mr. Graham proceeded to swear, And yet to experience so serious a blight in One's dearest affections, is somewhat exciting. 'Tis manifest then That Sir Alured Denne Had far less excuse for such bad language, when It was only the Priest not the Bride who was missing— He had fill'd up the interval better with kissing. And 'twas really surprising, And not very wise in A Knight to go on so anathematising, When the head and the front of the Clergyman's crime Was but being a little behind as to time:— Be that as it may, He swore so that day At the reverend gentleman's ill-judged delay, That not a bystander who heard what he said, But listen'd to all his expressions with dread, And felt all his hair stand on end on his head; Nay, many folks there Did not stick to declare The phenomenon was not confined to the hair, For the little stone Saint who sat perched o'er the door, St. Romwold himself, as I told you before, What will scarce be believed, Was plainly perceived To shrug up his shoulders, as very much grieved, And look down with a frown So remarkably brown, That all saw he'd now quite a different face on From that he received at the hands of the mason; Nay, many averr'd he half rose in his niche, When Sir Alured, always in metaphor rich, Call'd his priest an "old son of—" some animal—which, Is not worth the inquiry—a hint's quite enough on The subject—for more I refer you to Buffon.
It's supposed that the Knight Himself saw the sight, And it's likely he did, as he easily might, For 'tis certain he paused in his wordy attack, And, in nautical language, seem'd "taken aback." In so much that when now The "prime cause of the row," Father John, in the chapel at last made his bow, The Bridegroom elect was so mild and subdued, None could ever suppose he'd been noisy and rude, Or made use of the language to which I allude; Fair Edith herself, while the knot was a tying, Her bridemaids around her, some sobbing, some sighing, Some smiling, some blushing, half-laughing, half-crying, Scarce made her responses in tones more complying Than he who'd been raging and storming so recently, All softness now, and behaving quite decently. Many folks thought too the cold stony frown Of the Saint up aloft from his niche looking down, Brought the sexton and clerk each an extra half-crown, When, the rite being over, the fees were all paid, And the party remounting, the whole cavalcade Prepared to ride home with no little parade.
In a climate so very unsettled as ours It's as well to be cautious and guard against showers, For though, about One, You've a fine brilliant sun, When your walk or your ride is but barely begun, Yet long ere the hour-hand approaches the Two, There is not in the whole sky one atom of blue, But it "rains cats and dogs," and you're fairly wet through Ere you know where to turn, what to say, or to do; For which reason I've bought, to protect myself well, a Good stout Taglioni and gingham umbrella. But in Edward the First's days I very much fear, Had a gay cavalier Thought fit to appear In any such "toggery"—then 'twas term'd "gear"— He'd have met with a highly significant sneer, Or a broad grin extending from ear unto ear On the features of every soul he came near; There was no taking refuge too then, as with us, On a slip-sloppy day, in a cab or a 'bus; As they rode through the woods In their wimples and hoods, Their only resource against sleet, hail, or rain Was, as Spenser describes it, to "pryck o'er the plaine," That is to clap spurs on, and ride helter-skelter In search of some building or other for shelter.
Now it seems that the sky, Which had been of a dye As bright and as blue as your lady-love's eye, The season in fact being genial and dry, Began to assume An appearance of gloom From the moment the Knight began fidget and fume, Which deepen'd and deepen'd till all the horizon Grew blacker than aught they had ever set eyes on, And soon, from the far west the elements' rumbling Increased, and kept pace with Sir Alured's grumbling, Bright flashes between, Blue, red, and green, All livid and lurid began to be seen; At length down it came—a whole deluge of rain, A perfect Niagara, drenching the plain, And up came the reek, And down came the shriek Of the winds like a steam-whistle starting a train; And the tempest began so to roar and to pour, That the Dennes and the Ingoldsbys, starting at score, As they did from the porch of St. Romwold's church door, Had scarce gain'd a mile, or a mere trifle more, Ere the whole of the crew Were completely wet through.