They dash'd o'er the downs, and they dash'd through the vales, They dash'd up the hills, and they dash'd down the dales, As if elderly Nick was himself at their tails; The Bridegroom in vain Attempts to restrain The Bride's frighten'd palfrey by seizing the rein, When a flash and a crash, Which produced such a splash That a Yankee had called it "an Almighty Smash," Came down so complete At his own courser's feet, That the rider, though famous for keeping his seat, From its kickings and plungings, now under now upper, Slipp'd out of his demi-pique over the crupper, And fell from the back of his terrified cob On what bards less refined than myself term his "Nob." (To obtain a genteel rhyme's sometimes a tough job).—
Just so—for the nonce to enliven my song With a classical simile cannot be wrong— Just so—in such roads and in similar weather, Tydides and Nestor were riding together, When, so says old Homer, the King of the Sky, The great "Cloud-compeller," his lightnings let fly, And their horses both made such a desperate shy At this freak of old Zeus, That at once they broke loose, Reins, traces, bits, breechings were all of no use; If the Pylian Sage, without any delay, Had not whipp'd them sharp round and away from the fray, They'd have certainly upset his cabriolet, And there'd been the—a name I won't mention—to pay.
Well, the Knight in a moment recover'd his seat, Mr. Widdicombe's mode of performing that feat At Astley's could not be more neat or complete, —It's recorded, indeed, by an eminent pen Of our own days, that this our great Widdicombe, then In the heyday of life, had afforded some ten Or twelve lessons in riding to Alured Denne,— It is certain the Knight Was so agile and light That an instant sufficed him to set matters right, Yet the Bride was by this time almost out of sight; For her palfrey, a rare bit of blood, who could trace Her descent from the "pure old Caucasian race," Sleek, slim, and bony, as Mr. Sidonia's Fine "Arab Steed" Of the very same breed, Which that elegant gentleman rode so genteelly —See "Coningsby" written by "B. Disraeli"— That palfrey, I say, From this trifling delay Had made what at sea's call'd "a great deal of way." "More fleet than the roe-buck," and free as the wind, She had left the good company rather behind; They whipp'd and they spurr'd, and they after her prest, Still Sir Alured's steed was "by long chalks" the best Of the party, and very soon distanced the rest; But long ere e'en he had the fugitive near'd, She dash'd into the wood and at once disappear'd! It's a "fashious" affair when you're out on a ride, —Ev'n supposing you're not in pursuit of a bride, If you are it's more fashious, which can't be denied,— And you come to a place where three cross-roads divide Without any way-post, stuck up by the side Of the road, to direct you and act as a guide, With a road leading here, and a road leading there, And a road leading no one exactly knows where. When Sir Alured came In pursuit of the dame To a fork of this kind,—a three-prong'd one—small blame To his scholarship if in selecting his way His respect for the Classics now led him astray; But the rule, in a work I won't stop to describe, is In medio semper tutissimus ibis, So the Knight being forced of the three paths to enter one, Dash'd, with these words on his lips, down the centre one.
Up and down hill, Up and down hill, Through brake and o'er briar he gallops on still Aye, banning, blaspheming, and cursing his fill At his courser because he had given him a "spill;" Yet he did not gain ground On the palfrey, the sound, On the contrary, made by the hoofs of the beast Grew fainter, and fainter,—and fainter,—and—ceased! Sir Alured burst through the dingle at last, To a sort of a clearing, and there—he stuck fast; For his steed, though a freer one ne'er had a shoe on, Stood fix'd as the Governor's nag in "Don Juan," Or much like the statue that stands, cast in copper, a Few yards south-east of the door of the Opera, Save that Alured's horse had not got such a big tail, While Alured wanted the cock'd hat and pig-tail.
Before him is seen A diminutive Green Scoop'd out from the covert—a thick leafy screen Of wild foliage, trunks with broad branches between Encircle it wholly, all radiant and sheen, For the weather at once appear'd clear and serene, And the sky up above was a bright mazarine, Just as though no such thing as a tempest had been, In short it was one of those sweet little places In Egypt and Araby known as "oases." There, under the shade That was made by the glade, The astonish'd Sir Alured sat and survey'd A little low building of Bethersden stone, With ivy and parasite creepers o'ergrown, A Sacellum, or cell, In which Chronicles tell Saints and anchorites erst were accustom'd to dwell; A little round arch, on which, deeply indented, The zig-zaggy pattern by Saxons invented Was cleverly chisell'd, and well represented, Surmounted a door, Some five feet by four, It might have been less or it might have been more, In the primitive ages they made these things lower Than we do in buildings that had but one floor. And these Chronicles say When an anchorite gray Wish'd to shut himself up and keep out of the way, He was commonly wont in such low cells to stay, And pray night and day on the rez de chaussée.
There, under the arch I've endeavoured to paint, With no little surprise, And scarce trusting his eyes, The Knight now saw standing that little Boy Saint! The one whom before He'd seen over the door Of the Priory shaking his head as he swore— With mitre, and crozier, and rochet, and stole on, The very self-same—or at least his Eidolon! With a voice all unlike to the infantine squeak You'd expect, that small Saint now address'd him to speak: In a bold, manly tone, he Began, while his stony Cold lips breath'd an odour quite Eau-de-Cologne-y; In fact, from his christening, according to rumour, he Beat Mr. Brummell to sticks, in perfumery.[71]
"Sir Alured Denne!" Said the Saint, "be atten- —tive! Your ancestors, all most respectable men, Have for some generations been vot'ries of mine; They have bought me mould candles, and bow'd at my shrine, They have made my monks presents of ven'son and wine, With a right of free pasturage, too, for their swine. And, though you in this Have been rather remiss, Still I owe you a turn for the sake of 'Lang Syne.' And I now come to tell you, your cursing and swearing Have reach'd to a pitch that is really past bearing.
'Twere a positive scandal In even a Vandal, It ne'er should be done, save with bell, book, and candle: And though I've now learn'd, as I've always suspected, Your own education's been somewhat neglected; Still, you're not such an uninformed pagan, I hope, As not to know cursing belongs to the Pope! And his Holiness feels, very properly, jealous Of all such encroachments by paltry lay fellows. Now, take my advice, Saints never speak twice, So take it at once, as I once for all give it; Go home! you'll find there all as right as a trivet, But mind, and remember, if once you give way To that shocking bad habit, I'm sorry to say, I have heard you so sadly indulge in to-day, As sure as you're born, on the very first trip That you make—the first oath that proceeds from your lip, I'll soon make you rue it! —I've said it—I'll do it! 'Forewarned is forearmed,' you shan't say but you knew it; Whate'er you hold dearest or nearest your heart, I'll take it away, if I come in a cart! I will, on my honour! you know it's absurd To suppose that a Saint ever forfeits his word For a pitiful Knight, or to please any such man— I've said it! I'll do't—if I don't, I'm a Dutchman!"—
He ceased—he was gone as he closed his harangue, And some one inside shut the door with a bang! Sparkling with dew, Each green herb anew Its profusion of sweets round Sir Alured threw, As pensive and thoughtful he slowly withdrew, (For the hoofs of his horse had got rid of their glue,) And the cud of reflection continued to chew Till the gables of Bonnington Hall rose in view. Little reck'd he what he smelt, what he saw, Brilliance of scenery, Fragrance of greenery, Fail'd in impressing his mental machinery; Many an hour had elapsed, well I ween, ere he Fairly was able distinction to draw 'Twixt the odour of garlic and bouquet du Roi.
Merrily, merrily sounds the horn, And cheerily ring the bells; For the race is run, The goal is won, The little lost mutton is happily found, The Lady of Bonnington's safe and sound In the Hall where her new Lord dwells! Hard had they ridden, that company gay, After fair Edith, away and away: This had slipp'd back o'er his courser's rump, That had gone over his ears with a plump, But the Lady herself had stuck on like a trump, Till her panting steed Relax'd her speed, And feeling, no doubt, as a gentleman feels When he's once shown a bailiff a fair pair of heels, Stopp'd of herself, as it's very well known Horses will do, when they're thoroughly blown, And thus the whole group had foregathered again, Just as the sunshine succeeded the rain.