Oh, now the joy, and the frolicking, rollicking Doings indulged in by one and by all! Gaiety seized on the most melancholic in All the broad lands around Bonnington Hall. All sorts of revelry, All sorts of devilry, All play at "High Jinks" and keep up the ball. Days, weeks, and months, it is really astonishing When one's so happy, how Time flies away; Meanwhile the Bridegroom requires no admonishing As to what pass'd on his own wedding day; Never since then Had Sir Alured Denne Let a word fall from his lip or his pen That began with a D, or left off with an N!
Once, and once only, when put in a rage, By a careless young rascal he'd hired as a Page, All buttons and brass, Who in handling a glass Of spiced hippocras, throws It all over his clothes, And spoils his best pourpoint, and smartest trunk hose, While stretching his hand out to take it and quaff it (he 'd given a rose noble a yard for the taffety), Then, and then only, came into his head A very sad word that began with a Z, But he check'd his complaint, He remember'd the Saint, In the nick—Lady Denne was beginning to faint— That sight on his mouth acted quite as a bung, Like Mahomet's coffin, the shocking word hung Half-way 'twixt the root and the tip of his tongue.
Many a year Of mirth and good cheer Flew over their heads, to each other more dear Every day, they were quoted by peasant and peer As the rarest examples of love ever known, Since the days of Le Chivaler D'Arbie and Joanne, Who in Bonnington chancel lie sculptured in stone.
Well—it happen'd at last, After certain years past, That an embassy came to our court from afar— From the Grand-duke of Muscovy—now call'd the Czar, And the Spindleshank'd Monarch, determined to do All the grace that he could to a Nobleman, who Had sail'd all that way from a country which few In our England had heard of, and nobody knew, With a hat like a muff, and a beard like a Jew, Our arsenals, buildings, and dock-yards to view, And to say how desirous His Prince Wladimirus Had long been with mutual regard to inspire us, And how he regretted he was not much nigher us, With other fine things, Such as Kings say to Kings When each tries to humbug his dear Royal Brother, in Hopes by such "gammon" to take one another in— King Longshanks, I say, Being now on his way Bound for France, where the rebels had kept him at bay Was living in clover At this time at Dover I' the castle there, waiting a tide to go over.
He had summon'd, I can't tell you how many men, Knights, nobles, and squires to the wars of Guienne, And among these of course was Sir Alured Denne, Who, acting like most Of the knights in the host, Whose residence was not too far from the coast, Had brought his wife with him, delaying their parting, Fond souls, till the very last moment of starting. Of course, with such lots of lords, ladies, and knights, In their Saracenettes,[72] and their bright chain-mail tights, All accustom'd to galas, grand doings, and sights, A matter like this was at once put to rights; 'Twould have been a strange thing, If so polish'd a king, With his board of Green Cloth, and Lord Steward's department, Couldn't teach an Ambassador what the word "smart" meant. A banquet was order'd at once for a score, Or more, of the corps that had just come on shore, And the King, though he thought it "a bit of a bore," Ask'd all the elite Of his levée to meet The illustrious Strangers and share in the treat; For the Boyar himself, the Queen graciously made him her Beau for the day, from respect to Duke Wladimir. (Queer as this name may appear in the spelling, You won't find it trouble you, Sound but the W Like the first L in Llan, Lloyd, and Llewellyn!")
Fancy the fuss and the fidgetty looks Of Robert de Burghersh, the constables, cooks; For of course the cuisine Of the King and the Queen Was behind them at London, or Windsor, or Sheene, Or wherever the Court ere it started had been, And it's really no jest, When a troublesome guest Looks in at a time when you're busy and prest, Just going to fight, or to ride, or to rest, And expects a good lunch when you've none ready drest. The servants no doubt Were much put to the rout By this very extempore sort of set out, But they wisely fell back upon Poor Richard's plan, "When you can't what you would, you must do what you can!" So they ransack'd the country, folds, pig-styes, and pens, For the sheep and the porkers, the cocks and the hens; 'Twas said a Tom-cat of Sir Alured Denne's, A fine tabby-gray, Disappear'd on that day, And whatever became of him no one could say; They brought all the food That ever they cou'd, Fish, flesh, and fowl, with sea-coal and dry wood, To his Majesty's Dapifer, Eudo (or Ude), They lighted the town up, sat ringing the bells, And borrow'd the waiters from all the hotels. A bright thought, moreover, came into the head Of Dapifer Eudo, who'd some little dread, As he said, for the thorough success of his spread. So he said to himself, "What a thing it would be Could I have here with me Some one two or three Of their outlandish scullions from over the sea! It's a hundred to one if the Suite or their Chief Understand our plum-puddings, and barons of beef; But with five minutes' chat with their cooks or their valets We'd soon dish up something to tickle their palates!" With this happy conceit for improving the Mess, Pooh-poohing expense, he dispatch'd an express In a waggon and four on the instant to Deal, Who dash'd down the hill without locking the wheel, And, by means which I guess but decline to reveal, Seduced from the Downs, where at anchor their vessel rode, Lumpoff Icywitz, serf to a former Count Nesselrode, A cook of some fame, Who invented the same Cold pudding that still bears the family name. This accomplish'd, the Chef's peace of mind was restor'd And in due time a banquet was placed on the board "In the very best style," which implies in a word "All the dainties the season" (and king) "could afford." There were snipes, there were rails, There were woodcocks and quails, There were peacocks served up in their pride (that is tails), Fricandeau, fricassees, Ducks and green peas, Cotelettes à l'Indienne, and chops à la Soubise (Which last you may call "onion sauce" if you please), There were barbecu'd pigs Stuff'd with raisins and figs, Omelettes and haricots, stews and ragouts, And pork griskins, which Jews still refuse and abuse. Then the wines,—round the circle how swiftly they went! Canary, Sack, Malaga, Malvoisie, Tent; Old Hock from the Rhine, wine remarkably fine, Of the Charlemagne vintage of seven ninety-nine,— Five cent'ries in bottle had made it divine! The rich juice of Rousillon, Gascoygne, Bourdeaux, Marasquin, Curaçoa, Kirchen Wasser, Noyeau, And Gin which the company voted "No Go;" The guests all hob-nobbing, And bowing and bobbing; Some prefer white wine, while others more value red, Few, a choice few, Of more orthodox goût, Stick to "old crusted port," among whom was Sir Alured; Never indeed at a banquet before Had that gallant commander enjoy'd himself more.
Then came "sweets"—served in silver were tartlets and pies—in glass Jellies composed of punch, calves' feet, and isinglass, Creams, and whipt-syllabubs, some hot, some cool, Blancmange, and quince-custards, and gooseberry fool. And now from the good taste which reigns it's confest In a gentleman's, that is an Englishman's, breast, And makes him polite to a stranger and guest, They soon play'd the deuce With a large Charlotte Russe; More than one of the party dispatched his plate twice With "I'm really ashamed, but—another small slice! Your dishes from Russia are really so nice!" Then the prime dish of all! "There was nothing so good in The whole of the Feed" One and all were agreed, "As the great Lumpoff Icywitz' Nesselrode pudding!" Sir Alured Denne, who'd all day, to say sooth, Like Iago, been "plagued with a sad raging tooth," Which had nevertheless interfered very little With his—what for my rhyme I'm obliged to spell—vittle, Requested a friend Who sat near him to send Him a spoonful of what he heard all so commend, And begg'd to take wine with him afterwards, grateful Because for a spoonful he'd sent him a plateful. Having emptied his glass—he ne'er balk'd it or spill'd it— The gallant Knight open'd his mouth—and then fill'd it!
You must really excuse me—there's nothing could bribe Me at all to go on and attempt to describe The fearsome look then Of Sir Alured Denne! —Astonishment, horror, distraction of mind, Rage, misery, fear, and iced pudding—combined! Lip, forehead, and cheek—how these mingle and meet All colours, all hues, now advance, now retreat, Now pale as a turnip, now crimson as beet! How he grasps his arm-chair in attempting to rise, See his veins how they swell! mark the roll of his eyes! Now east and now west, now north and now south, Till at once he contrives to eject from his mouth That vile "spoonful"—what He has got he knows not, He isn't quite sure if it's cold or it's hot; At last he exclaims, as he starts from his seat, "A snowball by ——!" what I decline to repeat,— 'Twas the name of a bad place, for mention unmeet.
Then oh what a volley!—a great many heard What flow'd from his lips, and 'twere really absurd To suppose that each man was not shock'd by each word; A great many heard too, with mix'd fear and wonder, The terrible crash of the terrible thunder, That broke as if bursting the building asunder; But very few heard, although every one might, The short, half-stifled shriek from the chair on the right, Where the Lady of Bonnington sat by her Knight; And very few saw—some—the number was small, In the large ogive window that lighted the hall, A small stony Saint in a small stony pall, With a small stony mitre, and small stony crosier, And small stony toes that owed nought to the hosier, Beckon stonily downward to some one below, As Merryman says, "for to come for to go!" While every one smelt a delicious perfume That seem'd to pervade every part of the room!
Fair Edith Denne, The bonne et belle then, Never again was beheld among men! But there was the fauteuil on which she was placed, And there was the girdle that graced her small waist, And there was her stomacher brilliant with gems, And the mantle she wore, edged with lace at the hems, Her rich brocade gown sat upright in its place, And her wimple was there—but where—where was her face? 'Twas gone with her body—and nobody knows, Nor could any one present so much as suppose How that Lady contrived to slip out of her clothes! But 'twas done—she was quite gone—the how and the where, No mortal was ever yet found to declare; Though inquiries were made, and some writers record That Sir Alured offered a handsome reward.