All comedies are ended by a marriage”
Don Juan.
The second week of October was beautiful. The woods were tinted with the varied hues which autumn interposes between “summer green,” and “snow clad winter.” The sun shone brightly—the birds sang—the bells rang out a merry peal—and a bridal, in long array, swept through the long avenue of Clifford Park, and approached the village church. The road was crowded with all the rustic population of the neighbourhood—and, while the men hurrahed, the girls spread flowers along the churchyard path, when the young and beautiful bride left the carriage at the gate, and advanced to the portal of the sacred edifice. She reached the altar leaning on her lover’s arm—and there, encouraged by the approving smiles of happy relatives and surrounded by a gaily dressed cortège of bridal attendants, interchanged her vows of constancy, and bestowed her plighted hand upon the youth who knelt beside her. The surpliced priest pronounced his benison, and closed the book—the holy ceremony was over—but an interesting scene remained. An aged man, on whose head the snows of eighty winters rested, had sate beside the altar in a chair, while the sacred rite was celebrated. When the churchman’s blessing died away in the echo of the distant aisle, the old man signalled the young couple to approach him; they knelt at the feet of their venerable relation, who laid a hand upon either head, and with eyes devoutly up-turned, invoked Heaven’s protection upon his darling children. The blesser was Mr. Clifford—the blessed ones, Isidora and myself.
A second time the sun had circled the earth, and the same season had returned. Again the village bells were rung, and the park of Clifford Hall was crowded with tenants and villagers—that day it was the scene of rejoicing and festivity—an heir was born to the ancient name—and the baptismal ceremony was being performed within the hall, in presence of a goodly assemblage. From the font, the infant was carried in the arms of his young and happy mother to an easy chair, where a venerable man was seated. She knelt and invoked his blessing; and, upon the heads of two generations the old man’s hands were laid, while his lips poured forth an ardent benediction.
Again the year came round. It was later in the season, for withered leaves were spread thickly on the ground, a mute but striking type of life’s decay. Slow and hewily the village bell was tolling—death was in Clifford Hall, and its owner was about to be carried to the tomb, where his forefathers were sleeping. Ripe for the grave—surrounded by those he loved—cheered by the consolations of religion, Mr. Clifford had calmly slumbered life away—his head pillowed on a daughter’s bosom—his hand pressed gently within the grasp of a son, from whom for five-and-thirty years he had been alienated.
The stranger who passes through the domain of Clifford Hall, will occasionally encounter a hale, stout, white-headed-man, in leathers and gambroon, with a gun under his arm, and two Scotch terriers at his heels. That personage was once intituled Shemus Rhua—but years have spoiled the sobriquet. At the back gate there is a picturesque cottage, with a flower-garden attached, and filled with bee-hives. There a handsome old woman will present herself, attended by a village girl. She bears the appearance of a faithful servant, who has retired with every comfort. That old woman was once Ellen—or the gipsy, as you please.
In the immediate front of the Hall, two elderly personages may be daily noticed. One—stout, stooped, very gray, and very intelligent-looking—that is mine uncle. Another—spare, slight, and with a head erect as if he intended to throw Father Time off his shoulders, should he presume to invade them—his empty sleeve perfects the identity. Need I name my father?