-But where, oh where,
Is Ingoldsby's heir?
Little Jack Ingoldsby ?-where, oh where?
Why he's here,-and he's there,
And he's every where
He's there, and he's here;
In the front-in the rear
Now this side, now that side,-now far, and now near-
The Puck of the party, the darling "pet" boy,
Full of mischief, and fun, and goodhumour, and joy;
With his laughing blue eye, and his cheek like a rose,
And his long curly locks, and his little snub nose;
In his tunic, and trousers, and cap-there he goes!
Now pinching the bridesmen,-now teazing his sister,
And telling the bridesmaids how "Valentine kiss'd her;"
The torment, the plague, the delight of them all,
See he's into the churchyard!-he's over the wall-
Gambolling, frolicking, capering away,
He's the first in the church, be the second who may!
"Tis o'er ;-the holy rite is done,
The rite that "incoporates two in one,"
-And now for the feasting, and frolic, and fun!
Spare we to tell of the smiling and sighing,
The shaking of hands, the embracing, and crying.
The "toot-toot-toot"
Of the tabour and flute,
Of the white-wigg'd Vicar's prolonged salute,
Or of how the blithe "College Youths,"-rather old stagers,
Accustom'd, for years, to pull bell-ropes for wagers—
Rang, faster than ever, their "triple-bob-MAJORS;"
(So loud as to charm ye,
-"Symbolic," of course, of that rank in the army.)
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,
Aud 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
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,
Than a fine fantasia from over the sea;
And, for sweetness, compared with a Beethoven fugue, are
Asbest-refined-loaf," to the coarsest "brown sugar;"
-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,
* Ad Amicum, Servientem ad legem—
This rhyme, if, when scann'd by your critical ear, it
Is not quite legitimate, comes pretty near it.
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 δακρυσι γελας.
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,
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 menså,
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 Massachusets 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
A forethought, 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 background,
And among whom were found
The elite of the old County families round,
Such as Honeywood, Oxenden, Knatchbull, and Norton, Matthew Robinson,* too, with his beard, from Monk's Horton, The Faggs, and Finch-Hattons, Tokes, Derings, and Deedess, 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.
A worthy and eccentric Country Gentleman afterwards the second Lord Rokeby, being cousin ("a great many times removed") and successor in the barony to Richard, Archbishop of Armagh, who first bore that title.-His beard was truly Patriarchal.—Mr. Muntz's-pooh!
So, having for once been compelled to acknowledge, I
've made a small hole in our mutual chronology,
Canter on, Miss, without farther apology,-
Only don't make
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 every 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 grottos-
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 dejeuner 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!
Now as to the wines!" Ay, the Wine!" cries the Squire,
Letting fall both his coat-tails,-which nearly take fire,-
Rubbing his hands,
He calls out, as he stands,
To the serving-men waiting "his Honour's" commands,
"The Wine !—to be sure-here you Harry-Bob-Dick-
The wine, don't you hear?-bring us lights-come, be quick!—
And a crow-bar to knock down the mortar and brick-
Say what they may,
'Fore George, we'll make way
Into old Roger Ingoldsby's cellar to-day;
And let loose his captives, imprison'd so long,
His flasks, and his casks, that he bricked up so strong!"
|