NESTLETON PUTS ON HOLIDAY ATTIRE.
“Now all is done; bring home the bride again,
Bring home the triumph of our victory;
Bring home with you the glory of her gain,
With joyaunce bring her and with jollitie.
Never had man more joyful day than this,
Whom heaven would heap with bliss.
Make feast, therefore, now all this livelong day,
This day for ever to me holy is.”
_Spenser._
The spring buds had expanded into summer flowers, May blossoms had
developed into autumn fruits, and the corn-fields were nearly white
unto the harvest, when the finishing touch was given to Nestleton
Chapel, and the day came round when that much-admired sanctuary was to
be publicly opened and solemnly consecrated to God. Great as was the
stir and the enthusiasm when the corner-stone was laid, that event had
to hide its diminished head in presence of this crowning ceremony. The
top-stone was emphatically brought on with shouting, and on that day
Nestleton, with the whole Kesterton Circuit as a boon companion, gave
itself up to an ecstacy of godly dissipation. Nor will this be
wondered at, when it is remembered that the programme of the opening
ceremonies included so joyous and important an episode as the marriage
of Philip Fuller and Lucy Blyth. The fact that this ceremony was to
take place in a “Methodist conventicle,” as the new building was
contemptuously called, an act which was just made legally possible,
thinned the number of invited guests considerably, as well as did the
fact of Philip’s plebeian choice of a bride from a blacksmith’s
hearth-stone. Both he and his father could well afford to excuse the
absence of all such pitiful slaves to an unreasonable conventionalism,
which cared more for caste than character, and paid a grovelling
homage at the shrine of Mrs. Grundy. Philip knew that he was about to
gain a first-class prize in what, as things go, is too truly a
“matrimonial lottery.” His father knew that he was about to welcome to
Waverdale Hall a member of the higher aristocracy of goodness and
virtue, compared with which, blue blood and a pedigree dating from the
Norman Conquest were trivialities too insignificant for mention; as
for a mere Plutocracy, whose merit consists in money and acres, the
old squire, even before his moral change had come, would have looked
down on it with disdain. Now, both his own and his son’s convictions
chimed in with Tennyson’s sentiment,--
“Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere;
From yon blue heavens above us bent,
The grand old gardener and his wife,
Smile at your claims of long descent.
Howe’er it be, it seems to me,
’Tis only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.”
And so it was, that no shadow of regret or drawback mingled with the
glad events of that auspicious day, which crowned the happiness of two
loyal hearts, filled the old squire’s cup with blessing, dispersed the
last vestige of fear from Blithe Natty’s mind, drove Nestleton into
hysterical delight, and filled all Waverdale with joy.
At Old Adam Olliver’s suggestion, the first service on the opening day
was held at eight o’clock in the morning, and consisted solely of
prayer and praise, with a brief address from Mr. Clayton, to whom they
were so greatly indebted, alike for the initiation of the scheme and
its triumphant completion. Herein, the wise and thoughtful villagers
happed exactly on what was indisputably the fitting thing to do, both
as to the nature of the primal service and the choice of the
individual who should line out the first hymn of praise and offer the
consecrating prayer. The custom which prevails of asking some popular
minister from a distance to perform this honourable task, and to make
a sermon the chief feature of the dedication, is one which would be
much more honoured in the breach than the observance. _He_ has had no
sleep-depriving cares, no tireless labours, no anxious heartaches,
during the harassing history of the work, and probably never heard of
it, until he receives the invitation to be the high priest of the day.
Let those who present the gift lay it upon the altar, and then it may
be wise to summon whatever oratorical harp, sackbut, and psaltery may
add effect and interest to the holy festival. During that early
morning meeting the crowd of worshippers had evidence prompt and
potent that their gift had “come up acceptable before God.”
“Cum an’ fill the hoose in which we sit!” pleaded Adam Olliver;
“suddenly cum te Thi’ temple. It’s Thahne! It’s nobbut a poor thing
cumpared wi’ what Thoo’s gi’en te uz, bud it’s best we can deea! Mair
sud Thoo hev, if we had mair! An’ we gi’ Thoo oorsens wiv it. Tak’ it
an’ tak’ uz, O Lord. Cum an’ live in it, an’ iv oor ’arts. Let t’
cloven tungues o’ fire sit on uz while we kneel! Greeat grace be noo
upon uz all!”
And “great grace” did come, “and the glory of the Lord filled the
temple,” for we may be assured that such a gift offered in such a
spirit, by those inspired by such motives, shall now and ever be
graciously acknowledged by Him whose name is recorded there. It will
be seen that the building was now fitly prepared for the second
ceremonial, which was nothing less than the joining together of Philip
and Lucy in the holy bands of matrimony. I am sorry to disappoint
those of my readers who are eagerly looking for “a true and particular
description of that interesting transaction.” Were I to make the
attempt my pen would be like Pharaoh’s chariots in the Red Sea’s
vacated bed, which “drave heavily,” and would lag in tedious
despondency, conscious that the feat was beyond its power. Suffice it
to say that there were all the usual accessories common to such a rare
occasion: orange flowers and veils and coaches, horses with white
rosettes and tasseled ear-caps, wedding guests in white gloves, white
waistcoats, or white robes, according as their sex demanded. This I
may note, that the Rev. Matthew Mitchell was promoted to the high
position of “best man,” adding my own opinion that a much better man
would have been difficult to discover. Mr. Mitchell was kept in
countenance by a couple of Philip’s college chums, who loved him in
his student days, and whose esteem was of that true metal which did
not lose its ring at the sight of a Methodist chapel or a cottage-born
bride. Amongst the bridesmaids was one of Lucy’s school companions,
who rejoiced in being the daughter of “a private gentleman of
competent means,” which may probably be accepted by Mrs. Grundy as a
passable certificate, giving right of entry within the magic circle of
“people of position.” It may be depended on, however, that this was
not our Lucy’s reason for selecting her. That was because she was as
good as gold, had been for years a correspondent given to writing
crossed letters, and was a true and bosom friend. I should not like to
forget that bonny Grace Houston was also an attractive feature of the
bridal train, and more than one or two observant spectators of the
day’s proceedings were led to suspect, from certain numerous, but
undefinable phenomena, that Mr. Mitchell “had an eye in that
direction.” As for the two chief actors in this exciting and brilliant
business, I can only say that Philip bore himself as nobly as a
conqueror should, and led his captive with so proud a mien that you
might have thought she was a De Montmorency or a Fitzroy at the very
least. Lucy was simply Lucy, for I declare that yards and yards of
white tulle, yards and yards of silvery drapery, a marvellous wreath
of orange blossoms, satin shoes, and all the rest of her bridal
adornments, could not add one iota to the magical charm which dwelt in
and around the plain unvarnished “Lucy” whom we know.
“Isn’t she an angel,” said little Alice Vokes, one of the white-kilted
fairies who strewed the carpet pathway from gate to altar with
flowers.
“Isn’t she a stunner,” said Tom Raspin, a chubby youth of ten who
formed one of a Sunday-school detachment “on guard.”
My own opinion is that she was both, even with the addition of the
adjectives “perfect” and “regular” which were tacked on by the
respondents in their emphatic replies.
There! I beg to decline further penny-a-lining on this subject. Let my
readers paint the picture themselves, and then get an artist in colour
to touch it off, with special orders “not to spare the paint,” and
thus they may arrive at a satisfactory idea of Lucy’s wedding. Mr.
Clayton tied the “hymeneal knot,” and I am in a position to affirm
that he was “assisted by”--nobody; that nonsensical innovation was
then happily unknown. When the wedding party drove off to Waverdale
Hall, amid the enthusiastic applause of no end of uninvited
spectators, Adam Olliver turned to Farmer Houston, and said with a
smile,--
“There, Maister! T’ pattern’s finished. God set t’ shuttle te wark i’
answer te wer’ prayers. Nestleton Chapil was in it, Squire Fuller was
in it, Philip and Lucy’s weddin’ was in it. Noo it’s finished, bless
the Lord, an’ a pratty pattern it is.”
* * * * *
The wedding breakfast was a grand business. The great dining-hall was
“furnished with guests;” stately lackies with powdered hair and
abnormal calves, got as usual into each other’s way, and looked
innocently unconscious of all that was going on. The most rigid
justice was measured out to the sumptuous viands waiting sepulture,
and then, that time of test and trial, that running of the gauntlet,
that shivering plunge amid broken ice, the speechifying time, came
round. Lucy pierced the Brobdignagian Greco-Gothic edifice of a
bride-cake gallantly and resolutely, as though she had a spite against
it, an article she never possessed against anything or anybody; then
Philip gripped the weapon and speedily put it to the sword, sending
round its ice-and-sugar mailed morsels to the expectant guests. Then
followed the various toasts customary on such occasions, connected
with speeches which need not be reported: their gist and character may
be well imagined. Mr. Mitchell was the last speaker. He could not
begin with, “unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,” as is often the
case, but he displayed a nervousness which nobody who had heard him
hold forth in Piggy Morris’s malt-kiln would ever have given him
credit for. For a minute or two he floundered, and no wonder, the
surroundings were somewhat different from those in the Midden Harbour
Chapel of Ease; but he happened to catch a suspicious smile on the
face of one of Philip’s college friends, and at once he felt the
gravity of the occasion. The honour of Methodism, of Lucy Blyth’s--I
beg her pardon, Lucy Fuller’s--clerical connections, of Philip’s
choice of a Church were at stake, so he pulled himself together, and
planted his feet firmly en the ground, as though he was about to quote
Sir Walter Scott,--
“Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I!”
“Mr. Chairman!” A roar of laughter and rappings that made the glasses
dance a fandango, greeted this _lapsus linguæ_, but he was now equal
to the occasion,--
“That is the word I should have used if ‘my foot had been on my native
heath,’ as it is I must forego the familiar formula, and at once
address myself to the attractive task before me. There can be but one
opinion as to the peculiar charm which the bridesmaids have lent to
the happy proceedings of the day. Their winning beauty, the magic
influence, shall I say, the grace,----”
“Yes, Grace Houston!” said a waggish guest, who had noted the
speaker’s marked devotion to that more than comely damsel: whereupon
our tyro blushed like a boy, and almost lost his equilibrium, while
Grace herself found something amiss with the rose on her bosom, which
required close attention to secure its proper re-adjustment.
“I recommend the young gentlemen here present,” continued he, “to ‘use
well the present moment,’ for not only may they go further and fare
worse, but they may go anywhere and not fare so well. I hope that this
bevy of fair damsels may speedily follow in the steps of the bride,
and have the promise of as fair a future.”
Of course, “all went merry as a marriage bell,” until at last the
carriage rolled up to the door, and the bridal pair departed amid
cheers, and tears, and blessings, to spend the honeymoon at
Scarborough, in which delightful resort of health and pleasure I will
leave them awhile, and proceed to chronicle the subsequent doings of
Nestleton in its holiday attire.
The entire village, together with its numerous visitors, had
immigrated bodily to Waverdale Park. A bountiful feast was spread for
all comers, an ox had been roasted whole for their delectation, and a
boundless supply of other comestibles had been provided by the squire
and his son, to an extent that defied the heavy run upon them to
exhaust. I am bound to say that there was also a sufficient supply of
foaming ale, for beneficent teetotalism had not yet penetrated those
rural regions, and Good Templary had not been even dreamed of by the
most determined and sanguine votary of anti-Bacchus. Of course, there
were more speeches, in the course of which the squire himself proposed
the health of Old Adam Olliver. The old hedger received an ovation
such as might well have turned the heads of less humble men. For a
moment or two the old man was in danger of being mounted, chair and
all, upon the shoulders of his fellow-villagers, and carried in
triumph round the park. They contented themselves, however, by calling
for a speech.
“Ah’s varry mitch obliged te yo’,” quoth Adam, “bud speeach-mackin’ at
tahmes like theease is altegither oot o’ mah line. Ah will say this,
hooivver, ’at Nestleton nivver saw sitch a day as this afoore, an’ ah
deean’t think ’at it’s ivver likely te see sitch anuther. Mah poor aud
een’s run a’most dry wi’ tears o’ grattitude an’ joy. Nestleton’s
getten a chapil, an’t’ yung squire’s getten Lucy, an’ t’ aud squire’s
getten a dowter withoot a marro’, an’ Nathan Blyth’s getten a son ’at
owt te mak’ ’im stand three inches bigger iv his shoon; an’ what
Nestleton’s getten i’ hevin’ ’em all ’ll be a blessin’ tiv it for
ivver an’ ivver. As for me an’ Judy, we’ve nobbut gotten yah wish
left, an’ that’s te see Pete ageean. But that’s as the Lord will. Ah’s
an aud man, an’ me’ wark’s deean. Ah’ve hed te hing up me
slashin’-knife an’ hedgin’-gluvs, an’ ah’s just waitin’ quietly te gan
when t’ Maister calls ma’. Ah pray ’at t’ yung cupple may be varry
happy, an’ ah’s seear they will, for--
‘’Tis religion ’at can give
Reeal pleasure while we live;’
an’, prayse the Lord, they hev it, beeath on ’em. Ah wop they’ll hae
their quiver full ov bonny bairns, an’ bring ’em up i’ t’ fear o’ God:
an’ efter a lang an’ ’appy an’ useful life, ’at they’ll end their days
i’ peeace, an’ gan te be for ivver wi’ the Lord; for--
‘’Tis religion can supply
Solid cumfort when we die.’
May God bless ’em, an’ bless t’ aud squire, an’ bless uz all. Amen!”
Old Adam’s words were felt to be a benediction, and a deep and earnest
“Amen!” arose to float the old man’s prayer to heaven.
The day was fitly wound up with another service in the new chapel,
when a sermon was preached by a minister of mighty name and fame from
London, who had come to aid them in the dedication of their holy and
beautiful house of prayer. So ended a day, which will long be
remembered in the annals of Waverdale, as the day of “Nestleton Chapel
opening and Lucy Blyth’s wedding!”