Legends and Lyrics-1 [3]
with seeing the
procession pass. It was not a very large one, for, it requiring
some activity to go up, all the old people remained at home. It is
not etiquette for the bride's mother to go, and no unmarried woman
can go to a wedding--I suppose for fear of its making her
discontented with her own position. The procession stopped at our
door, for the bride to receive our congratulations. She was
dressed in a shot silk, with a yellow handkerchief, and rows of a
large gold chain. In the afternoon they sent to request us to go
there. On our arrival we found them dancing out of doors, and a
most melancholy affair it was. All the bride's sisters were not to
be recognised, they had cried so. The mother sat in the house, and
could not appear. And the bride was sobbing so, she could hardly
stand! The most melancholy spectacle of all to my mind was, that
the bridegroom was decidedly tipsy. He seemed rather affronted at
all the distress. We danced a Monferrino; I with the bridegroom;
and the bride crying the whole time. The company did their utmost
to enliven her by firing pistols, but without success, and at last
they began a series of yells, which reminded me of a set of
savages. But even this delicate method of consolation failed, and
the wishing good-bye began. It was altogether so melancholy an
affair that Madame B. dropped a few tears, and I was very near it,
particularly when the poor mother came out to see the last of her
daughter, who was finally dragged off between her brother and
uncle, with a last explosion of pistols. As she lives quite near,
makes an excellent match, and is one of nine children, it really
was a most desirable marriage, in spite of all the show of
distress. Albert was so discomfited by it, that he forgot to kiss
the bride as he had intended to do, and therefore went to call upon
her yesterday, and found her very smiling in her new house, and
supplied the omission. The cook came home from the wedding,
declaring she was cured of any wish to marry--but I would not
recommend any man to act upon that threat and make her an offer.
In a couple of days we had some rolls of the bride's first baking,
which they call Madonnas. The musicians, it seems, were in the
same state as the bridegroom, for, in escorting her home, they all
fell down in the mud. My wrath against the bridegroom is somewhat
calmed by finding that it is considered bad luck if he does not get
tipsy at his wedding."
Those readers of Miss Procter's poems who should suppose from their
tone that her mind was of a gloomy or despondent cast, would be
curiously mistaken. She was exceedingly humorous, and had a great
delight in humour. Cheerfulness was habitual with her, she was
very ready at a sally or a reply, and in her laugh (as I remember
well) there was an unusual vivacity, enjoyment, and sense of
drollery. She was perfectly unconstrained and unaffected: as
modestly silent about her productions, as she was generous with
their pecuniary results. She was a friend who inspired the
strongest attachments; she was a finely sympathetic woman, with a
great accordant heart and a sterling noble nature. No claim can be
set up for her, thank God, to the possession of any of the
conventional poetical qualities. She never by any means held the
opinion that she was among the greatest of human beings; she never
suspected the existence of a conspiracy on the part of mankind
against her; she never recognised in her best friends, her worst
enemies; she never cultivated the luxury of being misunderstood and
unappreciated; she would far rather have died without seeing a line
of her composition in print, than that I should have maundered
about her, here, as "the Poet", or "the Poetess".
With the recollection of Miss Procter as a mere child and as a
woman, fresh upon me, it is natural that I should linger on my way
to the close of this brief record, avoiding its end. But, even as
the close came upon her, so must it come here.
Always impelled by an intense conviction that her
procession pass. It was not a very large one, for, it requiring
some activity to go up, all the old people remained at home. It is
not etiquette for the bride's mother to go, and no unmarried woman
can go to a wedding--I suppose for fear of its making her
discontented with her own position. The procession stopped at our
door, for the bride to receive our congratulations. She was
dressed in a shot silk, with a yellow handkerchief, and rows of a
large gold chain. In the afternoon they sent to request us to go
there. On our arrival we found them dancing out of doors, and a
most melancholy affair it was. All the bride's sisters were not to
be recognised, they had cried so. The mother sat in the house, and
could not appear. And the bride was sobbing so, she could hardly
stand! The most melancholy spectacle of all to my mind was, that
the bridegroom was decidedly tipsy. He seemed rather affronted at
all the distress. We danced a Monferrino; I with the bridegroom;
and the bride crying the whole time. The company did their utmost
to enliven her by firing pistols, but without success, and at last
they began a series of yells, which reminded me of a set of
savages. But even this delicate method of consolation failed, and
the wishing good-bye began. It was altogether so melancholy an
affair that Madame B. dropped a few tears, and I was very near it,
particularly when the poor mother came out to see the last of her
daughter, who was finally dragged off between her brother and
uncle, with a last explosion of pistols. As she lives quite near,
makes an excellent match, and is one of nine children, it really
was a most desirable marriage, in spite of all the show of
distress. Albert was so discomfited by it, that he forgot to kiss
the bride as he had intended to do, and therefore went to call upon
her yesterday, and found her very smiling in her new house, and
supplied the omission. The cook came home from the wedding,
declaring she was cured of any wish to marry--but I would not
recommend any man to act upon that threat and make her an offer.
In a couple of days we had some rolls of the bride's first baking,
which they call Madonnas. The musicians, it seems, were in the
same state as the bridegroom, for, in escorting her home, they all
fell down in the mud. My wrath against the bridegroom is somewhat
calmed by finding that it is considered bad luck if he does not get
tipsy at his wedding."
Those readers of Miss Procter's poems who should suppose from their
tone that her mind was of a gloomy or despondent cast, would be
curiously mistaken. She was exceedingly humorous, and had a great
delight in humour. Cheerfulness was habitual with her, she was
very ready at a sally or a reply, and in her laugh (as I remember
well) there was an unusual vivacity, enjoyment, and sense of
drollery. She was perfectly unconstrained and unaffected: as
modestly silent about her productions, as she was generous with
their pecuniary results. She was a friend who inspired the
strongest attachments; she was a finely sympathetic woman, with a
great accordant heart and a sterling noble nature. No claim can be
set up for her, thank God, to the possession of any of the
conventional poetical qualities. She never by any means held the
opinion that she was among the greatest of human beings; she never
suspected the existence of a conspiracy on the part of mankind
against her; she never recognised in her best friends, her worst
enemies; she never cultivated the luxury of being misunderstood and
unappreciated; she would far rather have died without seeing a line
of her composition in print, than that I should have maundered
about her, here, as "the Poet", or "the Poetess".
With the recollection of Miss Procter as a mere child and as a
woman, fresh upon me, it is natural that I should linger on my way
to the close of this brief record, avoiding its end. But, even as
the close came upon her, so must it come here.
Always impelled by an intense conviction that her