have “killed the flock of all affections else.”
The morning came; and at the Star and Garter, Richmond—the
place appointed for the breakfasting—accompanied
with one English friend, he impatiently awaited what
reinforcements the bride should bring to grace the
ceremony. A rich muster she had made. They
came in six coaches—the whole corps du ballet—French,
Italian, men and women. Monsieur de B., the famous
of the day, led his fair spouse,
but craggy, from the banks of the Seine. The Prima
Donna had sent her excuse. But the first and second
Buffa were there; and Signor Sc——,
and Signora Ch——, and Madame V——,
with a countless cavalcade besides of chorusers, figurantes,
at the sight of whom Merry afterwards declared, that
“then for the first time it struck him seriously,
that he was about to marry—a dancer.”
But there was no help for it. Besides, it was
her day; these were, in fact, her friends and kinsfolk.
The assemblage, though whimsical, was all very natural.
But when the bride—handing out of the last
coach a still more extraordinary figure than the rest—presented
to him as her father
that was to give her away
a person than Signor Delpini himself—with
a sort of pride, as much as to say, See what I have
brought to do us honour!—the thought of
so extraordinary a paternity quite overcame him; and
slipping away under some pretence from the bride and
her motley adherents, poor Merry took horse from the
back yard to the nearest sea-coast, from which, shipping
himself to America, he shortly after consoled himself
with a more congenial match in the person of Miss
Brunton; relieved from his intended clown father,
and a bevy of painted Buffas for bridemaids.
At what precise minute that little airy musician doffs
his night gear, and prepares to tune up his unseasonable
matins, we are not naturalists enough to determine.
But for a mere human gentleman—that has
no orchestra business to call him from his warm bed
to such preposterous exercises—We take
ten, or half after ten (eleven, of course, during
this Christmas solstice), to be the very earliest hour,
at which he can begin to think of abandoning his pillow.
To think of it, we say; for to do it in earnest, requires
another half hour’s good consideration.
Not but there are pretty sun-risings, as we are told,
and such like gawds, abroad in the world, in summer
time especially, some hours before what we have assigned;
which a gentleman may see, as they say, only for getting
up. But, having been tempted once or twice, in
earlier life, to assist at those ceremonies, we confess
our curiosity abated. We are no longer ambitious
of being the sun’s courtiers, to attend at his
morning levees. We hold the good hours of the
dawn too sacred to waste them upon such observances;
which have in them, besides, something Pagan and Persic.