Bracebridge Hall: Lovers' Troubles

Lovers' Troubles

    The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree,
            Sing all a green willow;
    Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
            Sing willow, willow, willow;
    Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
    OLD SONG.

The fair Julia having nearly recovered from the effects of her hawking
disaster, it begins to be thought high time to appoint a day for the
wedding. As every domestic event in a venerable and aristocratic family
connection like this is a matter of moment, the fixing upon this
important day has, of course, given rise to much conference and debate.

Some slight difficulties and demurs have lately sprung up, originating
in the peculiar humours that are prevalent at the Hall. Thus, I have
overheard a very solemn consultation between Lady Lillycraft, the
parson, and Master Simon, as to whether the marriage ought not to be
postponed until the coming month.

With all the charms of the flowery month of May, there is, I find, an
ancient prejudice against it as a marrying month. An old proverb says,
"To wed in May, is to wed poverty." Now, as Lady Lillycraft is very much
given to believe in lucky and unlucky times and seasons, and indeed is
very superstitious on all points relating to the tender passion, this
old proverb seems to have taken great hold upon her mind. She recollects
two or three instances in her own knowledge of matches that took place
in this month, and proved very unfortunate. Indeed, an own cousin of
hers, who married on a May-day, lost her husband by a fall from his
horse, after they had lived happily together for twenty years.

The parson appeared to give great weight to her ladyship's objections,
and acknowledged the existence of a prejudice of the kind, not merely
confined to modern times, but prevalent likewise among the ancients. In
confirmation of this, he quoted a passage from Ovid, which had a great
effect on Lady Lillycraft, being given in a language which she did not
understand. Even Master Simon was staggered by it; for he listened with
a puzzled air, and then, shaking his head, sagaciously observed that
Ovid was certainly a very wise man.

From this sage conference I likewise gathered several other important
pieces of information relative to weddings; such as that if two were
celebrated in the same church on the same day, the first would be happy,
the second unfortunate. If, on going to church, the bridal party should
meet the funeral of a female, it was an omen that the bride would die
first; if of a male, the bridegroom. If the newly-married couple were to
dance together on their wedding-day, the wife would thenceforth rule the
roast; with many other curious and unquestionable facts of the same
nature, all which made me ponder more than ever upon the perils which
surround this happy state, and the thoughtless ignorance of mortals as
to the awful risks they run in entering upon it. I abstain, however,
from enlarging upon this topic, having no inclination to promote the
increase of bachelors.

Notwithstanding the due weight which the squire gives to traditional
saws and ancient opinions, yet I am happy to find that he makes a firm
stand for the credit of this loving month, and brings to his aid a whole
legion of poetical authorities; all which, I presume, have been
conclusive with the young couple, as I understand they are perfectly
willing to marry in May, and abide the consequences. In a few days,
therefore, the wedding is to take place, and the Hall is in a buzz of
anticipation. The housekeeper is bustling about from morning till night,
with a look full of business and importance, having a thousand
arrangements to make, the squire intending to keep open house on the
occasion; and as to the housemaids, you cannot look one of them in the
face, but the rogue begins to colour up and simper.

While, however, this leading love affair is going on with a tranquillity
quite inconsistent with the rules of romance, I cannot say that the
under-plots are equally propitious. The "opening bud of love" between
the general and Lady Lillycraft seems to have experienced some blight in
the course of this genial season. I do not think the general has ever
been able to retrieve the ground he lost when he fell asleep during the
captain's story. Indeed, Master Simon thinks his case is completely
desperate, her ladyship having determined that he is quite destitute of
sentiment.

The season has been equally unpropitious to the love-lorn Phoebe
Wilkins. I fear the reader will be impatient at having this humble amour
so often alluded to; but I confess I am apt to take a great interest in
the love troubles of simple girls of this class. Few people have an idea
of the world of care and perplexity that these poor damsels have in
managing the affairs of the heart.

We talk and write about the tender passion; we give it all the
colourings of sentiment and romance, and lay the scene of its influence
in high life; but, after all, I doubt whether its sway is not more
absolute among females of a humbler sphere. How often, could we but look
into the heart, should we find the sentiment throbbing in all its
violence, in the bosom of the poor lady's maid, rather than in that of
the brilliant beauty she is decking out for conquest; whose brain is
probably bewildered with beaux, ball-rooms, and wax-light chandeliers.

With these humble beings love is an honest, engrossing concern. They
have no ideas of settlements, establishments, equipages, and pin-money.
The heart--the heart--is all-in-all with them, poor things! There is
seldom one of them but has her love cares, and love secrets; her doubts,
and hopes, and fears, equal to those of any heroine of romance, and ten
times as sincere. And then, too, there is her secret hoard of love
documents;--the broken sixpence, the gilded brooch, the lock of hair,
the unintelligible love scrawl, all treasured up in her box of Sunday
finery, for private contemplation.

How many crosses and trials is she exposed to from some lynx-eyed dame,
or staid old vestal of a mistress, who keeps a dragon watch over her
virtue, and scouts the lover from the door! But then how sweet are the
little love scenes, snatched at distant intervals of holiday, fondly
dwelt on through many a long day of household labour and confinement! If
in the country, it is the dance at the fair or wake, the interview in
the churchyard after service, or the evening stroll in the green lane.
If in town, it is perhaps merely a stolen moment of delicious talk
between the bars of the area, fearful every instant of being seen; and
then, how lightly will the simple creature carol all day afterwards at
her labour!

Poor baggage! after all her crosses and difficulties, when she marries,
what is it but to exchange a life of comparative ease and comfort for
one of toil and uncertainty? Perhaps, too, the lover, for whom, in the
fondness of her nature, she has committed herself to fortune's freaks,
turns out a worthless churl, the dissolute, hard-hearted husband of low
life; who, taking to the alehouse, leaves her to a cheerless home, to
labour, penury, and child-bearing.

When I see poor Phoebe going about with drooping eye, and her head
hanging "all o' one side," I cannot help calling to mind the pathetic
little picture drawn by Desdemona:--

    "My mother had a maid, called Barbara;
    She was in love; and he she loved proved mad
    And did forsake her; she had a song of willow,
    An old thing 'twas; but it expressed her fortune,
    And she died singing it."

I hope, however, that a better lot is in reserve for Phoebe Wilkins, and
that she may yet "rule the roast," in the ancient empire of the
Tibbetses! She is not fit to battle with hard hearts or hard times. She
was, I am told, the pet of her poor mother, who was proud of the beauty
of her child, and brought her up more tenderly than a village girl ought
to be; and ever since she has been left an orphan, the good ladies at
the Hall have completed the softening and spoiling of her.

I have recently observed her holding long conferences in the churchyard,
and up and down one of the lanes near the village, with Slingsby the
schoolmaster. I at first thought the pedagogue might be touched with the
tender malady so prevalent in these parts of late; but I did him
injustice. Honest Slingsby, it seems, was a friend and crony of her late
father, the parish clerk; and is on intimate terms with the Tibbets
family. Prompted, therefore, by his good-will towards all parties, and
secretly instigated, perhaps, by the managing dame Tibbets, he has
undertaken to talk with Phoebe upon the subject. He gives her, however,
but little encouragement. Slingsby has a formidable opinion of the
aristocratical feeling of old Ready-Money, and thinks, if Phoebe were
even to make the matter up with the son, she would find the father
totally hostile to the match. The poor damsel, therefore, is reduced
almost to despair; and Slingsby, who is too good-natured not to
sympathise in her distress, has advised her to give up all thoughts of
young Jack, and has promised as a substitute his learned coadjutor, the
prodigal son. He has even, in the fulness of his heart, offered to give
up the school-house to them, though it would leave him once more adrift
in the wide world.

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