University of Virginia Library

THE WEDDING.

At the little village of Stanton-Drew, in Somersetshire,
and not far from the splendid city of Bath, there
is a large circle of upright stones, each of which is from
five to six feet high. The learned are of opinion that it
is a Druidical monument or temple, and they are countenanced
by the name of the village; but the rustics
call it `The Wedding;' for tradition asserts that it is a
bridal party, changed to stone. And I would give my
humble voice on the side of the rustics and tradition.
The story is as follows.

There lived in this place, I cannot say precisely
when, but many hundred years ago, a peasant girl by
the name of Emma. She was the beauty of the village.
Nature had lavished her gifts with such profusion on
this lovely cottager, that it was impossible for the meanness
of her attire, or the humility of her employments
to conceal her from general notice and admiration—they
could not hide the perfect symmetry of her form, nor the
dazzling whiteness of her skin, nor the sparkling of her
full black eyes. The carnation hue of health was on
her cheeks, her step fell as light as the first snow of the
year on the Mendip hills, and her heart was as free and
as simple as childhood's.

A youth of the same village first taught that heart the
mystic lore of love. He was not unworthy of the feelings
which he inspired. Edred as far surpassed the
other youth of the neighbourhood as Emma did the
maidens. In manly sports and exercises he bore away
the prize of every competition, and the land which he
tilled was the most productive of any for miles around.
He was generous, open-hearted, and affectionate, and
though fearless, he was gentle and kind. Beside all
this, his desire of knowledge had led him to seek the
acquaintance and instruction of the members of a neighbouring
monastery, who encouraged his wishes, and
taught him to read and write—accomplishments, which
in those days were extremely rare, even among those
who were much higher born than Edred. In the ardor
of youth, and with the most lively sensibilities, it is not
to be supposed that he alone should remain insensible
to those charms which led captive every other heart—
and as to Emma, she had too much discernment not to
perceive his superior worth, and prefer him before all
his rivals. Living near each other as they did, their
opportunities of meeting were frequent, and they were
improved. Preference ripened into love, and as they
sat together one sweet moonlight evening under an old
elm tree, which stood between the gardens of their parents,
Edred poured out his vows at her feet, and Emma
took Heaven to witness that she loved him alone, and
loved him with her whole heart. From this moment
they were hardly ever asunder. Day after day found
them assisting each other in their daily labour, and
night after night have the pale moonbeams, as they
danced through the boughs of that old elm tree, been
the only witnesses of their innocent and happy interviews.
It was soon known throughout the village that
their mutual faith was plighted. Their parents, far

from being averse to the union, were overjoyed at it;
as to both parties it was a most desirable one, and it
was settled between them that the marriage day should
not be distant. But it would seem as if such happiness
was too great to be durable, for the blighting of all this
promise was at hand.

A rich baron came to live in the neighbourhood. He
saw Emma, and was enamoured. She perceived it, and
avoided him. He was not however to be so discouraged;
but, finding it impossible to obtain a hearing from the
maid, he applied to her parents. He told them of his
rank, his riches, his lands; protested that his views
were honorable; and painted in glowing colors the advantages
which would arise to them from their daughter's
becoming the mistress of all his wealth and splendor.
What could the simple people do? They were
dazzled, they were overcome, and promised this titled
suitor that they would use all their influence with their
daughter in advancing his cause. They did so; they
beset the poor girl, night and day; the mother intreated
and wept, and the father commanded and frowned;
and a sister too, whom she dearly loved, hung upon her
neck, and kissed her, and clasped on her arms and
braided in her hair the rich jewels which the baron had
sent her, and begged her to be a baron's bride. Wearied,
terrified, and melted by importunity, menace, and
tears, and tempted too, it must be acknowledged, by the
prospect of such an alliance as was held out to her, she
at last consented to receive the baron as a lover—consented
that all her engagements with Edred should be
dissolved—consented to break her oaths, her vows, her
faith, and Edred's heart.

But where was Edred all this while? If he had been
in the village, indeed, he might have saved his mistress
from the guilt, and himself from the misery, of such a

change. But necessity had called him to a distant part
of the country, and he returned unconscious of all that
had taken place in his absence, and unprepared for the
storm that awaited his coming. He was not long kept
in ignorance, for the story was in the mouth of every
stripling in the village; and his eager eye had just
caught a glimpse of the blue smoke which curled above
the trees, and pointed out Emma's dwelling, when from
a shepherd boy who was tending his flock on the hills,
he heard it all. In a state little short of distraction, he
flew to the door which always used to be thrown open
before he reached it—and it was now shut against him
—he was told that the great man was there, and that he
must not come in. He heard no more, but swooned on
the threshold, and was borne away senseless to the cottage
of his parents.

As Emma, ignorant of Edred's return, was sitting on
the following night at her window, after every one
beside had gone to rest—for, torn by a thousand conflicting
thoughts, she slept but little now—she saw something
approaching the cottage, and shortly after heard a
noise at the door. Trembling with an emotion for
which she knew not how to account, she went down and
opened it. The visitor was Edred's favorite dog, who
dropt a packet at her feet, and, without waiting, as usual,
to be caressed, disappeared. His master was then
in the village—it could not be doubted—for the same
faithful messenger had often been employed in happier
days, to convey the letters which her first lover had
taught her to read. Though ready to sink on the floor,
she summoned all her strength, and sustained herself to
her chamber, where, breaking the string which bound
the packet, she read the following lines.

`I thought you loved me, Emma—fondly thought you
loved me—it was a dear delusion, but it is over now—a

heavenly dream, but it has fled forever, and left me to the
reality of wretchedness and despair. Would I could
sleep again, and never waken! Is all that has past between
us forgotten then? our blissful interviews, our
plighted faith, our vowed affections, are they all forgotten?
It is not, sure, so long since we parted, that every
endearing recollection should thus have passed away.
Why, it seems to me that the last kiss you gave me is
yet warm on my cheek, and the last blessing you murmured
is yet breathing its music to my ear. And now
you do not know me—you will not see me—you turn me
from your door; the heart that I once thought mine
proves strange and cold, and the hand, that in the sight
of men and angels was mine, you have given, you have
sold, to another. And do you think that that other will
love you with a love like mine, with a faith, a truth, a
devotion like mine? He has towers, and halls, and vassals,
and heaps of treasure; but what are these to love?
He may boast of his long, unbroken line of ancestry,
but can he tell you of an undivided heart? He may
give you rank in the land, and clothe you with jewels,
and surround you with slaves—but will he make your
image his bosom's queen, to reign there supremely and
alone? will he unlock to you the treasures of all his secret
thoughts, and all his best and fondest affections?
will he devote to you the service of his own exertions,
his entire solicitude, his earnest cares, his very dreams?
But I would, Emma—and I tell you now, that the time
may come, when in all the glare of his lighted chambers,
and amid crowds of his gay retainers, you will feel
alone; and though the harps and the cymbals are ringing,
and the songs of minstrels are loud, you will not
hear them; and though the masquers and dancers are
passing and repassing before your eyes, you will not
see them; and the torches may blaze, and the revel
wax high—yet you will heed nothing and mark nothing—
for your soul will not be there—it will be wandering on
the cool river bank, in the moon's pale light, or the
grove's deep shade; it will visit the green lane, and the
lowly cottage, and mayhap the poor peasant, who lived,
and would have died for you. Forgive me, Emma, if I
distress you; I still love, shall ever love you, and
though you have made life as nothing to me, I hope, but
can only hope, that it will be full of blessing for you.
I have done with its pursuits and pleasures, and no
longer acknowledge its relations. I shall retire to the
monstery whose turrets you see rising from the valley,
and spend the sad remnant of my days in prayer. Before
the throne of Heaven, you will never be forgotten;
in the silent cell your form will be constantly before me;
in the early matin song, and the sweet vesper hymn, and
the solemn midnight vigil, your dear name will rise unbidden
to my lips, and be cherished in the holiest devotions
of my heart. Farewell, farewell!'

Emma was far from being insensible, and the shock
occasioned by this letter threw her into a violent fever,
in the delirium of which she was constantly raving of
Edred. As she gradually recovered, however, her
feelings of compunction and remorse became less poignant,
and she again received the visits of the baron with
composure.

He, on his part, fearing some other untoward accident,
urged their immediate nuptials. Everything was
prepared, and as soon as Emma was able to leave her
chamber she was conducted, or rather conveyed, by her
successful lover, her parents, and her sister, to the village
church, where their arrival was expected by one
of the neighbouring monks, who had been previously
engaged to perform the ceremony.

As the marriage was to be strictly private, in order to
shun the observation of the villagers, who were highly
incensed at the parties, the evening was chosen for the
time of its solemnization; and the recesses of the church
were already wrapped in gloom, and a faint light scarce
struggled through the painted windows, as the party advanced
up the aisle, and drew around the altar.

The monk opened his ritual, and in a hurried voice
began to read the service. He had proceeded but a
few lines, when a deeper shade suddenly pervaded the
church, and these words were distinctly heard,—`The
banns are forbidden!'—`Ha! by whom' cried the terrified
ecclesiastic. `By Heaven and earth; by God and
man!' answered the unearthly voice. `Nay, then, I
cannot—' `Go on!' thundered the angry baron, `go
on, I say, stupid, cowardly dotard, and mind not the
shallow trick of some vile clown, who shall dearly rue
this interruption, as thou shalt too, sir fool, if thou dost not
despatch.' Thus threatened, the intimidated monk resumed
the service, and came to that part of it in which
he asked the baron, in the prescribed form, if he would
have Emma for his wedded wife. `I will,' was the
prompt reply. Turning then to Emma, he asked her if
she would have the baron for her wedded husband. She
spoke not, and stirred not, and the sharp, short echo of
the vaulted roof returned, as if in mockery, the last
word of his question—and all was silent again. `Art
thou possessed, maiden, that thou respondest not to the
holy words?' said the monk, in a tone in which fear,
vexation, and impatience were blended—`what is in
thee, that thou canst not pronounce two simple syllables?
and here, the while, it has grown so dark, the saints of
Heaven preserve us! that I can hardly see to read this
holy sacrament of matrimony; and much I fear that I
shall not reach our refectory in due season, for methinks

the hour of supper must be already past, and
this place feels strangely cold, wherefore I pray thee,
maiden—' But here he seemed to have lost on a sudden
all power of utterance, and his discourse was cut
off in the midst. Emma's sister, surprised at her persevering
silence, and indeed the silence, and unmoving
features of the whole company, left her place, ran up to
her, and laying her hand gently on her shoulder, `My
sister, my dearest Emma!' she began—`but, gracious
Virgin! what is this? how deadly cold you are! as
cold—as cold—' she could say no more, but sunk down
lifeless on the pavement of the chancel.

The morrow was Sunday; and as the villagers assembled
in the church, a strange and awful vision met their
bewildered eyes—a regular assemblage of upright stones,
occupying the holiest place, and throwing their long,
still shadows over the aisles, as the morning sun glanced
through the eastern window. It was attempted to remove
them, but they yielded not in the least to the
utmost efforts which could be employed. The brethren
of the monastery were summoned; who, informed of
the prodigy, approached the church in long procession,
bearing lighted waxen tapers, and chanting hymns and
burning incense. As they ranged themselves before the
altar, the abbot pronounced a solemn incantation, while
his companions flung holy water on the charmed stones;
but it was all without effect—sacred spell and human
strength were alike unavailing, and the solid masses
remained unmoved.

The church was deserted; no one would worship in
it, for they said that it was God-forsaken. It gradually
went to decay, its roof and walls fell in, and the materials
were dispersed; but still those mysterious stones stood
up, unhurt and unshaken. Of the church there is not

now a vestige to be discovered; but those same stones
are here, and here they will stay till the day of doom.

This short thick stone, standing alone in the midst of
the others, is the venal monk. That tall one opposite
him is the bridegroom. These are the parents of the
bride. This one, lying prostrate on the ground, is her
sister. And that slender one, next to her, is the bride
herself, the fair, but faithless Emma.

Do you see the flat blue stone, hard by in that hollow,
half hidden by the long grass and the bending hyacinth?
It covers the grave of brother Lawrence, who intreated
to be buried in this spot. They say that it is only around
this stone that the grass and the wildflowers will grow;
and it is also said, that brother Lawrence and the
peasant Edred were the same.

I was told, that the following custom had prevailed
among the swains of Stanton-Drew, from that time to
the present, and that it had been attended with the best
effects. When any one of them has reason to suspect
that the allurements of wealth or station may seduce
from him the affections of his mistress, he leads her to
this enchanted circle, and repeats to her the tradition of
THE WEDDING.