t will be a most interesting wedding.'

The melancholy man let himself be dragged along by his lively chattering
friend, and they soon came to the cottage. The procession was just
sallying forth, to go to the church. The young countryman was in his
usual linen frock; all his finery consisted in a pair of leather
breeches, which he had polished till they shone like a field of
dandelions; he was of simple mien, and appeared somewhat confused. The
bride was sun-burnt, with but a few farewell leaves of youth still
hanging about her; she was coarsely and poorly, but cleanly dressed;
some red and blue silk ribbons, already a good deal faded; but what
chiefly disfigured her was, that her hair, stiffened with lard, flour,
and pins, had been swept back from her forehead, and piled up at the top
of her head in a mound, on the summit of which lay the bridal chaplet.
She smiled and seemed glad at heart, but was shamefaced and downcast.
Next came the aged parents; the father too was only a servant about the
farm, and the hovel, the furniture, and the clothing, all bore witness
that their poverty was extreme. A dirty, squinting musician followed the
train, who kept grinning and screaming, and scratching his fiddle, which
was patched together of wood and pasteboard, and instead of strings had
three bits of pack-thread. The procession halted when his honour, their
new master, came up to them. Some mischief-loving servants, young lads
and girls, tittered and laughed, and jeered the bridal couple,
especially the ladies' maids, who thought themselves far handsomer, and
saw themselves infinitely better clad, and wondered how people could be
so vulgar. A shuddering came over Emilius; he looked round for Roderick,
but the latter had already run away from him again. An impertinent
coxcomb, with a head pilloried in his high starched neck-cloth, a
servant to one of the visitors, eager to show his wit, pressed up to
Emilius, giggling, and cried: 'Now, your honour, what says your honour
to this grand couple? They can neither of them guess where they are to
find bread for to-morrow, and yet they mean to give a ball this
afternoon, and that famous performer there is already engaged.' 'No
bread!' said Emilius; 'can such things be?' 'Their wretchedness,'
continued the chatterbox, 'is known to the whole neighbourhood; but the
fellow says he bears the creature the same good-will, although she is
such a sorry bit of clay. Ay, verily, as the song says, lo