As Tennyson has it--stunning poet, Tennyson! At first my modesty prevented my getting on with her quite as fast as I could have wished; in fact, till after my fourth glass of Champagne, I had not gone beyond asking if she liked roast chicken, and saying ‘Bless you,’ when she sneezed; which I have since thought might not be quite etiquette, for she certainly looked surprised. However, ‘_in vino jollitas_,’ as Cicero says; after imbibing the ‘rosy,’ I went ahead like beans, and I flatter myself--ahem!--made a very considerable impression; but then recollect the expense with which I was got up! the woman who could look on that bang-tail coatee with indifference must be a heartless tigress. At all events, Juliana Georgina (sweet, poetical name! aint it, Tips?) didn’t; and if my mother invites her here during the Christmas holydays--which, betwixt you and me and the post, is not impossible--I should not be surprised if the affair were to assume quite a serious complexion. It is some time since I have experienced what the mounseers call a ‘_grande passion._’ When the party generally had pitched into the grub, till the powers of nature wore forced to cry ‘Hold, enough!’ (though, for my part, I don’t think one’s bread-basket does by any means hold enough on such occasions) everybody drank everybody’s health, and everybody returned thanks. My brother-in-law, Coverdale, made a stunning speech, the best that was made, by long odds; though Master Arthur didn’t disgrace his profession in the jawing line either. The governor did the pathetic and paternal; but it was precious slow, and all his jokes old ones. Mr. Crane (he’s a rich old buffer that was nibbling after Ally, but it wasn’t likely she’d have anything to say to him when she’d a chance of taking such a trump-card as my brother-in-law, Coverdale, into her hand) followed in the benevolent and philanthropic line; but he made a regular mull of it, worse than the daddy; and when they’d done making fools of themselves, the sitting broke up, and my brother-in-law and Alice started for the Continent. And the last thing before they were off, Coverdale, while he was waiting in the hall for his wife (women are always too late for everything), tipped me a flimsy to the tune of ten pounds, and told me not to forget I was to come to the Park in the hunting season, and he’d take care to find me a good mount; but if ever there was a real brick, my brother-in-law Coverdale is the identical article, and no mistake. And that this is a full, true, and particular account of this wonderful wedding, sayeth and attesteth, “Yours, in the bonds of jollity, “Tom Hazlehurst.” “P.S.--Advice to cricketers! Mind your batting, old fellow; for I’ve been put up to some first-rate bowling dodges by my brother-in-law, Coverdale (he’s one of the top-sawyers at Lord’s), that will send your stumps flying about your ears, if you don’t mind your eye. “_Verbum sat. slow-coachici!_” CHAPTER XVII.--PLOTTING AND COUNTER-PLOTTING.