transfer my discordant note to mellifluous
expression in movable types, and will bind it up
in. " chases," and spread it upon the back of
" turtles," and lay it upon a machine, and whirl
it round on steam cylinders, and emboss it upon
paper, and sell it, so printed and embossed, for
pieces of money, to the Egyptians — that is to
say, to the British public, who, to the extent of
as many thousands or millions who choose to run
may read my " cawing" to their hearts' content
in to-morrow morning's papers.

I am bidden to the marriage of Albert Edward
Prince of Wales with the Princess Alexandra of
Denmark, to whom, both, long life and happiness
is the jackdaw's wish. The Lord Chamberlain
asked me; and yet, he didn't bid me to the
marriage. His card says nothing at all about a
wedding. He had not " the honour to request
my presence." His lordship was not " favoured
with the Queen's commands" — at least, he made
no intimation to me of the fact — to do so: I was
merely asked as a jackdaw. " Come," said, or
seemed to say, Lord Sydney, and survey the
raree show, " from ten in the morning till half-
past one. If you were a member of the Upper
Ten Thousand, you should have a striped ticket,
nearly as big as an Algerian burnous for the
Nave of Saint George's Chapel. If you were one
of the Upper Five Hundred you should have a
special invite to the Choir. Under those
circumstances I should expect you to come in your
Robes, or your Collar, or your Stars, or your
Garters. You should be conducted to your stall,
or your seat on the haut pas, by vice-chamberlains
and gentlemen-ushers. Nay, in special instances
your arrival should be announced by a flourish
of trumpets, and the gentlemen-at-arms should
present partisans as you passed. Court carriages
should convey you to and from the chapel, and
after the ceremony you should find a gold-
handled knife and fork laid for you at the state
collation in the Waterloo Gallery. But, as you
are only a jackdaw, just wing your airy flight
with this blue ticket to the part of the chapel
you know is set apart for you and your brood,
and, confound you, keep a still tongue in your
head, till it is time to say ' caw.'"

It was delightful for a thoughtful but indolent
sight-seer to be permitted to witness such a
ceremonial at so slight an expenditure of
trouble. There was no intriguing for tickets.
There were no carking fears lest you should be
put behind a pillar, or a voluminous dowager
with a back as broad and as opaque as the
organ itself. There was no nervousness as to
how you were to acquit yourself in the part you
had to play in a court pageant. Very recently
I heard of a poor little captain in a marching
regiment who had as yet never been presented
at court, but who was going to the Prince's
levee. He had been through the Crimean and
the Indian campaigns, yet he was frightened out
of his wits at the thought of the dreadful ordeal
he was fated to undergo at St. James's. His
mamma wrote in an agony of perturbation to a
fashionable dancing mistress; and the captain
had half a dozen lessons, at a guinea each, in
the art of kneeling, kissing hands, bowing, and
backing out of the Presence. His sister went
through days of preparation, quite as solemn
and elaborate, with the view to the Princess
Royal's drawing-room, and goodness only knows
how many times she practised, for the edification
of her lady's-maid, the art and mystery of
throwing her train over her arm. I think that,
were it my terrible doom to be presented at
court, I should die. I should probably trip
myself up with my sword, if I didn't fall upon
its point, bodily, like an ancient Roman. The
nervousness which leads me to crumb my bread
at dinner — when there are any grand folks
present — would certainly compel me to pull my frill
and my ruffles into rags. And, good gracious !
what should I do in shorts and silken shanks?

From my jackdaw perch in the loft I caught
sight of Mr. William Powell Frith, Royal
Academician, painter of the best scenes of
English social life we have seen since the days of
William Hogarth, ensconced, with his sketchbook,
in a snug corner to the north of the altar,
whence he was to make a draught of the bridal
ceremony for his forthcoming grand picture,
commissioned by the Queen. Mr. Frith was in
shorts and silken shanks, in snuff-colour and
steel buttons, in a bag, and a brocaded waist-
coat, in a frill and ruffles. I am sure he didn't
like it. I hope he didn't catch cold. I turned,
after surveying him, with a sensation — not
entirely devoid of selfishness — of infinite relief, to
my brother jackdaws, one of whom was clad in
a suit of tweed, well shrunk, cut sporting
fashion; another, wearing a rough great-coat;
a third, an Inverness cape, and so forth, to the
extent of about a dozen jackdaws congregated
in the loft to the left of the organ. The particular
daw who has the honour to be cawing at
the present moment was slightly more courtly
in his apparel. He — that is, I — had been at a
solemn dinner in London the night before, and
had just time to catch the last train — the
midnight one — on the Great Western, for Windsor.
I was afraid, you see, of over-sleeping myself in
the morning, so had determined to catch time
by the forelock, and to be the early bird that
picked up the worm. I went down in full evening
dress and a white cravat, and I punctually
left the black bag which contained my change
of apparel in the Hansom which conveyed me
to Paddington. There was no help for it, at ten
o'clock the next morning, but to present myself
at the southern porch of Saint George's Chapel
in the same costume — under which sumptuary
condition I must have looked, I fancy, like an
undertaker out for a holiday. There was a
compact crowd of ladies and gentlemen,
provided with tickets for the nave, who were waiting,
in a very operatic manner, for the doors to
open, at this same southern entrance. I was
enabled to gaze upon some of the most resplendent
bonnets, some of the most startling waistcoats,
to be found in Christendom. I believe
Mr. Poole, the tailor, was himself present in the
nave, and, if such be the case, he must have
reviewed, with pardonable pride, the triumphs