Miss Honor's Wedding

Miss Honor's Wedding by Jane Barlow

"Miss Honor's Wedding" is a narrative poem by Jane Barlow told entirely in the voice of an elderly Irish countrywoman recalling, some ten years after the fact, the aborted wedding of her former employer's daughter. The narrator, once briefly taken on as a temporary kitchen-maid at the Castle in the days before the ceremony, frames the whole account as a fireside reminiscence addressed to a visiting "Sir," and the poem's power comes from the gap between her simple, admiring, gossip-inflected narration and the tragedy she is actually describing. Miss Honor is the youngest daughter of old Sir Maurice, renowned locally as the great beauty of "the sevin counties around." Local opinion holds that she could have married any number of suitable men closer to home, but instead becomes engaged to a stranger from Scotland—a big, pleasant-spoken but somewhat difficult-tempered man of a "quare wild set," whom the narrator herself never even saw. Despite the neighborhood's mild disapproval of the match, Sir Maurice is pleased with it, and a lavish wedding is arranged at the Castle at the end of Lent, drawing a great gathering of family and guests. The narrator, hired on through a servant friend, Kate Doyle, to fill in for a kitchen-maid felled by toothache, gets a backstairs glimpse of the wedding preparations: an overwhelming display of gifts crowded into the library—silver plate, gold-lined jugs and teapots, delicate painted china, and above all a dazzling array of jewels (diamonds, pearls, colored stones) in satin-lined boxes. This catalogue of splendor, rendered in loving, wide-eyed detail, underscores both the family's wealth and the enormity of what is about to be lost. On the wedding morning, the narrator and Kate slip out to the church and secure a seat near the door, joining the crowd watching finely dressed guests arrive. The bridegroom, however, fails to appear. As the hour passes, unease spreads visibly through the gentry present—murmured conversation, a gentleman stepping out repeatedly to scan the road and returning each time with only a headshake. At last Miss Honor herself arrives, radiant in her bridal white, likened to a blossoming pear branch, escorted by Sir Maurice and followed by eight matched bridesmaids. Immediately after her entrance, a stranger rushes in, agitated, carrying a telegram. He hurries to the assembled gentry, who react with visible shock and try to keep the news from the bride, but Miss Honor sees the telegram and reads its contents herself. The narrator does not know the full truth of what it revealed, and reports only the conflicting rumors that circulated afterward: that the bridegroom had a secret wife in America and fled; that he was simultaneously courting an English Marquis's daughter; or that it was merely some sudden whim or fit that overtook him. Whatever the true cause, the outcome is final—he is never seen or heard from again. The poem's emotional climax lies in Miss Honor's reaction: rather than the loud weeping the narrator would expect from women of lower station in similar grief (she contrasts this with a cousin's mother wailing when he enlisted, or a local girl's screams on hearing her sweetheart had drowned), Miss Honor walks back down the aisle in complete, dignified silence, past the rows of staring guests, out into the sunlight that "should never ha' lit on her head" except as a married woman. The yard falls utterly silent except for wind in the evergreens and a lark singing overhead, until her carriage departs. An old woman, Molly O'Rourke, pronounces the poem's central verdict: "the heart of the crathur is broke." In the aftermath, Miss Honor's family sends her abroad—to Egypt, described by the narrator in vivid, uncomprehending peasant terms as a fantastical, alien land of intense heat, dark-skinned inhabitants, monstrous reptiles, barren deserts, colossal ancient statues, and tomb-like structures full of the bones of "haythins"—ostensibly to distract and heal her mind. She never returns to Ireland, and dies there. The poem closes with the narrator's meditation on the waste of it all: Miss Honor was a woman who by rights should have had every happiness life could offer, and her ruin is compared to a rosebud torn away at its brightest, or a songbird shot dead beside its nest. Each spring, as the hedges green and the cuckoos begin calling, the narrator remembers Miss Honor and her wedding day—"that was never a weddin' at all." Structurally, the poem is composed of eleven numbered sections in a loose, colloquial ballad rhythm, written throughout in a heavily phoneticized Irish dialect that both authenticates the narrator's voice and creates ironic distance between her homely, digressive storytelling manner and the poem's underlying themes of social spectacle, class-inflected notions of dignity in grief, the fragility of arranged prosperity, and the quiet devastation of a woman publicly humiliated and then effectively exiled to die abroad. Barlow uses the device of the servant-narrator, who admired but never fully belonged to the gentry world she describes, to render the tragedy simultaneously intimate and legendary—a piece of local lore preserved and retold rather than a private sorrow.

By Jane Barlow · First published 1895 · Genre: Tragedy, Romance, Ballad Poetry · 2,180 words

First lines

I

Ould Sir Maurice's youngest daughther, do I mind her, Sir, did ye say? Miss Honor is it? Och, sure the same as I'd seen her but yistherday; And her weddin' -- Ay, Sir, her weddin' I said. How long since? Well, I dunnό, But a matter o' ten year back belike; anyway 'tis wan while ago.

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Miss Honor's Wedding is listed on Textopian as a short story by Jane Barlow, dated 1895 CE.

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Tags

Irish fiction · rural life · village society · domestic drama · romance · marriage · social customs · family relationships · courtship · comedy of manners · country life · late Victorian literature

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