Under the Meteor Flag: Log of a Midshipman during the French Revolutionary War - Harry Collingwood

At length, however, we found ourselves somehow walking up the centre aisle of the church, without well knowing how we got there. The grand old fane was transmogrified into something between a forest and a flower-garden, and I then began, for the first time, to surmise where all our shrubs and flowers had betaken themselves; every pew was closely packed with quiet, well-dressed people; and the organ was pealing forth some grand old masterpiece which filled the church with melody.

My father, in his robe as D.D., with his curate at hand to assist, stood within the altar-railing in readiness to commence the ceremony; while—but avast! what nautical pen can hope to adequately describe a wedding, with its blushing bride, its blooming bridesmaids, its flowers and tears and kisses and congratulations, and all the rest of it? Suffice it to say that Florrie looked lovely, that Annesley—after his first flusteration was over—never looked more quiet, self-possessed, and handsome than he did that morning; and that everybody pronounced it to be “a sweetly pretty wedding;” and there you have all I can tell you about it.

The register signed, we weighed in succession, and all trundled home to the rectory, Annesley with his prize leading the van. And then there was, of course, the breakfast—of which I, for one, ate very little—and the speechifying afterwards, and what not; and then the happy couple retired for a time, appearing again in travelling attire; then there was the half-laughing, half-tearful “good-bye,” the descent of all hands in a body to the door, where Annesley’s handsome travelling-carriage and four stood in readiness; then more good-byes; and finally the departure, in the midst of a perfect storm of cheers and old shoes—all in regular order. After which the guests seemed to feel more at ease, and we ended all by having a regular jollification.

The next few days were devoted to a general clearing up of the wreck and getting things back into their proper places again, after which the house settled down once more into its wonted peace and quietness, pretty much as though—except for the absence of one fair face from the family table—such things as weddings were unknown.

And now, dear reader, my tale is told—my yarn is spun; and I have finished off in the orthodox form with a wedding, which seems to be the inevitable and only correct way in which a story can be brought to a symmetrical conclusion. Nothing remains but to say Farewell, which, believe me, I do with reluctance, sincerely hoping that an opportunity may yet occur for us to renew our acquaintance. Farewell.

The End.