Aurora’s lantern, by good fortune, showed to my mother a little strip of Crocuses, with which she hastily covered her bosom. It was truly a scanty scarf—merely a pattern of the spring fashions, which the manufacturer had sent on in advance of the season for a specimen—nevertheless it was some protection. Her benumbed form she wrapped in a rosy mist, which was found overhanging the horizon, and by the time that Mr. Apollo, Hyperion Phœbus, came up, she was in a most delightful demi-jour ready to receive him. Mr. Phœbus was entranced; and, to tell the truth, our mother was warmed up at his presence.
From that time an ardent attachment commenced. Throwing aside the mists of formality, and the fogs of prejudice, they appeared imbued with a mutual spirit, created for one another, and shortly after parson Summer united them together in the happiest of states.
I have described to you the proceedings of celestials; but we mortals have a commonplace way of doing up these little matters, far more interesting to us to my fancy. A ferry crossed—a short trip in the cars, and we are landed in the centre of a charming neighboring city. A bright sky and balmy air give vivacity, and life, and joy to all. Still a step further, where the tall spire casts its lengthened shadow across the way.
We enter the church, and many colored lights from diamond panes shed a mellowed hue around. Its oaken benches are filled with the smiling faces of friends and neighbors. There are few greetings for us, and the solemnity of the place, and the occasion, have an opportunity to exert that influence which the most thoughtless cannot entirely escape in a similar situation.
A moment longer and the organ’s roll announces the entrance of the surpliced priest. The pure lawn bespeaks respect for the unspotted character of the man of God. And now a general rustle of dresses and smothered whispers say that the bridal party approach. The gentle bride whose color rivals the hue of the camellias that adorn her jetty hair, leans on the arm of one who henceforth is to be her all in all—for whom she leaves parents, family, friends, home and country. Is it strange that the cheek is blanched and the eye moist? His is a firm step and a manly form, and a gentle eye. Affection looks out at every glance, while pride and good-fortune rejoice together. “Happy is the bride that the sun shines upon,” runs the adage. But the sun is not more ominous for good, than the mutual affection which gilds all around with its beams. Next comes the sister, whose sympathies, from nearness of age and common interests are strongest, her warm heart evincing itself by a hurried breath and a nervous step. Behind follow the dear friends of her youth, whose path so long the same, now separates, and the only brother, on whom falls the hope of the family, its perpetuated name, future reputation, and influence.
Now as they kneel about the altar, while parents, sisters, friends, stand silent around, one wish animates all that “God may have them in his holy keeping.” The service goes on. Those pledges of mutual love and fidelity—oaths, not lightly to be taken, never to be broken—vows, registered in heaven by the Great Jehovah, the almighty witness—are said. The warm-hearted father gives away the bride. The ring—the benediction—and again the fresh air salutes us. The most important of all earthly rites is finished. It is a solemn occasion. Those who have passed through this scene, are forced to recall it to themselves, to examine if they have kept the faith—to make good resolutions for the future. To the young a lesson is given. Thoughtfulness is compelled to the importance of proper care in the selection of a partner, so that inclination and duty may go hand in hand together. The rolling peals of the organ grow fainter and fainter behind us.
Still another scene. A lordly mansion, whose wide-oped doors invite our entrance. From the sanctity of the church, the sanctuary of home receives us. The voices of friends and the merry laugh greet our ears. All is gay and joyous. Out of the pale of the church the lovely bride, with blushing cheeks, receives the envious congratulations of her friends.
The table that groaned with the feast now yields its rich supplies. The wassail bowl spreads gayety around. But hush! the clang of glasses, and the busy tongues are stilled. A manly voice, with mellowed cadence, reads a heartfelt epithalamium—an ode becoming a laureat—to the health and prosperity of the young couple.
The occasion was indeed worthy of the brilliant pen of the gifted authoress. Its reading produced various effects upon its auditors. Some wondered at its beauty, some were impressed with the honor done. Those of sensibility wiped their overflowing eyes, wondering whether it was the intrinsic beauty of the poem or its peculiar appropriateness that so moved them. All felt its influence, for the children of the heart, like the carrier-pigeons, fly always to their native home.
A toast! a toast! To the bride and the poetess—and on went the feast.