THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE.
The Ancients certainly made a great mistake in not choosing Niobe for the Goddess of Marriage. Hymen is by far too jolly; he is all smiles—more of the hyena than the crocodile; whilst Niobe is just as she ought to be—all tears.
There never yet was a marriage that was not a perfect St. Swithin affair. No one—unless he has a soul of gutta-percha, thoroughly waterproof—should think of going to a wedding with less than two pocket-handkerchiefs; and, even then, a sponge is better adapted to the "joyful occasion." Men take wives as they do pills, with plenty of water—excepting, indeed, when the "little things" are well gilt.
If a kind of matrimonial barometer were kept in each family, and its daily indications as to the state of the weather at the fireside accurately registered, we have no doubt that on the average being taken the following results would be arrived at—
| Before Marriage | Fair. |
| During Marriage | Wet. |
| After Marriage | Stormy. |
Meteorologically speaking, it would be highly interesting could we arrive at a knowledge of the exact amount of "doo" prevailing during courtship.
Nobody can feel more truly wretched than on the happiest day of his life. A wedding is even more melancholy than a funeral. The bride weeps for everything and nothing. At first she's heart-broken because she's about to leave her Ma and Pa; then, because she hopes and trusts Chawles will always love her; and, when no other excuse is left, she bursts into tears because she's afraid he will not bring the ring with him. Mamma, too, is determined to cry for the least thing. Her dear girl is going away, and she is certain something dreadful is about to happen; and goodness gracious! she's forgotten to lock the dining-room door, with all the wine and plate on the table, and three strange greengrocers in the house. At church the water is laid on at eye-service; indeed, the whole party look so wretched, no one would imagine there was a "happy pair" among them. When Papa gives away his darling child, he does it with as many sobs as if he were handing her over to the fiercest Polygamist since Henry the Eighth—instead of bestowing her upon one who loves his "lamb," regardless of the "mint" sauce that accompanies her. The bridegroom snivels, either because crying's catching, or because he thinks he ought, for decency's sake, to appear deeply moved; and the half-dozen bridesmaids are sure to be all weeping, because everybody else weeps.
The Happiest moment of my life——
When the party return home, however, the thoughts of the breakfast cheer them up a little; and the bridesmaids, in particular, feel quite resigned to their fate. As if they had grown hungry by crying—or the tears had whetted their appetites—they drown their cares for a while in the white soup-tureen. The champagne goes off, and goes round. Eyes begin to twinkle, the young ladies get flushed, and titter and giggle with the bridegroom, until at last the "funny man" of the party begins talking of the splendid gravy spoon he means to give when he's a godfather; but is immediately frowned down by the old aunt opposite, who has come dressed out as gaily and as full of colours as an oilman's shop-front.