t, comes first from the man, for there are few
women who at heart do not prefer the old histrionic display.

However, the village wedding at which I suddenly found myself a
spectator was, for a village, a singularly quiet one. There was no
bell-ringing, and there were no bridesmaids. The bride drove up quietly
with her father, and there was a subdued note even in the murmur of
recognition which ran along the villagers as they stood in groups near
the church porch. There was an absence of the usual hilarity which
struck me. One might almost have said that there was a quite ominous
silence.

Seating myself in a corner of the transept where I could see all and be
little seen, I with the rest awaited the coming of the overdue
bridegroom. Meanwhile the usual buzzing and bobbing of heads went on
amongst the usual little group near the foot of the altar. Now and
then one caught a glisten of tears through a widow's veil, and the
little bride, dressed quietly in grey, talked with the usual nervous
gaiety to her girl friends, and made the usual whispered confidences
about her trousseau. The father, in occasional conversation with one
and another, appeared to be avoiding the subject with the usual
self-conscious solemnity, and occasionally he looked, somewhat
anxiously, I thought, towards the church door. The bridegroom did not
keep us waiting long,--I noticed that he had a rather delicate sad
face,--and presently the service began.

I don't know myself what getting married must feel like, but it cannot
be much more exciting than watching other people getting married.
Probably the spectators are more conscious of the impressive meaning of
it all than the brave young people themselves. I say brave, for I am
always struck by the courage of the two who thus gaily leap into the
gulf of the unknown together, thus join hands over the inevitable, and
put their signatures to the irrevocable. Indeed, I always get
something like a palpitation of the heart just before the priest utters
those final fateful words, "I declare you man and--wife." Half a second
before you were still free, half a second after you are bound for the
term of your natural life. Half a second before you had only to dash
the book from the priest's hands, and put your hand over his mouth, and
though thus giddily swinging on the brink of the precipice, you are
saved. Half a second after

Not all the king's horses and all the king's men
Can make you a