a little silver spoon, in token that her life as mistress of a family is now beginning. At the bride's house they dine, that is, if they can, and it is asserted that they always can do so on such days—what their digestive powers are, I cannot conceive! During dinner a pretty silver salver is sent round upon which gifts are laid for the young housekeeper. Healths are drunk, and speeches made. At these weddings there is a great deal of weeping. The bride meets again mother, father, sister, brother, and they think about parting, and they burst into tears.
“Ever since my fifteenth year,” said the lively Mademoiselle Monastier, the daughter of the excellent historian of the Waldenses, in describing these things to me, “have I been at our weddings, and every time my eyes have wept out of sympathy with the weeping around me. One gets into the way of it.”
Just now, whilst I am writing this, I hear a noise, and the talking of cheerful voices in the inn court. I go out into the gallery and see a wedding procession. But the marriage itself, the barrieres, and the weeping, are already over, and the bride, a very proper and rosy maiden, is just setting off with her young bridegroom, to Turin, where he is a manufacturer. The wedding party has breakfasted at the inn, and are about to step into their cabriolet. The bridal pair are surrounded by congratulating, hand-shaking, and kissing friends. Now they are in their carriage. The driver has a red and white rosette on his breast. Forette Cocher! cries an elderly gentleman, and all present join in a jubilant Eviva la Sposa! A right cheerful scene.
