At last the hour arrived, and the bridal party descended to the drawing-room in appropriate order, and stood up before Father Banks.  The ceremony was soon over, and Emily was clasped in Mrs. Ellis’s arms, who called her “daughter,” and kissed her cheek with such warm affection that she no longer felt herself an orphan, and paid back with tears and embraces the endearments that were lavished upon her by her new relatives.

Father Banks took an early opportunity to give them each some good advice, and managed to draw them apart for that purpose.  He told them how imperfect and faulty were all mankind—­that married life was not all couleur de rose—­that the trials and cares incident to matrimony fully equalled its pleasures; and besought them to bear with each other patiently, to be charitable to each other’s faults—­and a reasonable share of earthly happiness must be the result.

Then came the supper.  Oh! such a supper!—­such quantities of nice things as money and skill alone can bring together.  There were turkeys innocent of a bone, into which you might plunge your knife to the very hilt without coming in contact with a splinter—­turkeys from which cunning cooks had extracted every bone leaving the meat alone behind, with the skin not perceptibly broken.  How brown and tempting they looked, their capacious bosoms giving rich promise of high-seasoned dressing within, and looking larger by comparison with the tiny reed-birds beside them, which lay cosily on the golden toast, looking as much as to say, “If you want something to remember for ever, come and give me a bite!”

Then there were dishes of stewed terrapin, into which the initiated dipped at once, and to which they for some time gave their undivided attention, oblivious, apparently, of the fact that there was a dish of chicken-salad close beside them.

Then there were oysters in every variety—­silver dishes containing them stewed, their fragrant macey odour wafting itself upward, and causing watery sensations about the mouth.  Waiters were constantly rushing into the room, bringing dishes of them fried so richly brown, so smoking hot, that no man with a heart in his bosom could possibly refuse them.  Then there were glass dishes of them pickled, with little black spots of allspice floating on the pearly liquid that contained them.  And lastly, oysters broiled, whose delicious flavour exceeds my powers of description—­these, with ham and tongue, were the solid comforts.  There were other things, however, to which one could turn when the appetite grew more dainty; there were jellies, blancmange, chocolate cream, biscuit glace, peach ice, vanilla ice, orange-water ice, brandy peaches, preserved strawberries and pines; not to say a word of towers of candy, bonbons, kisses, champagne, Rhine wine, sparkling Catawba, liquors, and a man in the corner making sherry cobblers of wondrous flavour, under the especial supervision of Kinch; on the whole, it was an American supper, got up regardless of expense—­and whoever has been to such an entertainment knows very well what an American supper is.