198 The Last Day of the Season. 



heard. This must be the bride, and the bride it is. She 

 is not in hunting costume, so we will not attempt to de- 

 scribe her dress. Leaning on the arm of her father, a jolly 

 old gentleman beaming with smiles and duly attired Hke 

 the rest in scarlet coat, etc., she makes the best of her way, 

 accompanied by her bridesmaids, to the altar, and the cere- 

 .mony forthwith proceeds. Charlie Wildoats was not, we 

 regret to say, quite so well up in the marriage service as 

 he was in — well, the racing calendar, for instance — for when 

 asked by the Chaplain of the Hunt (who, of course, officiated) 

 "■ Charles Aubrey, wilt thou have this woman to be thy 

 wedded wife," etc., he repHed, '' Oh, certainly," which 

 unexpected answer, delivered in a most matter of fact way, 

 caused the bride and her attendant bridesmaids to titter out- 

 right, the best man to nearly burst out into a "guffaw," 

 and a good deal of giggling amongst the rest of 

 the wedding guests. At last they were made man and 



wife, and after the usual signing of names in the vestry, 

 the newly-married couple, to the strains of the '' Wedding 

 March," proceeded to make the best of their way, amidst 

 the congratulations of their friends, to their carriage. Then 

 a regular stampede ensues, and the cry is, '' My horse, 

 my horse, my kingdom for a horse ! " Some of the more 

 reckless seize upon the first steed they can lay hands upon. 

 Dolly Lightfoot, who can't see his servant anywhere, jumps 

 on old Charlie Dabber's flea-bitten grey, and considerably 

 astonishes that highly-respectable animal by the way 

 he springs him along. Others follow the Honourable's 

 laudable example, and it is very shortly a case of '' Catch 

 who catch can," and the devil take the hindmost. We will 

 pass over the wedding breakfast. Suffice it to say that the 

 health of the bride and bridegroom (the only toast) was 



