LETTER VII.

Pineville, February 24th, 1843. Dear Sir,

I am too happy and no mistake—the twenty-second of February is over, and the “consumation so devotedly to be wished for” is tuck place. In other words, I’s a married man! I ain’t in no situation to tell you all how the thing tuck place, not by no means, and if it wasn’t for my promis, I don’t b’lieve I could keep away from my wife long enough to rite you a letter. Bless her little sole, I didn’t think I loved her half so good as I do; but to tell you the rale truth, I do b’lieve I’ve ben almost out of my senses ever sense nite afore last. But I must be short this time, while the gals is plagin’ Mary in t’other room. They are so bad.

I had the licens got more’n a week ago, and old Mr. Eastman brung home my weddin’ suit jest in time. Mother would make me let Cousin Pete wait on me, and Miss Kesiah was bridesmaid. Mother and old Miss Stallins had everything ’ranged in fust rate style long afore the time ariv, and nothing was wantin’ but your cumpany to make everything complete.

Well, ’bout sun-down Cousin Pete cum round to my room whar we rigged out for the ’casion, and I don’t b’lieve I ever seed him look so good; but if he’d jest tuck off them ’bominable grate big sorrel whiskers of his, he’d looked a monstrous site better. I put on my yaller britches and blue cloth cote, and white satin jacket, and my new beaver hat, and then we druv round to old Squire Rogerses and tuck him into the carriage, and away we went out to Miss Stallinses plantation. When we got thar ther was a most everlastin’ getherin’ thar waitin’ to see the ceremony afore they et ther supper. Everybody looked glad, and old Miss Stallins was flyin’ about like she didn’t know which eend she stood on.

“Come in, Joseph,” ses she, “the galls is in the t’other room.”

But I couldn’t begin to git in t’other room for the fellers all pullin’ and haulin’ and shakin’ the life out of me to tell me how glad they was.

“Howdy, Majer, howdy,” ses old Mr. Byers, “I give you joy,” ses he: “yer gwine to marry the flower of the county, as I always sed. She’s a monstrous nice gal, Majer.”

“That’s a fact,” ses old Mr. Skinner, “that’s a fact, and I hope you’ll be a good husband to her, Joseph, and that you’ll have good luck with your little—”

“Thank ye, thank ye, gentlemen; come along, Cousin Pete,” ses I, as quick as I could git away from ’em.

The dore to t’other room was opened, and in we went. I never was so struck all up in a heap afore—thar sot Mary with three or four more gals, butiful as a angel and blushin’ like a rose. When she seed me she kind o’ looked down and sort o’ smiled, and sed “good evenin’.” I couldn’t say a word for my life, for more’n a minit. Thar she sot, the dear gal of my hart—and I couldn’t help but think to myself what a villain a man must be that could marry her and then make her unhappy by treatin’ her mean; and I determined in my sole to stand atween her and the storms of the world, and to love her, and take care of her, and make her happy, as long as I lived. If you could jest seen her as she was dressed then, and you wasn’t a married man, you couldn’t help but envy my luck, after all the trubble I’ve had to git her. She was dressed jest to my likin’, in a fine white muslin frock, with short sleeves, and white satin slippers, with her hair all hangin’ over her snow-white neck and shoulders in butiful curls, without a single brest-pin or any kind of juelry or ornament, ’cept a little white satin bow on the side of her hed. Bimeby Miss Carline cum in the room.

“Cum, sis, they’s all reddy,” ses she, and ther was grate big tears in her eyes, and she went and give Mary a kiss rite in her mouth, and hugged her a time or two.

We all got up to go. Mary trembled monstrous, and I felt sort o’ fainty myself, but I didn’t feel nothin’ like cryin’.

When we got in the room whar the cumpany was, old Squire Rogers stopt us rite in the middle of the flore and axed us for the licens. Cousin Pete handed ’em to him, and he red ’em out loud to the people, who was all as still as deth. After talkin’ a little he went on:

“If ennybody’s got ennything to say why this cupple shouldn’t be united in the holy bands of wedlock,” ses he, “let ’em now speak, or always afterwards hold ther peace—”

“Oh, my lord! oh, my darlin’ daughter! oh, dear laws a massy!” ses old Miss Stallins as loud as she could squall, a clappin’ her hands and cryin’ and shoutin’ like she was at a camp-meetin’.

Thunder and lightnin’! thinks I, here’s another yeath-quake. But I held on to Mary, and was ’termined that nothin’ short of a real bust up of all creation should git her from me.

“Go ahed, Squire,” ses Cousin Pete. “It ain’t nothin’.”

Mary blushed dredful, and seemed like she would drap on the flore.

Miss Carline cum and whispered something to her, and mother and two or three more old wimmin got old Miss Stallins to go in t’other room.

The Squire went through the rest of the bisness in a hurry, and me and Mary was made flesh of one bone and bone of one flesh before the old woman got over her highstericks. When she got better she cum to me and hugged and kissed me as hard as she could rite afore ’em all, while all the old codgers in the room was salutin’ the bride as they called it. I didn’t like that part of the ceremony at all, and wanted to change with ’em monstrous bad.

After the marryin’ was over we all tuck supper, and the way old Miss Stallinses table was kivered over with good things was uncommon. After playin’ and frolickin’ till ’bout ten o’clock, the bride’s cake was cut, and sich a cake was never baked in Georgia afore. The Stallinses bein’ Washingtonians, ther wasn’t no wine, but the cake wasn’t bad to take jest dry so. ’Bout twelve o’clock the cumpany begun to cut home, all of ’em jest as sober as when they cum.

I had to shake hands agin with ’em all, and tell ’em all good nite.

“Good nite, Cousin Mary,” ses Pete, “good nite, Majer,” ses he, “I ’spose you ain’t gwine back to town to-nite,” and then bust rite out in a big laugh, and away he went.

That’s jest the way with Peter, he’s a good feller enough, but he haint got no better sense.

Mary ses she’s sorry she couldn’t send you no more cake, but Mr. Mountgomery’s saddle-bags wouldn’t hold half she rapped up for you. Don’t forgit to put our marriage in the Miscellany. No more from

Your frend, ’til deth, Jos. Jones.